Page 31 of Where We Burn


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“Depends.” That single word carries enough heat to melt snow.

It feels like a hundred seconds pass before he shuts the door and moves around the front of the truck, sliding in beside me on the bench seat.

“How’d it go today?” I ask, desperate for normal conversation.

“It took longer than expected, but I had a lot of happy customers.” His hands flex on the steering wheel as he guides us down the mountain. “I take it you haven’t heard from Travis?”

I shake my head before speaking. “He’s probably at his mom’s. It’s his go-to whenever we fight, so I imagine it’s the same with you.”

“Sounds about right.” The truck rolls over a patch of uneven road, and his arm lifts to grip the wheel tighter, his biceps flexing under that black shirt.

God, with arms like that, my brain’s already on some dirty-ass fantasy of him pinning me over a stack of hay bales, grinding against me so hard I forget the horses are watching.

I’ve never wanted to be fucked stupid by someone this bad in my life, and I’m about two seconds from needing to rub myself against my seat just to stop the tears of frustration burning my eyes.

He’s all I can smell in here—leather, pine,him—and I’m sitting here making small talk like I’m not ready to fuck a fragrance.

“Can I ask you a question?” I turn slightly in my seat, angling my body toward him, but his gaze stays fixed on the road.

“Sure,” he says.

“Do you think there’s any way you two can fix what’s broken between you?”

“That’s the problem, darlin’. Nothing broke… It was just never fixed to begin with.” I listen closely, trying to detect any sadness in his voice, but all I hear is acceptance. “Sometimes people don’t turn out to be who we hope they will, no matter if they’re our flesh and blood.”

“He’s his mother’s son.”

“That he is.”

By the time we pull up to Callan’s bar, I can already hear laughter and music drifting out into the night air. Christian cuts the engine but doesn’t move right away. He just sits there for a moment, his hands tight on the steering wheel, like he needs a second to gather himself.

“Ready?” He glances over at me, and I nod.

We head inside together, and when we spot Callan behind the bar, Christian lights up. It’s like a switch flips inside him, something I wish I saw more often. That weight he always carries, the one pressing heavily on his shoulders, eases just a little.

I let myself watch them for a moment while I get ready for my shift, noting the way they fall into conversation like it’s effortless. They remind me of my sister and me—that unshakable, ride-or-die bond that nothing and no one could ever break. God, what she did for me. Stepping up when Lorraine decided motherhood was optional, making sure I had lunch money, clean clothes, and someone to cry to when the world felt too big. She played mom until she finally found her escape route—a boyfriend and a one-way ticket to Rosewood Falls. She and Dillon might not have lasted, but this town grabbed hold of her and wouldn’t let go. I can’t blame her. Some places just feel like they’ve been waiting for you.

Christian and Callan make their way to the bar, Callan slipping behind it with me while Christian rests those strong, work-worn hands on the polished wood top.

“Are you staying for a drink?”

“I’m staying for the night.” When I shoot him a confused look, the corner of his mouth lifts in a way that makes my knees weak. “Someone’s gotta get you home.”

Before I can respond, Callan—who has no idea he’s about to be murdered—chimes in. “I’m happy to drop her back.”

I don’t see Callan’s face, but I do see Christian’s, and fuck me, it’s a look that screamsI think the fuck notlouder than words ever could.

“I’m here now,” Christian mutters under his breath. “May as well stay.”

“Well, okay, cowboy.” I slip into my bartender persona, the one that lets me flirt with him without consequences. “What can I get you? The usual?” A slow smile tugs at those full lips, and my knees damn near buckle at the sight of it.

My mouth goes dry, and my thoughts go filthy. Because I know—I just fucking know—that he’d kiss like a goddamn savage. The kind of kiss that leaves your lips bruised and your thighs clenching, that ruins you for anyone after and makes you crave more, even as you’re still gasping from the last one.

One day, I’m kissing the hell out of this man. It’s happening, even if it means running away and changing my name. Because sometimes, it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission.

Not always, sure. But in this case? Hell yes.

I know I walked ass-first into this disaster when I agreed to stay at the farm. But Jesus Christ, can you blame me? When Christian Crawford looks at you like he wants to drink you down and lick the glass clean, rational thinking doesn’t just leave the building—it takes a rocket to the fucking moon.