I have no idea what kind of magical cowboy genetics created that walking wet dream, but whatever they are, I’m feral for him. I already know I’ll be burying my face in my pillow tonight, biting down hard just to keep from moaning his name.
Jesus Christ, my poor little bullet vibrator better be fully charged because it’s about to put in some serious fucking overtime while I’m under Christian’s roof.
Travis’s bedroom skills are those of a fumbling teen who doesn’t know how to touch a girl. It’s like he learned female anatomy from a badly drawn stick figure and decided enthusiasm might somehow compensate for total incompetence.By the time he’s finished rubbing one side of my pussy, the other side is practically jealous, even though it knows it’s never going to enjoy it.
The sadist.
His touch is so spectacularly misguided, so monumentally inept, that I’m pretty sure my vagina has developed PTSD.
Bless. His. Fucking. Heart.
Bless. My. Neglected. Vagina.
I’ve reached the point where I’m in a long-term, deeply committed love affair with six different sex toys and the filthiest thoughts about another man.
“We need to head out. I already told my dad we’d make it before dark.”
I tear my gaze from my reflection in the mirror to the inky black sky outside. “Have you looked out there? It’s already dark.”
“Of course it is,” he mutters, shoving his phone in his pocket. “I’ve been waiting for you to get ready.”
Oh, fuck right off.
“Well, maybe if you’d given me a time instead of rolling out of bed after midday, fucking off to do whatever the hell you do for hours, and then expecting me to be ready the second you walked back through the door, we wouldn’t be in this situation.”
He groans under his breath, dragging a hand down his face, like the sound of my voice is enough to drain the life out of him.
“Just get in the car, Piper,” he mutters, his patience already thin. “I don’t wanna fight with you while we’re there, okay?”
Whatever.
The sooner we get there, the sooner we’ll leave, and I can stop pretending I’m happy with the fuckwit sitting beside me.
I know how it looks from the outside. Poor Travis, right? Being strung along by the heartless bitch who’s already got one foot out the door. But trust me—this isn’t one-sided.
Travis needs a woman who won’t challenge him. Someone who won’t push or expect more and won’t make him question whether the life he’s coasting through is really enough. He needs someone who’s content with the bare minimum. However, that person isn’t me. Apparently, I have the audacity to want more, and I’m tired of asking him to actually figure out where the hell the clitoris is because it’s not where he thinks it is, and I’m over it.
Maybe I’m being cruel, but there’s nothing crueler than settling.
It’s a thirty-minute drive from my place to the farm, but it feels much longer. Trees blur past the window, their branches swaying inthe dark sky, while Travis’s country playlist fills the silence between us. Morgan Wallen’s voice pours through the speakers, all gravel and honey, and I have to bite back a smile because, as much as Travis makes me want to jump out of a moving truck and roll into a ditch, the man has impeccable taste in music. I’ll give him that much.
We attempt small talk somewhere around mile six, but I give up after Travis responds to my question about his mom with a grunt, and I turn back to the window. The mountains rise in the distance, peaks disappearing into misty clouds, while towering evergreens block most of my view from the highway.
A hand-painted sign, barely visible in the darkness and swaying from silver chains, marks the entrance to the farm.
It’s a Christmas tree farm, which sounds like it should be magical, right? Like something out of a Hallmark movie, full of snow-dusted charm and twinkling lights. The kind of place where a wounded, broody cowboy with a tragic background falls in love in all the wrong places before finally finding his way.
But this place has never felt like that to me. I’ve been here a few times, and while I love it, it’s not because it resembles a picture-perfect holiday postcard. There’s an edge to this place—an edge to Christian—and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t draw me in.
He’s always made me feel welcome here, well, mostly. He changes when Travis is around; he becomes quieter and more withdrawn. It almost feels like being in the same space as his son is something he’s learned to endure rather than embrace.
The only time I ever see him let loose is when he comes down to his brother’s bar, but around Travis, it’s as if all the energy is drained right out of him, like carrying the weight of their broken relationship is a battle he’s long since given up on winning.
Travis claims he and his dad aren’t close because “Christian’s a selfish bastard who screwed over his mom.” But I see it for what it really is.I’ve seen the way Christian’s shoulders go rigid whenever Meredith’s name comes up, and I can see how that whole side of the family has its claws in Travis. From the outside, it seems like he’s spent his entire life being fed a version of events that may or may not be accurate, but what is painfully obvious is that he’s been manipulated.
He’s too eager to believe the worst about Christian, too willing to let his mother think for him, speak for him, and decide how he should feel. And honestly, I’m surprised we’re still together, considering how much his mom dislikes me and how heavily she influences every single one of his choices.
The fact that Meredith and Christian ever came together in the first place still blows my mind. They’re as opposite as two people can be.