Page 67 of Careless Hope
I’d come back to Whittier Falls for simplicity, legacy, for the weight of responsibility that comes with taking over my father’s practice. Life here was supposed to be about the steady pace of small-town living, the kind where you knew your neighbor’s dog’s name and what time Mrs. Henderson takes her evening stroll. It wasn’t supposed to be about this . . . whatever this was with Walker Anderson, the cowboy who wore denim like second skin and made me question every sensible decision I’d ever made.
But here I was, doing exactly that—questioning.
With a sigh, I pushed myself off the bed, knowing there was only one person who could help untangle this mess of feelings. I grabbed my keys and headed out, the door closing behind me with a soft click that seemed far too final for my liking.
The streets of Whittier Falls were quiet as I drove, the setting sun casting long shadows across the road. I pulled up outside Campfire Bakery just as Sutton was flipping the sign from ‘Open’ to ‘Closed.’ The warm glow from inside the bakery spilled onto the sidewalk, and I could see her wiping down the counters through the large front window.
“Hey, Sutton,” I called out as I walked in, the bell above the door jingling a merry announcement of my arrival.
“Caroline! Just in time for the last cupcake of the day. Do me a favor and lock the door behind you.” She smiled, her gray eyes crinkling at the corners, but she must have caught something in my expression because her smile faltered. “What’s up? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or worse, an ex at the grocery store.”
“Something like that,” I muttered, turning the deadbolt and then perching on a barstool by the counter. I took the cupcake she slid toward me—a chocolate one with a generous swirl of vanilla frosting—and poked at it, not quite ready to indulge.
“Talk to me. What’s going on?” she asked, leaning against the counter with the ease of someone who’s heard it all.
“It’s Walker,” I started, unsure how to explain the whirlpool of emotions he stirred within me. “We had this . . . moment. And now I’m all twisted up inside because of it.”
“Ah, the infamous Walker charm strikes again,” she teased, but her voice softened. “Except it sounds like this is more than just charm for you.”
“Maybe.” The word came out smaller than I intended, a whisper of truth I hadn’t even admitted to myself. “It’s just—Idon’t know if it’s real, you know? We’re not actually . . . together. It’s complicated.”
“Love—or even like—is always complicated, hon. But you deserve to explore those feelings, figure out what they mean to you. And who knows, maybe cowboy Casanova has more layers than we give him credit for.”
“Maybe,” I echoed again, finally taking a bite of the cupcake. The sweetness grounded me, a reminder that some things, like Sutton’s baking, were reliably good. “I mean, he definitely does. That’s one thing I’ve learned for sure. There’s way more to him than people realize.”
“You’re right about that.”
“But I think his stance on relationships is a firm one. He might have more depth than I realized, but that doesn’t mean he’ll all of a sudden change his entire life plan just because I want him to.”
“I mean, maybe not. But you won’t ever know if you don’t ask.
I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of every word before it left my lips. “It’s like . . . when we’re together, I can almost forget it’s all pretend. He makes me feel things I didn’t even know were on the menu for me. But then reality crashes back, and I remember—it’s just an act. A deal. And that hurts, Sut. It hurts being close to him and knowing that’s all it is.”
“Why does it have to be just an act? Why can’t it be more?”
“Because . . . ” My voice wavered, and I forced myself to meet her steady gray eyes. “Walker’s not looking for more, especially not with me. The whole town knows his reputation. Besides, I don’t think I could stand it if he turned me down after I spilled my guts to him. I felt something the other night . . . something real. I’d never felt it before. I think I’m in love with him and there’s no way that can end well.”
“Caroline Cressley,” Sutton said firmly, brushing a crumb from the counter, “you are one of the smartest, kindest people in Whittier Falls. If Walker can’t see what’s right in front of him, then he’s blind. But I don’t think he is. You should tell him how you feel, give both of you a shot at something real.”
“Maybe. But what if he doesn’t want that connection with me?” I asked, my heart thudding painfully in my chest.
“You’ll hurt, but then you’ll heal. You’re stronger than you think,” she said confidently. “But you owe it to yourself to find out.”
I paced the length of my living room, my footsteps silent on the antique rug. Each step felt like a march towards an inevitable battle, one where my heart was the territory at stake. I had mulled over Sutton’s words until they became a mantra in my head, but with each repetition, my resolve only hardened. The decision to end the arrangement—the playful banter and the charged touches that were meant to be nothing more than a farce—suddenly crystallized within me.
The grandfather clock ticked away, its pendulum swinging with a rhythm that seemed to mock my racing heart. Protect it, I told myself, recalling every scene in my romance novels about guarding one’s heart. But this was real life, not some paperback fantasy where the heroine always gets her happily-ever-after.
Maybe I wasn’t meant for that.
A knock at the door jolted me from my thoughts, and for a moment, I considered pretending I wasn’t home. But that would only delay the inevitable.
“Hey, darlin’,” Walker greeted as he stepped into my safe haven, his cowboy hat held casually in one hand. His light blueeyes scanned my face, and I could see the shift in his gaze as he sensed my unease. “Something wrong?”
“Can we sit?” My voice sounded strained even to my own ears as I gestured toward the couch.
“Sure.” He settled onto the cushion, his posture easy, but his eyes never left mine.
I sat opposite him, my hands clasped tightly in my lap. “Walker, I’ve been doing some thinking, and I . . . ” The words lodged in my throat, and I had to force them out. “We need to stop.”
