I exhale hard. “I’m not staying, you know.”
“Sure. And I’m celibate,” she snorts not skipping a beat. “Mia, let the town ruin you a little. Let the man ruin you a lot. You’ve earned it.” She says with an almost motherly tone.
“You’re a terrible influence.” I huff.
“I’m the best influence darling. The one who sends wine, not judgment. And let’s be real—you didn’t call me because you’re leaving. You called me because you don’t want to go.”
My chest pinches tight.
She’s not wrong. This dusty little town has its hooks in me from the moment I drove in—maybe it’s the drinking water, maybe it’s the river that sings at night, the sky that looks too wide to be real….or maybe it’s—nope, it’s definitely not Grant Taylor, and it’s definitely not that stupid, heart stopping grin of his, or that dark look of pure lust in his eyes when his tongue moves between my thighs, or his dirty, filthy words that flow out of his delicious mouth so effortlessly, sending me over the edge straight into bliss town.
Nope, definitely; definitelynotGrant Taylor.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I whisper, but the words tremble with a truth I’m no longer sure I can outrun.
Brè lets out a sigh “Well, as in control as you always appear, you never do,” she says gently. “But you always figure it out. And if it includes a cowboy with too much chest and not enough shirt, I support that journey.”
I let out a groan, covering my eyes with my hands. “I kissed him, Brè. And then I told him it was a mistake.”
She sighs, long and disappointed. “Girl, you just committed emotional fraud.”
I not through the ache in my chest although she can’t see me.
“I’m a disaster.”
“You’remydisaster. Now finish your wine, take a long shower, and let your poor coochie recover from the whiplash. Text me in the morning.”
“You’re the absolute best Brè.”
“And you’re the hottest mess I know. Love you.”
“Love you more.”
As I hang up, the room finally starts to settle around me. My pulse slows. My limbs uncoil. The wine warms my blood and my mind inevitably drifts back to Grant and that kiss.
That kiss…
The one that is now seared into my memory.
And it all shifted the second my phone buzzed—like a splash of ice water to the chest.
Annie’s message still glows at the top of my screen:
Annie:“So sorry!! Can't make it tonight! My colleague called in sick and I’m having to cover for her now. Rain check?”
That was it. The match strike.
Relief and disappointment slammed into me at the same time—two wildly opposing forces that left me breathless. Because deep down, I knew exactly what that message was:
An exit strategy. A parachute.
A neatly wrapped excuse to retreat before I drowned in something I wasn’t ready for.
Things with Grant weren’t just flirtation anymore. They were spiraling into something hotter, deeper, more dangerous.
I can still see the hurt in his eyes when I said it was a mistake. That look? That’s going to haunt me for the rest of my life.
I’ve spent years perfecting the art of leaving before I can be left. Before someone gets close enough to hurt me. I’ve built walls so high they’ve become instinct like protection against caring too much, wanting too much. Because wanting opens the door to heartbreak.
