Page 23 of Huckleberry Hill
My phone rang.
I smiled when I saw the name flash across the screen.
“How did you know?” I asked the moment I picked up the phone.
“Twin thing,” Salem said. “I felt the call. So, I called. But also, hot damn. Your wrangler is next-level attractive.”
“He’s not my wrangler,” I grumbled.
“He could be your wrangler. I want to put my finger in his chin dimple.”
“Don’t you fucking dare.”
“Oh, someone’s feeling territorial already. Rawr!”
“I hate you a little bit,” I mumbled.
“Only because I’m calling you on your shit. Have Wyn and Poet seen the video you sent?”
“Doubt it. I haven’t gotten any calls from them.”
“Yet. Give it time. But seriously, talk to me. I have a few minutes before my next meeting. So speak fast.”
“I was just in our bathroom, thinking about high school, and how much I miss you.”
A beat passed. “I miss you too.”
“Should I have stayed in New York?” I asked. “I feel like I ran home with my tail between my legs. But when I’m with you, I’m home, too. Wherever you are.”
“How much sleep have you gotten?”
“Only a few hours. I was about to shower and take a nap.”
“You need it. You can’t think straight when you’re tired. That’s true for everyone. But let me say this. I would’ve loved for you to stay here for a month, but to what end? To sit alone and wallow in the apartment?”
“I wouldn’t have been alone. You would’ve been there. And Poet. And Wyn when she came back from the Hamptons.”
“Yeah, but you still would’ve been revolving around us and our lives. For once you need to be the center of your own world. And let’s be real, there’s no place you’d rather be than the Ridge. You wouldn’t even have been in New York if it wasn’t for me. So really, it’s my fault you met Gianni in the first place and got your heart broken.”
“I’m not going to blame you for my terrible taste in men.”
“Okay, fine, but what really happened between you two?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, one minute you were engaged and ready to go to Italy with him. The next, you two were broken up and he went to Italy without you.”
“At least he didn’t wait to break up with me until we were in Italy,” I lamented.
“Yes, at least the bastard didn’t get a chance to ruin Italy for you. Offer still stands. I can go to his apartment and set his suits on fire.”
I laughed. “I thought you said you’d donate them.”
“Mashed or smashed. Same difference.”
“The saying is potato potahtoh.”
“We’re from Idaho. Mashed or smashed. Never mind, we’re way off topic. Are Muddy and Dad happy as pigs in shit to have you home?”
