Page 88 of The Sun Will Rise
“It says you’re strong. It says you know your worth, and that you won’t jeopardise your integrity for some old white asshole who wants you to fuck the little guy to make the rich richer.”
A small hiss escapes me, a laugh not quite fully formed.
“I feel like a failure.”
“You’re not a failure, Ruth.”
“But I am. I failed at this. This job. This career.”
“Resigning from one job doesn’t mean you’ve failed at it. Sometimes, it’s just time to move on, honey. And knowing when that time comes? That’s not failing. It’s thriving.”
“But all I’ve ever wanted and worked for is to be a lawyer.”
“And you still are, Ruth. You still can be. You can get another job. You can work for yourself. Honey, just because you’ve left this job, itdoesn’t mean you’re not a lawyer anymore. You’re still Ruth. You’re still the smart, sexy, beautiful badass I fell in love with. You’re just no longer working for an asshole.”
“Maybe I’ll work for myself.”
“Sounds like a plan to me, baby girl.”
“Maybe I could—maybe I could help people like Reston. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll set up my own firm.”
“See, thriving, baby girl. Thriving.” He kisses my temple and then my lips, softly probing at the seam of my mouth with his tongue. I open for him with a quiet whimper, a sound he swallows greedily as he threads his fingers into my hair.
His large hands cradle the back of my head as we kiss, content to go no further—just me, and Everett, and our mouths. The firm muscle of his chest is warm beneath mine as his arms hold me tighter.
Chapter forty-eight
Everett
Istayed in Londonfor a week. Ruth seemed stronger, brighter, every day. Her friends came over for dinner one night, and I got to meet her parents, too. That was… interesting. They don’t entirely hate me, though, so I’ll take what I can get.
Leaving sucked, but we booked tickets for Ruth to come back to Austin, and for me to come back to London. Now, it’s just a matter of counting down the days.
My cabin doesn’t feel like home anymore. Not without Ruth’s laughter bouncing off the walls. Without her boots at the end of my bed and her jacket slung over the back of the sofa. But her vanilla perfume lingers, and I slam the door when I walk in, desperate to trap the scent in. To be surrounded by it, even when I can’t be surrounded by her.
I kick off my own boots by the door and drop my duffel bag. Unpacking it can wait. I don’t really have the mental energy for laundry right now. And I want to keep my flannel shirts smelling of vanilla for as long as I can.
By the following morning, I can’t put off laundry any more. I dig through the duffel and toss in the underwear, pyjamas, and tees. I sniff the two flannel shirts and decide they pass the smell test. They can wait a while longer. My favourite jeans complete the load, and I set it to wash before taking a shower and dressing in my least favourite boxerbriefs—the ones with the hole right by the waistband—and a tank top that’s just a little too short. Why I haven’t tossed either item, I don’t know, but I don’t have a whole lot else to choose from for a day on the ranch, so I guess I’d better suck it up.
It’s hotter than hell itself outside, and it’s still barely seven. I check on the animals and move some cattle around before the sun reaches its peak. With fence lines checked, and after a quick repair to one of the barn doors, I’m halfway out to the Skillett Creek site, alone in a two-seater ATV, when something compels me to stop. I jump out of the vehicle and shove the keys in my too-tight pocket. I’m close to the ridge, where Ruth and I shared our second kiss. Where we engaged in some heavy petting. Where my heart told me in no uncertain terms that I was to hang onto this woman.
The memory steals my breath.
I fucking miss her.
I miss the sweet coffee on her breath when she leans in close. The warmth of her skin when she presses her cheek to mine. The way she fits perfectly against my body when I hold her, like a puzzle piece slotted into place.
Likemine. Ruth Bevan is my puzzle piece.
I cried when Grandaddy Smith passed. I cried at his funeral, and once or twice—maybe three times—in the days that came after. I held it together last week, needing to be strong for Ruth. For both of us. But out here on the ridge, a couple hundred yards from the same damn side-by-side that had me falling unstoppably, a roar tears itself from my chest.
“Fuck!”
A few minutes pass by, unseen through the blur of tears. I sit on the ground and pound my fist into the dirt, forcing air in and out of my lung through shaky breaths. When my vision finally clears, I scrubat my eyes with the back of my other hand and climb back into the driver’s seat.
When I get to Skillett Creek, I realise a lot has changed in the week I’ve been away. The cabins are no longer just wooden frames but actual buildings, with windows being installed as I park up. Brooks and Solly are building one of a handful of bridges that will cross the creek that forms the boundary between the Tanner and Fisher properties. Jody is walking with a woman, head bowed to hear her talk. She barely reaches his shoulder. He spots me when he glances up.
“Tanner! Nice of you to show up,” he teases. I know his words are in jest, but I’m not really in the mood for jokes right now. I grunt in greeting and he gets the message. “This is Thea. My cousin.”
