Page 11 of Someone to Hold
“What about how he treated you the weekend of yourwedding?” Taylor leans across the table. “The opinion he seemed so willing to share.”
“Let him have it. I know who I am. You all know who I am. What the heck does Chase Calhoun’s opinion matter?”
Sloane sets down her glass of iced tea with a deliberate clink and fixes me with that steely I’m-kicking-cancer’s-ass stare. “Look who finally found her backbone. About damn time, Molly.”
Maybe she’s right. I can stand up for myself, make my own choices, and stop caring what other people think. Maybe I’m finally ready to become the person I want to be, and no one—not my mother-in-law or a hot, broody cowboy—is going to stop me.
4
MOLLY
I’min the greenhouse an hour later when I hear Chase’s truck rumble down the gravel driveway. All the courage I gathered during lunch with my friends vanishes like a plume of smoke. I glance over at the photo of Luke and Laurel I have pinned to the corkboard next to the greenhouse’s door.
Remember your why,Kristen Quinn advised in her book. Those kids are it for me. I want to be the mom they deserve as much as I want to be someone I can be proud of.
I smooth a hand over my hair, then realize I’ve probably left dirt crumbs in it. I don’t wear gloves nearly as often as I should because I like the warm feel of the earth on my bare skin.
Avah told me about a podcast she listened to that recommended standing bare feet in grass to ground yourself. It’s a shame that people have to be reminded of that. Maybe it’s because I grew up on my grandparents’ farm, but dirt has always done it for me.
An especially helpful thing these days because it’s not as if I’m running my hands through anything else. Like Chase’s thick locks, or over the muscles his denim shirt clung to this morning.
I press the tips of my short fingernails into the center of my palm,hoping the bite of pain will ground me in a different way. It might not be the smartest idea in the world to hire a nanny who makes my ovaries stand up and do a little dance.
He thinks I’m weak. And possibly a gold digger, which is ironic since Teddy never had money. But I need to remember the devastation his callous words caused to younger me as I watch him stride across the yard.
I hate him for both his judgment and the fact that I overheard it. Even worse, my husband-to-be agreed with Chase’s asshole opinion so I went into my marriage knowing Teddy thought the worst of me.
And rather than leaning into that understanding and fighting to prove I was something different, I let it define me.
I’m not doing that anymore.
Chase opens the greenhouse door, and even with everything between us, my traitorous body notices the way his broad shoulders fill the doorframe. How his work shirt stretches across the hard planes of his chest. His stormy gray eyes find mine, and I mentally curse the flutter in my stomach.
“Okay if I come in?” His voice is gruff and scrapes across my skin like sandpaper, which is an oddly appealing sensation. “Or are you busy?”
“Busy,” I tell him, forcing my tone to stay chilly. “But just with transplanting seeds. I can talk and work.”
“Should you be standing and working?” He gestures toward my injured leg.
I study him as he studies my ankle. Years of bull riding have honed his frame to perfection—lean hips, powerful thighs, and maddeningly distracting forearms that are strong and tanned in a way that makes a woman curious about the rest of him. His hair is longer than it used to be, but it only emphasizes the sharp angles of his face and a chiseled jaw that could cut glass. It’s annoying how devastatingly handsome he is, especially when I’m trying to stay unaffected by his presence. My pulse quickensdespite my best efforts, and I hate that he still affects me this way.
Something about him in this space—my sanctuary—puts me on edge. Oddly, not in a bad way. More like my senses are heightened. I can hear the birds outside and feel the tiny breeze that blows in from the windows that are slightly cracked.
“Things aren’t going to get done unless I do them.” I dust my hands off and grab the handle of the scooter I keep in the greenhouse. “Besides, it’s a sprained ankle, not life-threatening.”
Chase’s eyebrows draw together. “How did you hurt yourself anyway? Linda didn’t give specifics.”
“I twisted it while sledding with the twins during that big snowstorm a couple of weeks ago.”
“Based on your coordination this morning,” he says with an amused smirk. “That tracks.”
I flip him the bird, and he chuckles. “Did you do all this?” he asks, inclining his head toward the rows of seed pods. “By yourself?”
“Luke and Laurel help sometimes. But it’s mostly me.”
“Linda said you garden. She made it sound like…” He runs a hand through that sandy blond hair.
“A hobby?”
