“Just don't be a dumbass. If she’s under your skin, that means she matters. Do somethin’ about it.”
“Yeah, thanks for the emotional pep talk, Oprah.” I mutter.
“Don’t forget the dinner. And maybe leave the lovesick eyes at home.
Your Dad sees you looking like you just wrote a country song about a woman you barely know, he’s gonna stage an intervention.”
“Go to bed, Mason.”
“I will. Right after I picture you writing ‘Dear Diary, today she almost kissed me back.’” he chuckles down the line.
“Goodnight, asshole.”
“Night, Romeo.”
I hang up and toss my phone on the mattress.
Then I drag myself into the bathroom, turn the shower all the way to Arctic Death, and stand there like it’ll freeze the memory of her out of me.
It doesn’t.
Later, I’m lying in bed, sheets kicked down, pillow over my eyes, but my brain won’t quit. I see her lips, bruised from our kiss. The way she gasped when I touched her, the soft sound she made when I drew the kiss slow down her neck. Her voice, shaking when she said it was a mistake—not because she meant it.
But because she didn’t.
Chapter 12
Grant
By morning, I've had maybe three hours of sleep and look like it as I drag myself to the shower, hoping the hot water will wash away this strange fixation. It doesn't.
I pull on my usual black button-up and worn-in Wranglers, rolling up the sleeves out of habit. Boots come next—scuffed but dependable—followed by my Stetson, which settles on my head like it was always meant to be there. A minute later, I’m in my truck, gravel crunching under the tires as I head down the road toward my parents’ place.
I spend the whole damn day distracted—dropping things, zoning out, messing up simple tasks I could do in my sleep. I damn near incinerate the steaks at lunch, and when I finally flip one over, the blackened underside curls in protest.
Get your shit together Taylor.
Dad watches me with narrowed eyes, arms folded, that quiet brand of suspicion only a father with too much free time and too much wisdom can master.
“You feeling alright there, son?” he asks, handing me a beer. “You look like hell warmed over.”
“Just tired,” I mutter, taking the bottle, twisting the cap off, but not meeting his gaze.
Dad gives me a look—the kind of look that says he’s been around long enough to smell bullshit from three counties over.
“Must be all that yoga,” he says, lips twitching and a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Heard it knocks a man’s balance clean outta his boots.”
I groan, dragging a hand down my face. “Can we not do this today, Dad?”
“Do what?” Dad's eyes widen with mock innocence. “I was just thinking maybe you're becoming all zen and shit. Next thing we know, you’ll be growin’ your hair long, wearin’ a man bun, and talkin’ about your feelings.”
“Eric,” Mama chides, appearing on the patio with a pitcher of sweet tea and giving Dad that look—the one that says “You’re done now” but still somehow manages to be affectionate.
“Leave him alone. If yoga helps his shoulder, that's all that matters.”
“Thank you,” I say, shooting Mama a grateful look.
Dad holds up his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. I’m just sayin’, if he starts wearin’ them little beaded bracelets, I’m staging a full-scale intervention.”
