Page 37 of Live, Ranch, Love

And getting that inspiration back.

And building an amazing new business venture.

As opposed to falling for another guy who will undoubtedly break my heart when I’m still fragile.

But I’m not falling for Wyatt. At all. I just mean that it’s easy when you’re healing from heartbreak to be led astray.

And to prove that I’m not interested in him, I’ve made myself look extra resistible this evening with a baggy white T-shirt which pretty much covers my old, washed-out gym shorts. My waves are messily shoved into a low bun, half of them hanging out to signal I’m not dressing up for anyone here tonight.

Besides, as Cherry’s not working at Duke’s tonight, she’s helping out and can act as a buffer for any unwanted tension. The kind that felt electrified between Wyatt and I when he had me pressed against the deck last week. The kind that seems to still linger whenever we’re together, which feels like most of the time. I kind of regret roping the ranchers into morning yoga every day now, because it takes me a while to cool off from the way my body buzzes as Wyatt watches me stretch with eyes full of dark wonder.

Once Cherry releases me, she waltzes over to her brother and grabs one of the paint rollers beside him. “Yes, brother. Don’t worry I appreciate you too. Does your ego feel better now?”

Wyatt sucks in a long breath, eyes closed before glancing at me, ignoring Cherry. “I reckon we’ll get just as much done without her here, you know?”

Gasping in fake pain, Cherry knocks Wyatt on the head with her paint roller, eliciting a curse from him before he shoves her. I can just see one of them putting their foot in a tray of paint and slipping or getting paint over the newly fitted kitchen counters. In hindsight, maybe we should’ve covered those with plastic as well as the floor.

“Children!” I holler, failing to hide my amusement.

Wyatt’s just about to give Cherry a second shove after she swung the paint roller at him and missed, but he halts, sighing and stepping away. He crosses his arms with a pout, midnight eyes seething at me, like I’m some killjoy.

“I hate to imagine what you’re like when Hunter’s around.” I just shake my head at him, a bemused giggle escaping.

Cherry holds her hands up in surrender, paint roller swaying. “Okay, okay! How about I get out of the way and start on the bedroom while you guys do in here? Happy?”

The usual shrug and grunt comes from Wyatt before he picks up another paint roller and dips it in the tray. Cherry takes that as a yes and gives me a wave, then grabs a tray and the sage green can of paint she picked for the bedroom and heads out the living area.

There goes my buffer.

It’s fine. I’m a strong, independent woman who can separate herself from her distractions, so that they don’t separate her from her goals and the life she wants.

Bolstered by my internal pep talk, I pick up the last paint roller and smother it in paint from the tray, watching the grey material soak up the peachy liquid. The sound of it splattering and squelching against the wall as I roll it on is oddly satisfying.

In fact, watching the paint strokes slowly cover the walls, white plaster melting into early evening sunset peach, is incredibly therapeutic. Whatever acoustic music Wyatt’s playing through his speaker only calms me more, and I fall into a blissful rhythm of spreading paint across the walls, unaware of the time passing.

I think Wyatt must feel the same way, because he’s been silent too the whole time, dark eyes locked intently on the roller as he finishes off the wall he’s working on. I try not to let my eyes linger too much on the way his muscles shift under his thin grey T-shirt—

Wyatt’s phone chimes loudly over the speaker making me yelp and almost drop the roller. That’ll teach me for staring.

“Jesus, Aurora. Calm down, it’s just a text,” Wyatt scolds me, angled face all pinched before he whips out his phone.

“It was loud,” I retort, not liking the way his face hasn’t softened since he unlocked his phone, ignoring my reply.

The screen’s light reflects in his eyes, only highlighting the discontent lingering in them. It makes me wonder if the text is from his ex, the one he said sometimes checks in on him. But when something almost akin to realisation descends on his features, mouth curving, cheeks and brows lifting, I stupidly hope it’s not her.

“Everything okay?” I ask, worrying my lip.

“Yeah,” he laughs, pocketing his phone and running a hand through his loose dark curls. He waits a second before finally looking at me, making me feel so on edge for no reason. Why is my heart suddenly beating so fast now his midnight eyes are locked with mine? “The council said yes. The retreat can officially go ahead.”

If I thought my heart was already racing, then now it feels like it might explode.

I knew the meeting on Monday had gone reasonably well—the six middle-aged Willow Ridge residents that made up the council seemed far more receptive to the idea than Wyatt had prepped me for. Especially now I’ve had twelve influencers interested in visiting, so we’ve decided to do a second trial two weeks after the first.

I think I’ve been so caught up on everything else that I hadn’t realised what the meeting actually signified, though. I’d been following my usual advice—to focus on the small steps, as opposed to the whole staircase. Market the retreat, get friends to come and trial it, plan out activities, decorate the guesthouses, organise the decking to be built by the lake for lakeside yoga sessions, order in extra horse-riding gear for lessons and trails, and so on.

But now I’m staring up, overwhelmed by the length of the ascent. This feels bigger than the nightshade mountains encompassing the ranch. If the retreat happens and it’s successful, then it could become permanent. And so would my time here at Sunset Ranch.

I’d be living in Willow Ridge. Permanently.

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