I take the last swig of beer from my bottle and slam it heavily on the table. "I think I'm going to hit the road. I still have a lot of shit to get done."
His eyes widen with a hint of surprise. "Really? They're going to be here any second. Laney texted that they had to park a few blocks away. They're coming."
I fight the urge to tell him to lose her number, only to quickly remember that he could only have it because she gave it to him.She fucking gave it to him, I internally seethe. There's no way she doesn't see the resemblance between us, and if that weren't enough, we share the same last name. Which brings me back to his game and her reason for being here. In the thirty minutes we sat here, Trigg filled me in on a few details she shared with him. I know she didn't go to Stanley like we had planned. Instead, she transferred to Louisville, where she met Asha. I know I'm missing details, but I don't buy that her being here now is all happenstance. Laney and I finding each other once was a mistake. It ended terribly, but finding each other twice…that's deliberate.
"Fine. One more beer," I say, getting up from the table. "You want another?"
"Nah, I'll wait for Laney. She might want a drink."
I give him a clipped smile. "Suit yourself," I say before adjusting my hat, tipping the front of my brim down, and cutting through the crowd toward the truck we passed on our way in.
Most of the vendors here are bourbon trucks—something I've been trying to convince Baylor to look into. He's been blending small-batch bourbon for years but has refused to extend beyond the old farm silo he converted into Hale’s Cask. Trigg and I have slowly begun to bring him around to some of our ideas for the future of Hale Ranch, but the man embodies pure, unyielding stubbornness.
But I've found my patience, knowing his obstinance stems from devastating betrayal, which happens to be one of the veryreasons I remained ignorant of my uncle's existence until Sheriff Townsend deposited me on his doorstep at eighteen. Baylor's trust isn't merely earned; it's hollowed out through years of proven loyalty. The entire first year I spent at Hale Ranch, his suspicious gaze tracked my every move, scrutinizing each step I took.
Even though Baylor verified my story through one solitary call to my father—the only contact in eighteen years—doubt shadowed his thoughts. Part of him remained convinced my sudden arrival was part of some scheme he hadn't yet pieced together. Then we had our breakthrough: knee-deep in manure and sweat, we discovered our bond forged in mutual contempt for one person—my mother.
"Asha," a visceral voice cuts through my thoughts, and my eyes innately fall on Laney.
She was beautiful yesterday. Time has been more than kind to her. It's been a conspirator. I shouldn't notice the magnetic pull when she's near. I shouldn't feel my breath catch at the sound of her voice. I shouldn't be tempted by something so forbidden, yet here I am, pained by a hunger I have no right to feel. Long gone is the girl rocking band t-shirts and jean shorts, uncaring what her outfit looked like as long as it was comfortable. She looks like she should be onstage tonight, wearing a tasseled, sleeveless, pink suede mini dress and white Tecovas. It's not until she lifts her arm and points in the direction Trigg is sitting that I snap out of my trance.
"Shit." I run my fingers through my short beard. I can't look at her that way—not anymore. I watch Asha lift onto her tippy toes to get eyes on Trigg, and Laney whispers something in her ear before heading back down the row. Now's my chance to get her alone. I spot the portable restrooms ahead and pick up my pace to get in position to make my move.
The second she comes out, I snatch her arm and pull her into the shadows around back between the trees.
"Lond—" she starts, but I throw my hand over her mouth.
"That's not my name here."
The fear in her eyes ebbs like it did freshman year when I caught her off guard after she had TPed my house, and for a second, I'm London again, and she's the girl next door that ran away with my heart when she proposed at age ten.
"What are you doing?" she hisses.
My body tenses instinctively, disliking the tone of her voice directed at me, but it's for the best. Our cruel proximity is unbearable enough—her warmth radiating through the thin fabric between us, her familiar scent flooding my senses, dragging me back through a thousand memories I've tried to bury. If she were all doe-eyed, if I saw a bit of longing in her eyes, this nearness would destroy me.
Her coldness reminds me of why I pulled her aside. It reminds me of my mission: to make her leave town. "Is she mine?"
My words hang between us heavier than Texas heat in the dead of summer.
"Who?" Her expression shifts to confusion.
"Katie." I refrain from tacking on, 'Who the hell else?'
Her eyes widen. "Why would you think that? We used protection, and I don't have any children."
I step back, putting the needed distance between us before ignoring her question. Answering that question hits too close to memories I don't mess with. "Good. Then you need to leave."
"Why?" she asks, genuinely baffled.
"Because I'm here," I state matter-of-factly, taking one last look before taking another step away and turning on my heel. I can't stay any longer. I have the one answer I came for.
"London," she calls out to me, the name burning as equally as the voice saying it.
"What if I had said, 'Yes, Katie is yours'?"
I shrug one shoulder. "You didn't. Goodbye, Laney Hart."
She can’t stay, and now I don’t have a reason to keep her.
