Page 24 of Wild Heart
He slurps as he sips, smacking his lips together contentedly. “There’s Heartville, but I’d have to drive you, and I ain't in the mood to go traipsin’ all over town, or you can help me with that old truck over there.”
At the side of the barn rests a rusty old heap of junk. “Help you do what with it exactly?” I check out my nails and internally wave goodbye to the perfect paint work.
“Clean ‘er up and get ‘er going.” He crunches a cookie loudly. When he hums happily, I make a mental note to try my hand at baking some. I wonder if Hayden likes cookies - if that’s truly the way to a man's heart - through his belly.
The truck is dejected and totally beyond repair. “I don’t think that hunk of junk will ever run again.” I titter. He’s delusional if he expects a mechanical miracle. There are fatal dents in the metal, and it rests on stilts of bricks where tires should fit. “It’s scrap.”
His raspy laugh crackles in his chest as he leans forward and sets the mug down. “Just because it’s old, doesn’t mean it’s useless.”
“That's not what I mean. Just look at it. You’d be better off buying a new one. Don't waste your time trying.”
“Money can’t buy you everything, kid. There’s sentimental value in that beat-up truck. It belonged to my brother, Brent.”
“Grandpa?”
“The very one. Dead and buried.” His reply is blunt and factual. “The truck, however, it’s still here. I don’t need a new one when I can fix that one.” He scoffs. “And you’re gonna help me, or you’ll be havin’ a cold bath.”
I know he’s not serious about that, I’d cry. I kind of like the idea of being around him today. It will keep me occupied with something else to think about other than Hayden.
“I’ll help you.” I sip the coffee and lean back in the shade, relaxed and content in the knowledge I have nowhere to go and can stay fresh faced all day.
* * *
It’s Monday morning. An hour after Sawyer dropped me at Wild Hearts Ranch. I’d spent the entire weekend stuck to his side, working under the delightful Texas sun. Together we devoted our time and patience to his brother’s relic. In my opinion, it belongs in a museum - not on the road. Sawyer told me to have a little faith and promised me that all our elbow grease would pay off.
I’m hoping he gives me a cut of the profit if he decides to sell it. I mean, why else would he bother to fix it up? The guy is a conundrum. He says exactly what he thinks, brutal truth or otherwise. I respect that brash quality about him. It makes me think of the two-faced socialites who I call friends. One minute they’re your best mate, the next they’re spreading gossip. To be honest, being with Sawyer is refreshing. It’s made me see my life at home for what it is - shallow and unfulfilled. Like, where’s my drive to succeed, or my will to better myself when all I do is plan my next outfit? Surely there has to be more to Summer Brady than parties and selfies.
Growing up, my father was always busy, even when we went on vacation as a family. It was the norm for him to have a phone pressed to his ear, accepting business call after business call. It was pointless being in the same room as him because he never saw me, and when he did, his finger would lift to his lips, ordering my silence.
In the span of a weekend I figured out how to treat leather upholstery, remove mold from the carpeted cab floor and change disc brakes. It gave me a sense of accomplishment when we drove past it this morning.
The Ranch is peaceful and calm for the start of the week. There’s no city hustle and bustle, honking cars, towering office blocks, suited walkers barging to work on a mission to be the best. The whole concept of that life doesn’t sit well with me. It never has. I just never knew what else there was to offer.
Over the years I’ve observed my father slave away his soul, enduring the daily grind, all so he can retire and spend his days by the pool. I’ve asked him on countless occasions why he doesn’t do that now - we have the money - he has the opportunity. Yet, he always replies with the same message, ‘I want to be at the top of my game.’ In my eyes, earning millions is at the top of his game, but for some reason, he’s driven by a force far greater than my understanding. I get why he wants to be the best; I just don’t understand why it’s solely in business, not as my father.
I gaze out at the vivid green pastures, and wish I could go for a walk, but there’s work to be done - and one man to face. When I tap the door, little jabs of excitement pelt my ribcage, only to fade away when no one grants me access. “Hello?” I step inside, smelling coffee and leather boots. “Hayden?”
No response. On the kitchen table there’s a scrap of paper with my name scrawled in bold at the top.
SUMMER
Hank and I are out all day. I’ve left the mop out for you this time.
Use the shower and find what you need in the fridge.
H
That was it. Find what I need in the fridge? What I need right now is him. Nothing from a chilled appliance will delight me more than his lips.
Intrigued by his vague note, I crack open the fridge door with sullen effort. Holy shit! Right in front of my nose are two canisters of creamy oat milk and a dairy-free butter alternative. My heartbeat thrums with a shocked rhythm. I grab one and pop off the cork-like lid, putting it to my lips to taste. It's rich and silky, surpassing any other brand I’ve tasted. And believe me, I’ve tasted my share. They’re either too salty or too sweet, but this one is epic.
I’m like Goldilocks who’s just found the exact measurement and perfect recipe of porridge. Does that make Hayden a savage bear? That crazy thought makes me titter because I’d let him devour me any day. Why I’m thinking about him in this way is utterly absurd. There is no correlation between oat milk and sex. I take a quick snap with my phone camera, intending to share the new find on my social media account later. I’m grinning like a satisfied kitty when I return the oaty yumminess to the shelf.
He must have thought about me over the weekend, enough to source out the most delicious oat milk. His efforts have given me hope. A little flicker that might kindle into hot steaminess. When I move towards the cleaning cupboard, I notice a lonely brown paper bag hugging what looks like a home-baked loaf. I step closer, drawn to the smell of freshly baked bread. Inside the bag, I find another piece of paper with my name written in manly scribe.
SUMMER
This is the only gluten-free loaf of bread I could find.
