Page 20 of That Moment
“Will do. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, and Adrienne, I mean it… If Scotty can’t give you what you deserve, then don’t sell yourself short and settle for less with him.”
The call ends, and the house is quiet again. I set the phone down, curl back into the couch with my glass of wine, Brooklyn’s remarks hanging in the air, heavier than the silence.
Fine. Next Sunday, I stop playing coy. I’ll name what I want, and if that’s not what he wants, that’s my answer.
Chapter 4
Scotty
I’m elbow-deep in a John Deere tractor that’s been bleeding hydraulic fluid like a stuck hog. PTO shield’s busted, couplings’ seized so tight my knuckles are already raw from fighting it. It takes me right back to Sunday, Adrienne looking at me while I wrestled with the carb. It took everything I had not to give in to her teasing, but I know better at this point.
It feels like treading water when you’re caught up in Adrienne Slade. Like your next move might be your last if you’re not careful. But I told myself I wouldn’t let it happen this time… because if it does, I’m not sure there’s much willpower left in me to resist her.
I wrench down, my shoulders burning so bad I know I’ll pay for it tomorrow. But I keep going. Anything to keep from looking across the bay.
The Mustang sits there under the lights, clean bay, fresh parts list pinned to the wall, waiting. I debated coming in early to work on it, but she wouldn't know. Maybe it would cut down on the amount of time I’ll have to spend next to her, smelling her lingering perfume while I try to stay focused. But I know she’d be hurt if she knew, and I can't do that. So I gave myself a rule.I don’t touch that car without Adrienne here. Not one bolt. Not one goddamn rag.
She’s single again.
I’d convinced myself she was still tied up with that Rockies asshole, and maybe that excuse was the only thing keeping me sane.
I know the game… we both do. We’ve played it for years. She breaks up, she circles back, and suddenly I’m her favorite distraction. She wants to feel better about herself, prove she’s not broken, and I’m the convenient bastard who lets her. And yeah—I’ve enjoyed it before. Fuck, I’ve loved it. Every joke, every almost-kiss, every second her eyes soften like maybe this time we’ll take it just a step further.
It’s torture, pure fucking torture, but I never stopped. I’ve held up the deal I made with myself about her a long time ago. Never be the one to make the first move. And it's not because I’m a pussy, it’s because I know damn well she’d let me take her, and I’d be facing breaking her heart along with staring down the double barrel of a shotgun held by either Axel, Aiden, or both.
But here’s the thing I don’t say out loud: every time we do this, I fall harder. And every time she walks away, it takes a little piece of my heart with it.
I keep thinking about that summer night on her parents’ porch, after the one kiss during spin the bottle that ruined me. She tasted like Cherry-Coke, laughter spilling between us.
The porch bulb buzzes above us, moths dancing around it, trying to get even closer. She’s barefoot now, her shoes abandoned in the grass behind the barn. We’re both laughing, out of breath from running.
She trips on the last step, and I catch her waist. The laughter fades into quiet, the kind that makes you wonder if something bigger is about to happen. She looks up at me through herlashes, eyes bright, and for a second, I almost close the space again.
But then she laughs, really laughs, and I stop.
That memory’s been stuck under my skin ever since.
I slam the breaker bar down, feel the bolt finally shriek loose. Sweat stings my eyes, but it’s better than letting myself imagine the curve of her full lips as she teased me, her body leaning in like she wanted me to close the gap. I still feel the ghost of her hand under mine on that wrench. The soft catch of her breath.
Jesus. I can’t stop replaying it. Can’t stop thinking about the way her hair slipped forward, how much I wanted to bury my face in it, taste her, make her moan until she forgot her own goddamn name.
I shake it off, jam the new seal in place, and force my focus back where it belongs.
She’s a whole lotta trouble. Always has been. Barbie in stilettos is what I started calling her the first time she came back from college wearing those big, tall heels she loves. I remember teasing her relentlessly about them, mostly because I couldn’t stop fantasizing about them over my shoulders.
One time in particular springs to mind. We were grabbing a beer at our favorite bar when she came walking in. The loud click-clack of her heels on the worn wood floor turned heads, just like they still do. I had made some comment about them when she smiled, walked over slowly to me, leaned in to place her hand against my chest, and said in the most seductive manner:
“Laugh all you want, Scotty boy, but we all know the only reason you care is because I wear heels bigger than your dick.”
But the reality was, she had gone away and reinvented herself, or maybe she found herself; either way, she no longer wanted to be seen as just that girl next door I grew up with, andI can’t blame her for that. Because I never had the balls to do it myself.
Instead, I've just let the same stupid reputation follow me around like a dark cloud and play into it every chance I get, like I’m still a twenty-two-year-old stallion only driven by one thing.
Maybe she likes that about me, I’m not a threat. She knows she doesn’t have to worry about me catching feelings and trying to fuck up her perfect little world. God knows, even if I ever could convince her brothers I’ve changed, I know damn well Hudson Slade isn't the type of man that wants his Ivy League daughter marrying the guy next door with barely a high school education.
So yeah, I’ll teach her. I’ll keep my word, keep my hands steady, keep the fucking line.
