Page 74 of Chaos

“That is—”

“Kidding.” I crack a small smile, ending Lux’s spiral before it can really begin. “But if he comes back, I’m finding somewhere else.”

“Deal.” As tangible as an arm sling around my shoulders, hesitation stains the air. Eventually, it’s beaten out by curiosity. “How’d he look?”

I think about it, about how honest I want to be. “Hungover.”

Lux grunts.

“He, uh, asked where she is.”

“And?”

Gut-punched by the single word, I shrug off her arm. “I told him. Gave him her phone number too, naturally.” Shaking my head, I huff a sardonic laugh. “Seriously, Lux? You think I’d tell him shit?”

She swears beneath her breath, twining her fingers around mine and yanking me back to her side. “No, I don’t. Sorry. Him asking about her just stresses me out.”

Yeah, I can tell. I think I just watched a strand of her hair turn gray. “Is she… is she okay?”

Just like that, poof goes her anger—soft, glowing,proudrelief replaces it. “She and Hunter got married.”

Woah. Didn’t expect that.

Instead of asking if our old ranch hand went straight from his divorce lawyer’s office to the courthouse—Lux sees the thought go through my head though, I know she does—I ask, “Is she coming to the wedding?”

“She’s invited.” Lux side-eyes me cautiously,knowingly. “Is that a problem?”

“She’s notmyex-girlfriend. Why would I care?”

A snort is the only answer I get.

Too irritated to decipher whatever the fuck it means, I dodge my sister when she makes another grab for me, jerking a thumb towards the barn. “I’m gonna check on Ruin before dinner.”

A hard expression tells me exactly how she feels about it, but she doesn’t stop me. She does, however, warn, “So help me God, kid, if you get on that horse—”

“I won’t,” I promise over my shoulder as I speed-walk away, halfway to the barn before she can even think about changing her mind.

Except when a handful of figures emerge from the red structure, I start changing mine. My steps slow, my mouth twists in a grimace, I’m not in any kind of form to be polite and amiable, but it’s too late to do anything about it. The other ranch hands spot me easily. And as most of them wave in acknowledgment, one shoots an appraising whistle across the yard.

“Damn,” Yasmin yells despite the measly few feet of distance between us. “Who’re you all dressed up for?”

I slick on a poor excuse for a smile and hope it passes as mysterious. “No one who deserves it.”

Tittering playfully, she links our arms at the elbows before starting back the way she came, knowing exactly where I’m going and apparently keen to join me. “Your hair looks cute.”

Absentmindedly playing with one of two bubble braids, I cast a backwards glance at the man who did them. Who bumbled into my bedroom at the crack of dawn while I was still knuckling the sleep from my eyes. Who briefly, almost compulsively ogled yet another matching pajama set before clearing his throat, handing over a coffee made exactly the way I like it, and doing exactly what he did the day before.

I still smell like homemade ointment. My scalp still tingles with the ghost of gently combing fingers. I can’t stop thinking, wondering, if that moment is what intimacy actually is. If that was my first real brush with it.

IfFinnis.

Standing by his truck, he laughs about something with the guys as he leans against the hood, arms crossed casually like he’s… waiting. For me. Waiting for me so we can go inside together, sit together, have dinner together with my family who he considers his family, in some way.

Oh, how weirdfriendlyfeels.

I look away before Yasmin notices—or before she can comment on noticing, I should say. Because of course, she notices, she’s as observant as she is aggressively friendly, but for once, she’s silent. She keeps her thoughts to herself—though her smirk certainly says plenty—as we enter the barn, heading through it and out the back to the attached paddock where Ruin spends most of his time.

I should probably hesitate before lifting the latch on the gate and shoving it open, but I don’t. I should probably be a little afraid, or wary at least, as I leave Yasmin behind the fence and cross the field, but I’m not. I should probably consider the possibility that the stallion will be pissed, that he’ll charge like a damn bull, but I don’t. I know he won’t.

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