Page 13 of That Moment
“Now you have lunches for the week,” she says, kissing my cheek as I stand. “Next time, I’ll make pie.”
“Looking forward to it,” I smile, managing a smile.
Ranger claps me on the shoulder on the way out, eyes a little too knowing. “Drive safe, man.”
By the time I head out into the cool night, the stars are spread thick across the ridge. Normally, they settle me. Tonight, they don’t do a damn thing.
Back at the ranch, the quiet presses heavier than usual. The mares shift in their stalls when I step into the barn, ears flicking toward me, their soft whinnies greeting me like always.
Rosa noses at the stall door, impatient for attention, and I can’t help the small smile that tugs at my mouth. “Alright, girl. I hear you. Don’t get pushy.”
She huffs like she understands, stamping once as I slip inside with the brush. Her coat’s warm under my hand, muscles shifting easily beneath the bristles as I work down her flank. Slow, steady strokes, the kind my dad drilled into me when I was a kid. Horses know when you’re rushing, when your mind’s somewhere else.
“You’ve got more sense than most people I know,” I murmur to her, my voice low, the rasp of the brush filling the silence between us. “Don’t look at me like that—you do. Never judged me once, have you?”
Rosa flicks an ear back, leaning into the brush as I work behind her shoulder. I chuckle softly, rubbing at a spot that makes her sigh. “That’s it. You just want the good scratches. Greedy girl.”
Routine. Routine is enough. That’s what I tell myself.
But it’s not anymore. I can’t stop picturing her… Adrienne leaned out of her car window, laughing like she knew exactly how to rattle me. That spark in her eyes when she teased.
I curse under my breath, focus harder on the brush, on the leather tack that needs oiling, on the stall latch I’ve already checked twice. “See, Rosa? That’s the problem with people, they’re complicated. Horses—” I run the brush in one last long stroke down her side— “you’re simple. You just tell a man what you need. No games.”
She blows out a breath, nuzzling at my shoulder like she agrees. This life, the ranch, the shop, the quiet… it used to be enough.
But a few hours later, when I finally crawl into bed, the silence doesn’t soothe. It taunts. Every shadow feels like her laugh, every hollow in the dark echoes with that damn spark in her eyes. And no matter how many times I tell myself it isn’t my business, that she’s not mine and never will be, the truth is, I want her to be, but I’m not confident I’d ever be enough for her.
That’s why I stay on the fringes of her life, dancing in and out when she needs a flirty distraction or a shoulder to cry on. I’m the guy she fucks off with until Mr. Right comes along…I’m more like Mr. Right Now, and I’ve come to accept that I’m okay with that.
I think.
Chapter 3
Adrienne
Sunday mornings aren’t supposed to feel like this.
Normally, Sunday means coffee at my parents’ kitchen table, maybe catching up on paperwork before the week kicks off. Today, though? My stomach’s been in knots since dawn, buzzing like I’m about to walk into a final exam I didn’t study for. Which is ridiculous. It’s just a car. Just Scotty. Just the same game we’ve been playing half our lives.
Still, I stand in front of my closet way too long, frowning at hangers full of silk blouses, pencil skirts, sharp jackets. Who works under the hood in Valentino?
I finally shove them aside and grab leggings, boots I can actually scuff, and a plain white tee. I tug Milly’s denim jacket off its hook, the one I stole back in high school and somehow never gave back.
My notebook goes into my bag almost as an afterthought. I’m not stupid; I know Scotty’s expecting me to get bored after ten minutes and let him handle everything. He doesn’t know I plan on taking notes, diagrams, maybe even a parts list. If I’m doing this, I’m doing it right.
The drive across town is short, but my pulse hammers the whole way. By the time the weathered sign for the garage comes into view, I’ve rehearsed half a dozen breezy lines and talked myself out of three different excuses to turn around. But then I see it.
The bay doors are rolled open to the late-morning sun. Inside, my Mustang sits in her own stall like she’s been waiting for me. Hood up, chrome dulled with age, paint faded, but lines still sleek enough to make my chest ache.
Gravel crunches under my boots as I swing the BMW door shut. I smooth my jacket like that’ll calm the nerves rattling in my chest.
“Afternoon, Barbie.”
I spin toward the voice.
Scotty’s leaning against a workbench like he’s got all the time in the world. Arms crossed, his faded navy shirt stretched across impossibly rounded shoulders I shouldn’t notice.
I lift the extra coffee I brought, forcing casual. “I figured it’s the least I can do.”
