Almost Perfect: A Sweet Small Town Opposites Attract Romance (Back to Silver Ridge Book 1)

by Claire Cain

  His face stayed neutral except for a look of something like mischief in his eyes. “You invited me in.”

  “True.”

  Then I looked around to see what he must be seeing. Dishes towering in the sink and on the counter. A pile of papers and magazines on the bar. Sweatshirts strewn across the back of the couch, and a few errant socks dumped next to boots lining the hallway. Lucky for me, he couldn’t see the bedroom. He’d probably die just so he could roll over in his grave.

  “You’ve got an interesting… method.” He said this as he eyed the sink.

  “No doubt rather different from yours.” I grabbed a sweatshirt and my jacket from the back of the couch.

  “A bit,” he said tightly.

  I glanced at him while pulling on boots. Was he actually bothered? He definitely portrayed himself as tidy and particular, so if his aversion to clutter and a sink full of dirty dishes ended up being a dealbreaker, I couldn’t say I’d be shocked. He’d warned me just the other day.

  At the same time, if my superficially slobby approach to life was a problem for him, there was no way he could handle my actual reality, which was the definition of hot mess.

  And why would that matter?

  Instead of getting stuck there, I smiled up at him. “Ready?”

  He nodded and led the way to the door. We tromped through the snow in silence, and about halfway to his house, I had to stop.

  A few feet in front of me on the path, Wyatt must’ve heard me halt, because he did too, and I felt his attention shift to where I stared.

  The sun’s rays shot up into the sky from behind the peaks in front of us, lighting the pale blue with warm egg yolk brightness. Everything else was silent. The snow blanketed the world, shrouding it in chilled quiet and peace.

  The rising light and heat combined with the muted, still world around us made a word burst into my mind. A word I’d never thought would apply to even a moment in my life, and one I’d certainly never experienced. Serenity.

  I’d run so long on the need to fulfill my obligations, to avoid missing out on opportunities, and to gather up every bit of “the good life,” as Candy had once called it, before my moment in the sun inevitably waned. Candy had assured me I’d get my ten minutes in the spotlight and no more. Toward the end, that’d been a kind of mantra, as the last album I released while she was alive tanked in review after review.

  By then, the shade had been encroaching for a while. I’d felt the cool touch of darkness, and I hadn’t found it as terrifying as I’d always assumed it would be. That relentless ambition and borderline desperation for more success had tapered off to a stuttering drip.

  In this moment, this sunlight, it was so pure. So brilliant and beautiful and real.

  Emotion jetted through me, clogging my throat. I cleared it, but tears pricked at my eyes, and I felt the jaw-tightening that accompanied the need to cry.

  “You okay?” Wyatt’s low voice rumbled in the silence.

  I jerked my head down in a nod, knowing that if I spoke, I’d start blubbering. And this man had already seen me cry one too many times. I’d already done enough crying in the time I’d been here to last a lifetime. I didn’t want these tears, and yet I wasn’t fighting them. They weren’t evidence of grief or loss or frustration or overwhelm like so many of the others had been.

  They were tears of gratitude. Tears of hope. Signs of healing and moving forward.

  Cool fingers at my cheek turned my head toward him. His brow furrowed, his eyes searched mine and noted the tear tracks, no doubt.

  “What is it?” The words came out soft and so, so gentle.

  “I’m just…” My voice shook, and I cleared my throat. “I’m thankful. For this moment.”

  It sounded cheesy as anything I’d ever said, but that was the truth.

  The last few years had been one failure after another. My confidence had been battered, and in many ways, it was right for that to be the case. I’d screwed up. I’d made bad choices. I’d listened to the wrong people. I’d let my desire for more control me until I didn’t recognize my life.

  And in the aftermath, I’d hidden myself away up here to finally come to terms with that and let myself process it without having anyone else spin the experience.

  Walking behind Wyatt as we made our way to his house for waffles, seeing the sun’s rays arching into the sky and lighting up these mountains that called to me as my forgotten home… this was a moment when I could see how much I still had. Not in wealth or fame or success, but in the simplest and perhaps most important way. I hadn’t lost the ability to stop and witness beauty, enjoy life.

  It’d been so long since I’d done anything like that. Some of that had come with softening—grieving, writing, sharing a bit of myself with Wyatt. My heart had thawed enough to open.

  When my eyes met his, a shot of… something… slipped through me. He swayed forward like he had the day before, and my fingers tingled.

  “It’s beautiful,” he said just above a whisper.

  My heart clutched, now more attuned to feelings Wyatt incited than ever. His willingness to stop with me, not keep plowing ahead, worked like warm water over ice. He melted me.

  Damn, the man had some mesmerizing eyes, and I didn’t want to look away. But we were too close. This felt too much like real connection and a moment. I didn’t need to be having feelings for yet another person who’d judge me, even if he’d apologized for his initial assumptions. He’d done it again minutes ago over the mess, and while he didn’t seem all that bothered, I didn’t need that in my life.

  When your business is based on putting your art into the world, you can’t be surprised when some people don’t like it. That’s the nature of the beast. But when you spend half your life doing just that, there comes a time when you stop being willing to accept censure from others. The judgment, the critique, becomes something that people who don’t know you feel free to offer up. And it blurs the lines between the art you’ve put out there—the music, the image, the ad campaign, the performance—and the human being behind them.

  At some point, people forget you are a person underneath it all. And enough interactions like that, the armor thickens. Maybe it wasn’t the same for everyone. In fact, Jenna wasn’t like that at all. I knew others in the industry and Hollywood who seemed to have escaped that way of thinking, but I’d embraced it. I wrapped myself in limit-pushing extravagance and edge—the Miss Mayhem persona let it all hang out, sometimes quite literally.

  What I didn’t want was this very thing—feeling that pull toward someone, that spark, and wanting them to like me. Wanting them to approve. Hadn’t I worked all my life for approval in one way or another?

  I couldn’t do that anymore.

  And more than anything, I simply didn’t need to want anything else. I’d been so scrappy and hungry for years, and it’d turned to ashes. The thought of Wyatt becoming some sick consequence of my thirst made my stomach ache.

  The realization that I did want things from Wyatt—wanted him to see past all the Mayhem and see me had me breaking eye contact and taking a giant step away. “Sure is. On to waffles?”

  He nodded, and we set off.

  And I promised myself I’d cut the crap. I wouldn’t look to him for approval, wouldn’t use him to satisfy the needy, pathetic part of me I’d started indulging once I arrived in town. And the other part, the one that’d softened and warmed to Wyatt like a cat in the sun? She couldn’t have her way either.

  So as we trudged through the snow, I began my mantra.

  I will not want Wyatt Saint.

  I will not want Wyatt Saint.

  I will not want Wyatt Saint.

  EIGHTEEN

  Wyatt

  Never in my wildest imagination would I have been sitting across from this woman, watching her eyes roll back in her head as she chewed a bite of waffle.

  And never in that same rather uncreative mind would I have thought I’d enjoy it so damn much.

  Calla should be the
antithesis of everything I had in mind for myself. Messy versus my orderly. Daring and envelope-pushing opposite my staid existence. Insanely out there in the public to my quiet and private.

  But the pleasure I found in this moment could hardly be matched by anything in recent memory—feeding this woman brought me no small amount of joy. She was this megastar maven of beauty and sex appeal, and yet here she sat, devouring the steaming waffle I’d just set on her plate with a gusto to match Warrick’s. And she looked way better doing it, I should add.

  “Thheez ah zho good,” she said with a mouthful of waffle shoved into one cheek.

  I finished chewing my own bite before responding, apparently all calm and cool and not a bit affected by this. “I’m glad you enjoy them.”

  She nodded, swallowed, and gulped some coffee before saying, “Can I hire you to make these every day for the rest of my life? I’ll retire today and just get fat and happy on waffles and waffles and oh, yes, please, more waffles.”

  Chuckling, I shook my head, ignoring the newest rush of glee her enthusiasm brought me. I hadn’t realized just how pathetic my dating life had become, but if someone exclaiming over my waffles like this had me this happy, I probably did need to take a closer look at my life.

  Probably rang false, even as I mentally attempted to make light of the truth. I’d been making it through my days, not really living them. And though Calla talked about being burnt out and tired, and I could see evidence of that, she’d also been changing. Even the last few days, I’d noticed her looking farther outside herself, into the snow, the mountains, the sky. She was seeing the beauty around her, and it only made her all the more lovely.

  And witnessing it devastated me. Her ability to look past the pain and grief she’d been buried under and enjoy things. Even small things like these stupid waffles. It both called to me and convicted me.

  What simple pleasures had I taken in the last few months? In the last few years?

  “Seriously though, you’re a really good cook. I know we’ve discussed this, but it bears repeating.”

  “Thanks. Mom and Grandma Tilda were pretty insistent I learn so my wife didn’t have to do all the cooking.”

  Aaaaaaand, crap. No doubt I came across as a traditional bumpkin to her already, but here I went talking about my non-existent wife.

  She hummed and enjoyed another bite before speaking again. “So it’s all for the ladies, then, huh?”

  The little twinkle in her eye had me fighting a blush. “That makes it sound pretty contrived. Mostly, I’ve cooked for my family, and I like to eat well, so it works out.”

  “Makes sense.”

  I felt compelled to add, “Plus I have a lot of time since I scaled back at work. Trying new recipes has helped fill some of the time.”

  Or, trying new recipes had kept me from slipping into an irretrievable slump. And now that I was climbing out, I had to admit that recipes had been a small step toward progress after stepping back at work, but it certainly hadn’t magically solved the problem.

  We sat quietly, forks clinking against plates as we ate. I’d grown used to this during our weekday breakfasts. Calla didn’t talk nonstop, and I liked that. One particularly bad date with a woman named Anita had made me realize the value of silence between people. A lot could happen in that space, and without it, well, not much could.

  Those moments between words were where the connection developed. In the quiet places, the evidence or lack thereof pointed to a future together.

  I had to admit, we had plenty of chemistry between us. The time between conversation hadn’t felt awkward, even when it probably should’ve. I liked that someone known for making music, for generating sound and filling the world with her songs, could be so satisfyingly quiet.

  Not that I didn’t want to hear her voice and learn more about her, but the fact that she didn’t need to dominate or talk about herself… well, it was one more thing I’d gotten wrong. I’d assumed she’d be like that, but I should’ve learned by now not to assume famous people did that. I’d known Jamie Morris all my life, and he wasn’t any more arrogant after fame than he had been before. He was just Jamie.

  I wondered who knew Calla—who really knew her. I couldn’t fathom her ever being just Calla.

  “Apparently, I’m going to lunch with a bunch of locals,” she said, that smooth, low tone pressing in like a hand to my chest.

  That was the other reason the silences were helpful—when she spoke, it felt like her words licked my skin. Or maybe like I wanted to—see? This was a problem. Her voice made my brain bottom out.

  “Are you?”

  She nodded, a smile pulling at one side of her perfect mouth. “Warrick signed me up for some kind of ‘make new friends’ luncheon thing. He says I need to meet people if I’m staying longer.”

  I blinked. “You’re staying longer?”

  My heart rate ticked up.

  She cleared her throat. “Uh, yeah. I extended a couple weeks.”

  She didn’t meet my eye, and I could’ve sworn her cheeks brightened. Did she feel embarrassed about staying? And didn’t she have life and work to return to?

  Although no, she didn’t. Sure, maybe the work, but not the life. No person waited for her back in LA.

  “That’s good. And that means he’s right. You should meet some people besides me and War.”

  But not Aidan. Or John. I’d heard her mention she knew Julian Grenier, so it was too late there. Wilder wouldn’t be an issue. But not Chris. Or—

  “I guess. I’m not sure a random lunch is right, but that’s fine. I’m not opposed to meeting new people—I’m pretty sure Warrick wouldn’t steer me wrong.” Her brow quirked like she might not be completely sure.

  “That’s a fair bet. When’s the last time you did something new like that? Or maybe a more interesting question—when’s the last time you learned something new?”

  She squinted, like she was reviewing the files that would give her the answer.

  “Aside from dumping my life and responsibilities and running for the hills and learning to see the sky again?” She raised a cheeky brow, then continued. “The biggest thing was years ago, when I got my first recording deal. At that point, pretty much every experience was new, but I learned guitar and very basic drums. At first, it was the studio’s impetus because they wanted me to be the hot bad girl with the guitar or whatever. But once I got a taste, I wanted some of the überproduced sound to be mine. I never realized they wouldn’t actually let me record instruments. But I’d been naïve about everything, and I still got hammered for being an auto-tuned idiot.”

  “Harsh.” She’d been barely twenty, if memory served, and hadn’t had a choice.

  “But true.” Her thin smile grew soft when she continued. “I’ve always wanted to do an acoustic album with my own leads. I want to show that I’m not actually a musical screwup like everyone thinks now, nor am I only capable of hugely overproduced pop sounds like I used to do.”

  “You should. That sounds awesome.” Her music wasn’t my cup of tea, but I’d listen to anything that featured her voice and less… well, just less.

  “Maybe someday. And I need to say thanks. For the card.”

  Her gaze held mine, and my heart sped up like the tick, tick, tick up the rise of a rollercoaster. Her thanks, her admiring the sunrise, her consistent vulnerability—each was another foot on the slope, and I could see the top looming. One glance from her and it’d tip over the edge and swoop down.

  I exhaled sharply. “Of course. It’s a great store.”

  “It is.”

  She smiled, a small quirk of her lips, and there it went. Over the crux and plummeting down, g-force pulling my stomach through the floor.

  “What about you? When’s the last time you learned to do something new?” She tilted her head, completely unaware of the internal loop-de-loop she’d set me on.

  I couldn’t stay on that ride now, so I cranked the hand brake as best I could and funneled every bit of my will into t
hinking about her question. When did I last try something new? After a moment’s thought, I admitted, “I have no idea.”

  And with that, it hit me.

  I couldn’t remember the last time I’d learned something or done something new. It’d all been routine and monotony and developing skills I’d worked on for years. Not all bad, but didn’t humans stagnate without challenge? Without variety?

  Cooking had been a small foray into that—new recipes, new flavors. But I’d always cooked, so the act itself wasn’t new.

  But lately, things felt new. Like someone had scraped away the tinted film of my windshield, and I was seeing through crystalline glass again—or maybe for the first time. And what I saw was brutal in its surrender to mediocrity, in its refusal to change until so recently. And yet, there was hope, because here I was staring out, really seeing.

  Maybe that was why Calla’s mere existence challenged me.

  Not long after my revelation that I’d stagnated and was essentially bored with life, I walked Calla back to her place and returned home. I visited Sheridan and made sure his feed and water were fresh and that the trough heaters were working. We’d sprung for them a while back, and yeah, I’d griped about it. Now that we had them, I found myself consistently glad when temps dipped well below freezing, and I knew the horses wouldn’t be met with blocks of ice instead of fresh water to drink.

  While brushing Sheridan, I thought about the morning. Or, really, I thought about every moment I’d had with Calla since I’d come face-to-face with her that first day she’d arrived.

  “She’s only gotten more beautiful, if you can believe it,” I mumbled.

  Sheridan snuffled and dipped his head, like he felt for me.

  “Right? What am I supposed to do with that? She’s this… shooting star. She’s here, streaking across my sky, lighting it up and making my heart chase after her, but then she’ll be gone.”

  I ran my hand along the smooth, slightly fuller hair of his sleek body. His coat grew thicker this time of year thanks to the shorter days and colder weather. In a few months, it’d thin a bit to accommodate the heat of summer.