by Claire Cain
I still felt a small, shocked glow in some hollowed out corner of my heart at the memory. I hadn’t earned that kind of loyalty or friendship from him—not really. But he was a good egg, and he’d proven it then.
His publicist, however, had agreed with me and jockeyed hard to take advantage of the moment to break with me. I couldn’t blame her. I wouldn’t want my client’s reputation tied to me either. Especially not with this latest crush of ‘insider interviews’ supposedly detailing my drug abuse and how I’d introduced the stuff that Candy’d gotten hooked on and eventually OD’d from.
Only one person could be blamed for that. Even if I hadn’t provided the drugs or encouraged it—even if I’d done what I could to prevent it. That person was me. All my ambition had led to one foolish decision after another and at the end of that ride had been Candy’s death, my failure, and any number of other injuries along the way.
I could not subject anyone else to that again. Not ever.
“So you never wanted anything with this guy? Anything real?”
His question shook me from those bitter, shameful thoughts.
“With Bri? Nah. I mean, he’s probably the closest thing I have to a real friend other than my best friend, Jenna, but I don’t have those feelings for him. And if I did, I wouldn’t act on them.”
Those last words lingered in the cab of the truck like smoke, tingeing the air as he turned onto the flat road that led to his ranch.
“And why’s that?” he asked, his voice low and serious.
I’d been honest with him so far, so no reason to stop now, even if I wasn’t sure exactly why I’d chosen to tell him all of these pathetic details. “I’ve seen what it can do—love. And from where I’m sitting, it’s never been a good thing. It’s always been poison for people near me. So if I truly cared about someone, I’d let them go.”
Early that evening, Jenna called. I couldn’t avoid a conversation any longer, so I answered.
“You are avoiding me.” Her tone held a hint of worry underneath her sing-songy delivery.
“I’ve been avoiding everyone.”
“Are you okay?”
That gentle, genuine question made my throat clog up. If she heard me cry, she’d flip out. I was certain I’d never cried in front of her before. This was an easy fact to check since I’d never cried in front of anyone other than Candy until Wyatt Saint knocked on my door and saw the aftermath of tears last week.
I cleared my throat, banishing the emotion stuck there. “I am. I’m… good.”
“Really.”
The flat delivery told me just how little she believed me.
“Yes, really. I mean, I’m eating mostly cereal and smoothies. And like a genius, I chose a house really far from town, so I’m kind of stuck out here. But the guys who are renting me the place are nice, not weirdos, and it’s good.”
And after saying it aloud, I realized how true that was.
The distance had been helpful, the crying a necessary release. The location gave me all the privacy I could want, and I hadn’t had to worry about anonymity at all, which was everything I’d hoped for in coming here.
Kristoffer had taken care of putting off anyone who’d been looking for me, and though I could tell he’d been through the wringer with my agent, and definitely Rad, ultimately it was all going to be fine. If I could ignore the fact that I had to return to all that reality, I could genuinely enjoy this time. I could just be Calla.
“Sorry, did we say guys? Tell me about this.”
I could imagine her waggling her brows. She would keep things lighthearted, then go in for the kill soon enough. Might as well take the detour while she was offering.
“Wyatt and Warrick Saint. Brothers. Warrick is a former pro-football player. He’s basically a walking house with a sunny disposition not unlike yourself.”
“He sounds delightful.”
I chuckled.
“Oh, he is. And his brother…” How to describe Wyatt Saint? “Wyatt is serious. Thoughtful. Kind of intense but also really nice.” Confusing. Gorgeous. Generous.
“Now we’re talking. Tell me more about this Wyatt, because I can tell you’ve thought about this guy. What’s he look like?”
I cleared my throat again, then took a drink of water. “Tall. Dirty-blond hair that’s a little longer on top, shorter on the sides. Trimmed beard that’s a little darker than his hair, but has just a little gray in it. Blue eyes. Muscular. Good hands.”
Oh, those hands.
I’d confirmed my previous suspicion about his calloused hands hours ago when he’d stopped in front of my little barn house. He’d hopped out while I gathered my takeout bag and groceries, and by the time I was ready to exit, he’d opened my door, taken the groceries, and offered a hand to help me down from the truck.
And in a moment that just remembering made my stomach dip, our hands had touched. My fingers had slipped onto his warm, rough palm, and his thumb rested atop the back of my knuckles, pressing against me to assist my exit. My eyes had jumped to his, the current of sensation and electricity cycling between us demanding it. His gorgeous blue gaze studied me, and the look on his face had made me feel positively undressed.
Once out, I’d managed a “Thank you.” He’d carried the bags up the stairs and then held them out to me at the door of the house. I’d taken them, fingers grazing his, and disappeared inside. Moments later, I’d gotten a text. “Breakfast tomorrow at 8:00. If that’s too early, let me know what time you prefer. It was nice talking with you on the ride back. Have a good afternoon, Calla.”
“Now that’s what I want to hear! Especially when I can tell you are not unaffected by Mr. Wyatt Saint. So, when you gonna jump his bones?”
I burst out laughing, glad to shake away the intense mix of dread and attraction I felt when remembering his touch and the whole ride home.
“First, ew. Second, if the gossip is to be believed, I’ve probably already stolen his innocence.”
I heard a long sigh. “Good thing we know that’s not true.”
That maddening self-pity and frustration clawed at me again. “Yeah, good thing.”
She was quiet a moment, either gathering her thoughts or letting me collect mine. When she spoke, it was serious. “It could be good for you, you know? To be with someone normal, outside of all of this.”
My heart thudded a heavy beat. “Not likely.”
“Seriously, Cal. Think about it. If this guy is nice and good-looking and not about to sell his story, why not?”
“A thousand reasons. First and foremost is that I am not here for that.” And I wouldn’t have any idea how to go about that with someone like Wyatt. “Plus, he doesn’t strike me as someone who’s up for a fling.”
Never mind I was about as up for a fling as I was a hole in the head, and I’d long ago given up wanting that part of my life to work.
“I hear your excuses piling up against your mile-high walls. I’m just saying, if the opportunity presents itself, you could stop self-flagellating and enjoy a moment for yourself.”
I gulped more water, then set the glass down clumsily. Why this whole conversation made me shaky, I didn’t know. “I’ll take that under consideration. Now tell me about you, since we know the train wreck of my life isn’t worth dwelling on.”
And because she loved me, she gave me the out. She launched into a story about her latest movie and her hilarious costars, and she eventually let me go with a promise to answer next time she called.
I hung up feeling grateful and determined to be a better friend to her. I should’ve told her how I’d been writing—just a bit, but she’d know that was a good thing. She’d know what that meant for me. I made a note to tell her next time we talked, and maybe I could even tell her I’d written something coherent. So far, it’d all been more like dumping out cold coffee—it came out of the pitcher just as fast as hot, but no one wanted to drink it.
Still, though. It gave my days a little more purpose, which felt better than I could’ve a
nticipated. Wandering around weeping and feeling sorry for myself didn’t exactly inspire me, but it’d had its place. Sooner than I could’ve imagined, I’d wanted to create. Even if what I created was utter trash, it was me. The me from Silverton—the girl who’d grown up, at least halfway, in these mountains. And even if she never belonged all that well before, I wondered if she might someday.
I’d tell Jenna some of that, and I’d do it soon. This resolution left me feeling determined and yes, ready to pour out more day-old coffee.
And reluctantly, more than a little excited for breakfast tomorrow morning.
FOURTEEN
Wyatt
The light knock on the storm door trapped my breath in my chest like a rabbit in a cage before I pushed it out in a long exhale. I had to calm down or this would be awkward as hell.
But I wouldn’t be weird.
You will not be weird.
After all, what was there to be weird about? Calla and I had become friends in the last few days. I’d apologized for my rudeness and idiocy, and she’d very graciously accepted. We’d spent a little time together driving the canyon, and we’d both shared a bit about our lives.
All of that was completely normal and well within the bounds of friendship. The problem arrived when we said goodbye. Her small, cool hand in mine had felt like a backhand to the face. A sharp slap to wake me up from a slumber I didn’t know I’d taken. Disoriented, the contact had taken me by the lapels and shaken. No lie, I’d never felt a physical response to someone like that.
I hadn’t been able to speak. What could I have said but “Where am I?” What world had I lived in up to this point, and how could I possibly step forward into this new one, birthed in the moment of contact?
We’d touched before, but something happened to me in that instant. I couldn’t even get out the invite to breakfast this morning until I’d parked the car, at which point I’d had to text her.
The knock came again, which shoved me out of my head and into action. I wiped my hands on the kitchen towel, then swung it over my shoulder as I jogged to open the door. When I did, the sight of her winded me.
“Hi, come in,” I said, sounding exactly as breathless as I felt.
“Thanks for having me.” She smiled and removed her jacket, then hung it from a peg in the entryway.
“You’re always welcome. We usually eat about now. If you prefer earlier or later, that’s no problem. Also if you have, uh, dietary restrictions, I’m sure I can accommodate those.”
I didn’t need to look behind me to know she followed closely. I felt her presence like I’d feel a bonfire I’d turned my back to.
“We should talk about payment. I want to—”
“Please, you can talk to Warrick about that. I’m just the cook.”
I flashed her a grin to ease the tension because I’d whipped around and interrupted her. Bad manners and unlike me, but I didn’t want her thinking of me as hired help. The very thought of that becoming the dynamic between us chafed. As far as I was concerned, she was a guest here for another three weeks, and I’d feed her as often as she liked. She and War could work out the associated charges.
She’d pay Warrick, not me.
“Oh, sure. That’s fine.”
I rounded the kitchen island and tossed the diced veggies into the waiting heating pan. “You eat eggs? I’m doing omelets this morning, but if you don’t, I can figure something else out.”
“Eggs are great, thanks.” She slid into the chair Warrick normally used at the bar.
I busied myself with the sizzling peppers and onions in front of me, nudging them gently and wondering if I’d used too much oil. I didn’t bother about that stuff for family, but she might need me to pay more attention.
“I feel like I can hear you thinking from here.”
I turned to find her eyes on my back. They quickly jumped to meet mine. “Can you? What am I thinking?”
“I’m not totally sure, but something far too intense for this early in the morning.”
She settled into her seat and leaned on the countertop. This gesture tipped me off to what I hadn’t noticed before.
“Not a morning person?”
“I’m a night owl stuck in a morning person’s body.”
The look on her face was truly distraught. I couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out. “Sounds awful.”
“Trust me, it is. It’s a little better on tours because you end up out late, and I’m so physically exhausted that I can sleep in. But any other time, I naturally wake up around six despite my every hope of going longer.” She swiped a finger over one eyebrow.
I turned back to the pan and dumped in the eggs, willing myself to stop staring at her. Because that’s what I kept doing. She had no makeup on, and the fact that she’d shown up here like that made something in my gut twist.
Maybe she went without makeup all the time, but I doubted people outside of her inner circle ever saw her like this. Beautiful face naked of anything but her natural features. Hair coiled in a bun at the top of her head. I hadn’t gotten a good look at her clothes, but they were some kind of sweats or comfortable loungey clothes.
She’d look this way first thing. Her hair would spill all around her, but this would be her when her eyes fluttered open after a night together.
Well, that one got away from me fast. Time to change the mental tune. “Does coffee help? We just have drip, but it’s fresh and decent.”
“Yes, please.” She hopped up from her seat. “I can help myself, if you don’t mind?”
I nodded, feeling the pull to survey her clothes like I had her face and refusing to give in. She hadn’t come here to be inspected or gawked at. I certainly didn’t want to make her uncomfortable, because the thought of having her here for breakfasts for the next few weeks had created a kind of anticipation for the coming days that I hadn’t felt in a long time. Far too long.
If I stopped to interrogate that thought, I might have to acknowledge that I’d felt far more anticipation for everything since Calla had arrived. Even when I suspected she was truly bad news and not just bad for me specifically, I looked forward to seeing her. Curiosity. Attraction. Any number of other draws to see her, be near her.
But that, I would not dwell in. What good would it do to see that pattern, to confirm this energy pulsing through me, was anything significant? I would stay. She would leave. Breakfast was all we’d have until then.
I dumped the omelet onto a large wooden cutting board and sliced wedges of it for each of us. I preferred smaller, individual omelets and that was usually how I made them, but with three people eating and War’s arrival being a bit variable, I didn’t want anyone waiting on me to get theirs made.
“You’re welcome to sit wherever you like,” I said, holding out a plate for her.
She took it with a small smile and followed me to the table where we’d sat for dinner. Had that only been a few nights ago?
“This looks amazing. I’m not sure why that surprises me after the other night, because that food was all delicious too, but seriously. You’re a great cook.” She raised her fork and dove in.
“Thank you. Maybe taste it first to confirm,” I joked, and watched as she chewed a bite. Her eyes fluttered shut for a minute as she tasted the food, and my stomach dropped.
Time to focus elsewhere. I dove into my piece just as a bang sounded from the mudroom.
“It is colder than a bucket of ice cubes out there.” Warrick slammed the garage door and must’ve taken a moment to ditch his shoes before coming all the way inside.
“Told you it wasn’t a good run day.” I didn’t need to say it, but I couldn’t resist. He’d gotten annoyed when I’d said he should hit the treadmill instead.
“You went running outside?” Calla asked, mildly terrified.
War tugged his gloves off and tossed them on the counter. Then came his fleece cap, which left his hair sticking up in all directions. “I did. But I don’t even want to talk about that because it smells so
good in here. I’m going to go thaw in the shower, and I’ll be back to inhale that before I head to town.”
And with that, he disappeared down the hall to the bathroom, leaving me and Calla staring after him.
“He can be a little like a storm that blows through. You just have to go with it,” I said, returning to my meal.
“I like it. He’s got such crazy good energy. Like, he comes in a room and it just gets brighter, you know?” She stared after him.
Jealousy twitched in the back of my mind, but I stomped on it. She spoke true.
“You’re right. He’s always been that way. There’s a bit of a gap between me and War, and even Wilder and him. We were all so desperately sad for so long after my dad passed, and Warrick was like this… little sunbeam we could focus our energy and attention on.”
Her eyes found mine. “When did your father…”
“I was eight. He was twenty-eight. Wilder was six and War was about six months. Car accident.”
Her dark eyes were all compassion. The feel of her hand on my wrist, just a gentle squeeze, didn’t surprise me either. She’d done something similar when I’d mentioned Charlie. And since I’d thought about the lightning bolt her touch had sent into my brain the other day, I didn’t end up decompensating into a stunned statue of myself at this contact, thankfully.
“I’m sorry. I can’t imagine losing someone that young.”
Her fingers brushed against my skin again, and her hand fell away.
I wanted to grab it and bring it back. Or take it in mine and knit us together there, fit our palms to each other and allow us to just feel for a moment. The longing to physically connect with her beat boldly in my chest, but I didn’t. Of course, I didn’t.
“Thanks. It was a long time ago, but we all miss him. Sometimes, I think maybe War does the most because he had so little time with him. A handful of photos of him being held as a baby, and no real memories except stories he’s heard so often they became memories.”
