Chapter Nine
Maeve
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
I am about to embark on the most awkward errand run in history. With my very grumpy boss.
The boss who had not only heard but saw me please myself while moaning his name.
How. Fucking. Mortifying.
Why the hell didn’t I shut the door?
I should’ve been more careful, but no. Clearly, my vagina decided to hypnotise me into being a stupid, reckless eejit.
All morning, I’ve done my absolute best to avoid him.
Even skipping my favourite time of the day: reading on the porch’s swing chair as the sun rises.
I just grabbed my coffee like a woman on a mission and retreated to the safety of my room until work demanded otherwise.
I had also made the very poor decision of missing breakfast. Which is exactly why I was stuffing my face with sandwiches when Wade showed up and completely ruined my appetite, replacing hunger with that familiar gut-churning anxiety.
My phone pings with a message from Colt.
Colt: Have fun in town. I promise he isn’t all that bad.
Maeve: Says the boy who hardly talks to him.
Colt: Yeah, well, I have my reasons… but I am sure you’ll work that Londoner charm on him. It worked on me.
My thumb hovers over the message before settling on a laughing reaction. I never quite know what to say when Colt’s tone begins tiptoeing the line between playful banter and subtle flirting.
It’s probably nothing. He’s a cheeky lad; it’s just a part of his charm.
Colt’s been firmly slotted into the good friend category in my head, and that’s exactly where he’s staying. It’s been nice having a solid friendship during one of my trips. It’s something steady. Something that feels like normal life.
Past trips were nothing but quick hellos, quicker goodbyes. No roots, no ties. Just me drifting. But here? Here I’m part of a team. One that works together and looks out for each other. It feels… safe. Solid. A foundation that my childhood never allowed me to have.
I’m not sure what that means for me yet. If I let myself think about it too much, there’s this quiet, stupid fear that starts creeping in.
One about finally finding somewhere that feels like I belong —and then still having to leave it.
I can’t afford to fuck it up by tangling myself up with cowboys.
A reminder my vagina really needs, preferably before it drags me into any more situations like last night's clusterfuck.
I take a steadying breath and double-check the shopping list on my phone.
Right then. Guess it’s time to put my big girl pants on and face the Dark Knight of Wildbrook Hollow.
Stepping outside, the dry hot air hits me, adding to the sweaty anxious mess I already am. Wade is waiting beside his black pick-up trust, one leg bent, and his signature scowl planted firmly on his face.
He’s swapped his earlier sweat-soaked work clothes for something that manages to be worse.
A black T-shirt that isn’t technically tight, but with arms like his, sticks to his body anyway.
A dark denim vest layered over it, a bandana knotted around his broad neck, and a hat different from his usual battered work Stetson.
As I approach, he swings open the passenger door, nodding for me to get in.
I square my shoulders, ready to haul my short-ass self into the truck. His calloused hand lands on my bare shoulder, and I freeze.
“Ready for round two?” His voice drops to that low tone that seems to be reserved exclusively for my ears. Something that is apparently becoming a habit. Great.
Around us, the ranch is still alive with noise. Horses nickering in the distance, ranchers shouting directions at each other, and cows lowing. But here, right next to him, everything feels annoyingly intimate, like it’s just us and the rest world don’t exist.
I give him what Iris calls my “Callaghan look”—the one where I stare intensely like I am mentally hexing him, followed by a dismissive eye roll. Then I shrug his hand off like it burns, haul myself into the passenger seat and buckle my seatbelt in record speed.
We cannot repeat what happened last time.
Wade slides in behind the wheel, the truck dipping slightly under his weight. Within seconds, we’re rolling down the dirt track that cuts through the ranch. The tyres crunch over gravel as the fence line slowly drifts away. Officially enroute to town.
Or so I assume because I still don’t know where the hell anything is. For all I know, he could be driving me into the middle of nowhere to kill me, which honestly feels preferable to the suffocating silence filling the space between us.
It’s worse than the first journey. And sure, most of the blame lays with my own idiocy—but he’s hardly blameless. Why the hell did this man just stand there last night and watch? That's not exactly the behaviour of someone who supposedly can't bear my presence.
Now the question is, do I address the elephant in the pick-up truck? Or do I pretend like lines haven’t been crossed?
The inside of my mouth hurts from how hard I’ve been biting it, one of those stupid habits I can’t break. Anything to keep me from blurting out something reckless.
As I stare outside the window, letting my brain become an overbearing mess of questions, the small town of Wildbrook Hollow begins to materialise.
We pass an enormous isolated honky-tonk bar on one of the roads leading into town, its large unlit sign reading The Lone Coyote.
Quiet now, but I bet that when the sun sets, and the cowboys come out to play, that’s the place to be.
We make a sharp left, revealing the main street, and it’s exactly how I imagined it.
Historic brick buildings line both sides of the wide street, their facades marked with rustic, hand-painted signs advertising everything from Wildbrook Botanicals to The Saddle & Supply Co.
Some storefronts are hidden under wooden walkways held up by weathered posts, creating little pockets of shade.
Small trees dot the sidewalks between iron lampposts and planter boxes full of wildflowers.
It’s a quintessential small American town. It’s beautiful.
Wade reverse-parks into a diagonal space along the main street with an ease that makes my motor coordination skills look tragic as fuck.
My eyes lock on the hand that grips the handbrake tightly, causing those prominent veins to pop beneath his skin.
With a firm tug, he shifts his entire body to face my direction, snapping my focus back to his face and away from the thoughts about how his hand would be an excellent necklace.
“Here.” Wade pulls out a small white envelope from the inside of his denim vest pocket and holds it out to me.
I blink at it. “What’s this?”
“Money for what you need. I'd suggest Buck's down the road, he sells proper boots that won’t hurt your feet while working.”
I stare at the envelope, confused. “I’ve just been paid, Mr Carter. I don’t need you buying me anything.”
“Call it uniform allowance if it makes you feel better,” he mutters with a bite in his tone. “But I'm darn tired of watching you hobble around like you're walking on broken glass in those tragic excuses for boots.”
And here’s me thinking I was being discreet about my daily foot torture. Clearly not.
The last thing I want right now is to prolong being this close to him, so I accept the envelope with what I hope passes for a grateful smile. “Thank you, Mr. Carter. That's very kind of you.”
What the fuck. Who is this Downtown Abbey version of me? Sounding all prim and proper.
“I've got errands to run.” He's talking faster now, like he's just as desperate to put space between us. “You go do what you need to. I'll find you when I'm finished, but there's no rush. Get what you need, explore a bit. But for God's sake, get those boots.”
I nod mutely, not trusting myself to form actual words without making this even more awkward than it already is. I turn toward the door when his voice stops me cold.
“Oh, and Maeve.”
I twist back to find him considerably closer than he was mere seconds ago, close enough that my entire body goes rigid.
“Stop calling me Mr. Carter.” His voice is laced with a gruffness that does absolutely nothing good for my composure.
“We both know that wasn't the name you were using for me last night.”
My eyes go wide. Heat floods my cheeks. And before I can form so much as a syllable in response, he's out of the truck, leaving me absolutely gobsmacked.
Like the true caffeine junkie I am, I managed to sniff out the only coffee shop on the main street – Blessed Beans.
At first glance, it looked like the tiniest shop on the entire stretch, its storefront barely half the size of its neighbours.
But stepping inside was like walking into the bloody Tardis.
The place stretched back considerably further than it should have been physically possible from the outside, defying all reasonable laws of architecture.
An iron spiral staircase next to the coffee counter curled up to an upper floor crammed with mismatched chairs and sofas that looked like they’d been collected from different car boot sales over the years.
There was a warm, cosy glow from the fairy lights that hung from nearly every inch of the ceiling, as if someone had forgotten to take down the Christmas decorations and simply decided to make it a permanent feature.
The coffee counter itself was crafted from black-painted reclaimed wood, its front displaying the shop’s name, The Daily Bean, in the most intricate hand-painted calligraphy I have seen.
And at eye level, smartly placed, sat several glass display cabinets stuffed with baked goods that had me salivating on the spot.
Which is exactly why I'm now wandering down the main street, getting the lay of the land with an iced latte in one hand and an almond croissant in the other.
In theory, this should be peak happiness: caffeine, buttery pastry, and small-town charm. But no, of course bloody not. Because my traitorous brain has decided to hit replay on Wade's parting words over and over again.