Chapter Nine #2
And because my subconscious is a complete arsehole, it doubles down, rerunning last night’s events—X-rated edition.
I’m halfway through demolishing my croissant, eyes glued to the pavement, when the typical “what ifs” start.
What if he hadn’t run? What if he’d stepped further into the room, commanding me to spread wider so he could watch properly?
And if was being honest with myself, I would’ve obeyed.
Because I’m weak for a man who dominates the space he enters.
Especially if that space is between my legs.
Brick after brick passes beneath my feet as my imagination runs feral.
Him telling me to circle my aching clit while he promises to ruin me so thoroughly that no man could ever measure up.
Ordering me to fuck myself with my fingers while he strokes his cock at the same steady pace.
When I am dripping enough, he growls for me to add another finger, making me release a moan of pure pleasure.
Jesus. I know how wrong it would be. How it could jeopardise this entire opportunity when, so far, it is everything I ever searched for.
A place where I feel content and happy. And then there’s my friendship with Colt, t-the sensitive boy who’s too kind and selfless for his own good but understands me on a level that I fear not even Iris could.
Which is why these fantasies are staying locked inside my slutty mind, where they bloody belong.
But if Wade thinks he can make me feel guilty for yesterday when he was the one to enter my room, then he can think again. I’ll be letting loose on him if he even attempts to make another one of those gravel-voiced comments.
Determined to get him out of my brain—at least for the next hour—I decide to finally draw my attention back to the small town I’ve been excited to explore.
But the moment I lift my head, I crash into someone, sending my ice-coffee airborne and knocking the contents of whatever box they were carrying all over the pavement.
“Shit. Oh my God, I am so sorry!”
I drop down immediately, scrambling to scoop up the bottles of white liquid. Plastic, thankfully. I don’t think I could deal with shattered glass on top of everything else today.
When I straighten, I brace myself to face the victim of my latest clumsy episode, expecting irritation. Instead, a girl is offering me a smile.
Her deep chestnut skin appears to be dusted with some sort of herbs, like she’s walked straight out of a garden.
Her dark hair is braided intricately, thin ribbons of electric blue woven through it and catching the light when she moves.
She holds herself with the easy confidence of someone entirely comfortable in their own skin.
“It’s fine,” she says easily. “Could’ve been worse. You didn’t break anything expensive, so we’re good.”
Relief crashes through me as she adjusts the box in her arms, directing it towards me. I place the rescued bottles back inside, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. “I swear I’m not usually this clumsy.”
“Mhm,” she hums, unconvinced but amused.
I spot another large box in the car, and I hesitate for half a second before offering a hand. It’s the least I can do.
“That would be great, thank you…” she pauses.
“Maeve.”
“Naomi.”
I lift the box from the car—knees, not back, I can hear Colt's voice somewhere in my head—and we fall into step toward a sage-green shopfront with gold lettering pressed into the glass, Wildbrook Botanicals Apothecary.
A floral scent tackles my sense of smell as soon as the shop door swings open. I stop inside the threshold, genuinely stunned.
It looks like a witch's pantry, in the best possible way.
Shelves lined with amber glass bottles, bunches of dried flowers and lavender hanging from the beams above, a small handwritten sign explaining the refill and reuse scheme.
And curled in a wicker bed beside the till, a little black and ginger cat opens one eye to look at me.
They decide I'm not interesting enough and go back to sleep.
I set the box down on the counter and turn slowly, taking it all in.
“This is unreal,” I say quietly.
“Aw, thanks.” Naomi is already unpacking, moving through the shop with a practiced ease. “Feel free to browse. I'd recommend the rose oil hand cream. It’s a bestseller!”
She holds out a small wicker basket. I take it and wander around, letting the shop pull me in. This shop has everything. Shampoo, creams, snacks—all handmade, all labelled in the same neat cursive handwriting.
My basket gets heavy quickly, not just with the basics I needed but with a few extra small luxuries I’ve decided to treat myself to. I deserve it after the recent events
As I continue to drift around, I'm drawn to a small central display table scattered with stones of different shapes, sizes, and colours. I should have known a place like this would have crystals given its whimsical energy.
I pause at a translucent brown-grey stone. The label says something about absorbing negative energy and converting it.
“Right,” I mutter. “I probably need about twelve of those.”
Naomi glances up. “That one's popular.”
“Does it actually work?”
She shrugs, “People like the idea of it working.”
Fair enough.
By the time I make my way to the counter, the basket holds a homemade vanilla perfume, dark chocolate-covered dried cherries, and the smoky quartz crystal I picked up in hopes that it delivers on its promise.
I bring everything over to Naomi, setting the basket in front of the vintage-looking till that looks like straight out of the Victorian era. She starts to total up the price of the items unhurriedly, glancing over each item with quiet curiosity as she goes
“Oh, this is a good choice,” she says, holding up the vanilla perfume before setting it aside.
I nod with a timid smile as she continues through the rest of the items. Small talk has never come naturally to me.
Not with girls, anyway. It's a strange thing, I'll run my mouth in front of any man without thinking twice, but with women I don't know, something in me goes quiet.
All my anxieties come crashing in at once, convinced they've already decided they don't like me before I've even opened my mouth.
Rationally, I know that's not the case. I've been had that conversation with a long list of counsellors and sat through more of Iris's pep talks than I can count. But even now I'm picking at the skin around my nails.
I need to talk to make friends here. This is a new place, somewhere I could build something different.
Be different. Throw myself into the moments I'd have talked myself out of back in London.
This girl seems lovely, and I can't just rely on the ranch for every human connection I have. I need someone outside of work. Because the life I am chasing isn’t centred around work, no matter how lovely the ranch lot has been to me.
“Fifty-six dollars and seventy-eight cents,” Naomi cuts through my thoughts.
I blink. “Wow. All of that for that price? I’d pay an arm and a leg for this back in London.”
“Oh, I thought that’s what your accent was,” she says. “You been here long?”
“About three weeks. I’m working at the ranch. Temporarily.”
I've always relied on that word to manage my expectations. I’m used to things not feeling right, so "temporarily” became a kind of armour. A way of leaving before I could be left behind.
But standing here now, it doesn't sit as comfortably as it used to. The idea of all this being temporary already feels wrong in a way I wasn't expecting.
I don't examine that feeling too closely. Not in front of a stranger. And not when I still have months left here to figure out what these new feelings mean.
She tilts her head. “Gonna need to be more specific on which ranch, chick. There's a few scattered around Wildbrook Hollow.”
A short laugh comes out of me, showing how awkward I am even more. “Yeah…Meadow Bell Ranch.”
“Ah.” Something shifts in her expression, just slightly. “That's where my mum works.”
“Mrs Mae?”
“Yeah.” She nods. “She did say someone new started there.” Her mouth curves slightly. “Didn't mention it was a woman though. She omitted an important detail; I’ll be having a word with her.”
We both laugh, it’s such a small but genuine moment that I begin to feel at ease. I study Naomi for a brief moment. Confusion must have been obvious on my face, because she adds, “I'm adopted. Hence the black daughter, white mother situation. People do a double-take sometimes.”
“Ah, yeah. Well, she’s an amazing woman, has been a godsend since I arrived.”
“She really must like you then, she’s got a good judgement of character,” she says, sliding two brown paper bags across the counter. The shop’s logo is stamped on the front—two twig-like leaves with small wildflowers woven through them.
Then, almost casually, she adds, “I’ve slipped my number in there. If you ever want to get away from the testosterone zest pit in that ranch, send me a text.”
That makes me laugh. Properly. The moment catches me off guard, but I grab onto it quickly. I don’t really experience moments where people want to see me again after a single conversation. It feels good.
“I’d love that. I’ll message you later.”
“Good,” she says simply. Like it's already decided.
I gather the bags. As I reach the door, she calls after me, almost as an afterthought, “Say hi to Colt for me.”
There’s something in her tone I can’t quite place.
I just smile and make my way to my next destination, as directed by my boss.
Next mission: boots from Buck’s.