Page 31 of Untruly With You

This isn’t real, I remind myself in a last-ditch effort to maintain clarity.

Fake dating or not, Laine’s kiss sets me on fire. Her lips are as soft and warm as I imagined, and they mold to mine perfectly. She draws back for just a moment before reconnecting again, longer and deeper this time. Her smile breaks the kiss, and she laughs breathlessly against my chest as she lowers back down on her heels.

Without a word, she grabs my hand and turns back to the corral, with her back to my chest. She pulls my arm across her so it drapes over her collarbone.

Wells stares at us, his mouth tipping into something almost resembling a sideways grin, and I finally see more of the kid I used to know.

15

LAINE

Fine.I’ll admit it.

Sutton looks good as Mr. Cowboy.

There's something undeniably attractive about the way he fits into the rugged ranch atmosphere, as if he’d never lived the life of a city boy. His sturdy frame seems tailor-made for this landscape. I’m not sure how back in the city I didn’t realize just how broad and toned he is. The worn jeans, the simple white shirt that hugs his biceps, and the cowboy hat perched on his head—it all comes together to create an image of classic handsomeness. Despite how much I've seen of him in his New York attire, this version of Sutton still feels more authentic.

All day, I try to be Professional Laine. Itry. I interview every person I see at the ranch, asking interesting questions and recording everything. Even so, I find myself constantly distracted.

Focus. Focus. Focus.

It’s no use. Whenever I try to think about my articles, I catch sight of Sutton. He works on the foals with care and attention. He lifts bales of hay like they’re no heavier than abriefcase. He has this silent strength about him, more potent now than ever, and everyone around seems to notice it too. But best of all, whenever he sees me, he smiles, dimples and all.

I was certain that, no matter what my parents said, I wouldn’t blur any lines. No emotions would get tangled. Sutton and I are friends, nothing more. There can’t be more. Because no matter how well we get along, we’re too different. Not just mismatched puzzle pieces, but a puzzle piece and a Scrabble letter mistakenly tossed in the same box.

Sutton is sotogether. He knows what he wants, and he works hard for it.

Sure, I have my good qualities. I can make people laugh and feel loved. But I also self-destruct. I get distracted and discouraged and indecisive. I abandon every hobby I pick up. I barely graduated from college. The opportunity withWonderingspractically fell into my lap. I don’t have much of an idea of what Iwant, aside from a vague dream of happiness. I have no true vision for myself or for my life, and I can’t drag Sutton into my mess in any capacity deeper than as a friend.

It wouldn’t be fair to him.

But still, that kiss.

That damn kiss.

I can’t keep my mind off it, and whenever Idoallow myself to dwell on it for more than two seconds, my pulse races. The kiss was for show—for Wells—but I hadn’t anticipated the way it would make my body feel like nothing but a pile of firing nerves.

Then again, maybe it’s the thin mountain air making me all dizzy and lightheaded.

Or maybe it’s the excitement of being lovesick, even if it’s a farce.

As the day winds down and the sun dips behind themountains, turning the clouds in the sky into orange and pink ribbons, I gravitate to the corral once again. Sutton is inside the fence with a foal, petting it reassuringly and feeding it hay pellets from a tin bucket.

With a deep breath, I remind myself why I'm here, to write some articles and help my friend. Not to let myself get distracted by dimples and stolen kisses.

“You really like him, huh?” Wells asks me as he walks over from the barn, leaning on the corral gate beside me.

Wells is handsome, like Sutton, but still has a hint of boyishness to him. His hair is longer, the waves at the back encroaching on mullet territory. And while Sutton’s beard is close-trimmed, practically stubble, Wells’ beard is thicker, just short enough to show the strong cut of his jaw. Maybe his physical similarities to Sutton made it easier for Cassidy to jump between the two.

That thought makes me want to gag.

Wells scoffs, and I realize I was staring at him. “Is that a no?” he asks, smirking.

“Huh?” I blink, nearly forgetting his initial question. I hope my flustered state can pass as a believable, deep-in-love response. “Oh, yeah. What’s not to like about Sutton?”

“I can think of a few things,” Wells grumbles to himself.

Footsteps sound behind us, and we turn to find Frankie approaching. She was working at the radio station all day, so she’s the only one of us without a layer of dust and grime. Her golden curls are like a halo framing her face. “How was your first day at the ranch?” she asks, hugging me on the side opposite Wells.

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