Page 55 of Unguarded

I shrug, removing my camo hoodie before collapsing on one of the massive leather recliners in the living room. “Something like that.”

Dolly’s jaw is on the floor. “And you saidno?”

I don’t respond, instead studying an intriguing crack in the wooden floorboards. Several long seconds pass before I glance back up at my sister’s face. She blinks her gray eyes at me, shaking her head like she can’t believe what she’s hearing.

“Well, anyway, how was hunting?”

“Duke got a nice one.”

“Gun or bow?”

“Gun.”

“Hmm. I’m surprised he didn’t try for the bow.”

“I thought Sam was the master with the bow.”

Dolly sits fully up. “Sam Seymourthinkshe’s the master of everything.”

I glance at her, seeing she’s crossed her arms and stuck her chin out. Sam has been Duke’s best friend since they were kids. His grandfather’s ranch, where he grew up, isn’t far from ours.

“Okay …”

We watch the movie in silence for a few more minutes until she speaks again.

“So, be for real. Why did you leave the tour? It was the chance of a lifetime, Cash. I know you hate being the center of attention and being around crowds, but this was, like, something most people dream about.”

“I still got you the backstage passes for the concert in Dallas.”

“I’m not worried about that! I’m worried that you’re never going to open up your heart to love again.”

“Again?”

She glares at me. “You haven’t loved a woman since Mom died.”

I chuckle, rising to my feet. “Look, Dolls, this had nothing to do with love. This was business. Monroe Blue was a client. She’s all the way on the other side of the world, living her big, fancy pop-star dreams. And I’m home on the ranch—exactly where I’m meant to be. Good night.” I press a kiss to her forehead.

I walk back outside toward the bunkhouse I share with Duke. Home suddenly feels a lot more suffocating than it used to. I don’t remember everyone being so damn concerned about my love life when I left.

Once I get inside, I kick off my boots and walk into my bathroom. The bedroom has an en suite bath, affording some privacy. That’s one thing I will not miss about the tour—sharing a room with Brooks.

The bunkhouse used to be all bare wood walls and secondhand furniture until Dolly and Rosie decided to redecorate. They kept it manly enough, but now, it has high-quality leather chairs with a matching sofa, an intricately detailed wooden table my brother Sterling built, as well as matching end tables. They also decorated the walls with pictures from the ranch. Some depict us riding bulls and working, and some show the cattle and beautiful views of the thousands of acres.

I start to unbuckle my belt, but the itch of my fingers to search her up is impossible to ignore. I’ve been resisting it all day. Before I know what I’m doing, my thumb is typing out her name.

The videos that pop up first are from the show in Paris. She’s up on the stage in one of her dramatic, glittering minidresses. It’s a beautiful ocean-blue color, which I already know reflects her eye color up close. She’s standing in the middle of the stage with her microphone held out toward the crowd, head bobbing to encourage them to sing.

I watch it twice, taking in her curves, her smile, the way she performs like she’s meant for it.

I scroll to the next video, startling when it starts with me on the screen, guarding her until she gets to her car. The clip cuts and skips to another one of me and her walking down the street. She leans up to tell me something, a smile on her lips as she whispers in my ear.

I should text Brooks, just to check in.

A flash of annoyance swirls inside my gut as I slam the phone down on the bed. This behavior is pathetic. I’m almost as bad as her stalker at this point.

I have to get her out of my head. I have to move the fuck on. She’s not mine to check up on.

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