“Yes, well.” He clears his throat, clearly flustered by the memory of Judge Barnes ruling in my favor, seeing as the ranch wasn’t in my ownership until after my divorce was finalized, a decision on my parents’ part that I don’t think was coincidental. “I’m calling on behalf of Miss Meringue, as she has heard of your recent marriage to Lola Lima and wants to discuss the matter of a non-compete clause.”
I groan loudly, unafraid to let him know how annoying this song and dance with Lemmon is becoming. Why he continues to work with her, I’ll never understand. Most of the town wouldn’t work with him if he were the only lawyer left on this Earth after he agreed to represent Lemmon over me. “Chad, I’ve got to tell you the truth; I’m a little miffed you’re wasting both of our time like this. There is no such thing as a non-compete clause when it comes tomarriages, and even if there were, I’m certain I’d have had tosignthis agreement for it to be held up in court. So,” I huff out, “if you’ll just tell Miss Meringue our business is over, and not to contact me in any form or fashion, we can both be on our way.”
Chad’s coughing fit cuts through the line, and I hold the phone away from my ear, not wanting to lose my hearing because he can’t handle the stress of his job. When he’s finished, he mutters, “I’ll do that then, I suppose.” I tell him to have a good night before hanging up and blocking his number.
I jog up the porch steps, excited to see Lola after a day without her.
It’s been almost a month since she and I got married, and she was able to get in with the rheumatologist, thanks to a favor his nephew owed me.
She’s moving around a lot more, despite the fatigue she’s experiencing as she adjusts to the medication, helping around the ranch. She might not realize it, but the way she’s been caring for the cattle has lessened a massive strain. She’s evenhelped Betsy and a few of the other shop owners in town when they needed an extra pair of hands, and I know they’ve been grateful to have her.
Any moment she puts into the ranch or helping the people in this town is time I can better use to tend to her needs, getting home earlier to help around the house and spend time with her. It leaves me feeling more rejuvenated than any nap could.
Watching her dance around the kitchen when she cooks has become one of my absolute favorite parts of my day. The only thing better is those rare occasions when she plays a song slow enough for me to keep up with her and join along.
But she hasn’t found any work prospects, and I can tell she’s mentally struggling with that. We have plans to start fixing up the barn soon, but we’ve been waiting for her energy to improve. Though I haven’t mentioned it to her, I’ve been paying a few of the ranch hands extra to help me clear out the barn so it’s ready to start renovating whenever she is.
I know these plans help keep her spirits up, but not having work in the interim has become a sore spot for her.
Dance has not only become her career but her source of therapy. It’s her creative release, and without that, I see her spark dim the slightest bit each day.
I have a little surprise for Lola to go with something I’ve planned for her that I hope she’ll be excited about, and I think it'll improve her mood.
I carefully navigate the creaky steps, doing my best to remain as quiet as possible, before heading inside with the giant bouquet of red roses.
I set up my phone to play “Turn off the Lights” and pluck a single rose out of the bouquet before heading inside.
Lola smiles over her shoulder at me from the couch, and when she settles those beautiful brown eyes on me, I set the bouquet down, spinning so my back is to her,and turn the music on.
She’s giggling from the very moment I turn around, taking off toward her with the rose between my teeth. My strides are long, and my movements are sloppy, but she doesn’t seem to mind. I gather her hands in mine, leading us around the living room as La India’s low rasp wraps around us. Lola plucks the rose from my mouth and tosses it to the couch, resting her hands on my chest and upper arm.
“Ryder Lockhart, what’s all this for?” She continues laughing as I twirl her poorly, practically letting her loose to fly into the coffee table. She saves herself, gripping my bicep tightly and swinging her body back into mine, giggling, her eyes glimmering up at me.
My entire heart is in my throat.And my whole world is in my arms.
I dip her, and her hair grazes the floor. She clutches my shoulders, holding on tight, and we swap our pace to an easy sway that allows me to drink in the sight of her, fueling my very being with our proximity. “I know you miss it, darlin’. So I called around a few places, and while I wasn’t able to find anyone who’s hiring yet, I did find a spot just outside of town that offers classes, and I signed us both up.”
Her mouth is agape as she stares up at me. “You’d do that,” she says, her words sounding choked, “for me?”
I nearly roll my eyes at the absurdity of that question. “Of course I would, darlin’.”
And I have so much more planned,all to make you happy.
Chapter Twenty-Five
NUTTIER THAN A SQUIRREL TURD
THURSDAY, MAY 29
I’ve madeit a point to call at least five dance studios of any genre within fifty miles of the ranch each morning to kick off my day. They’ve all led to absolutely nothing, but I’m putting my best foot forward and committing to sticking around while accomplishing my dreams. None of that dulls the ache in my chest at the realization that I’ve been here for a month and have absolutelyzeroprospects and haven’t felt well enough to start the renovations on the barn.
Sure, I’ve been helping on the ranch as much as possible, mostly feeding the cattle because their big brown eyes make me smile, and I’m not at any real risk of injury, but I fully intend to carry my weight around here once I’m physically able. I refuse to sit around and wait for life to hand me something when I could grab it by the balls and do something meaningful.
Other than the quiet nights in with Ryder and family dinners at the main house, the best part of each day has been spending my afternoons with Mayte and Isabela.
Mayte laughs beside me as we stroll through the quiettown. The storefronts are all small businesses owned by locals I’ve known my whole life, large window displays with an awning covering the walkway shielding us from the blinding spring sun.
Caitlyn, the owner of Bake My Day Bakery, pops the door of her shop open, sticking her head out and waving at us. “Hi, ladies! Care for a chocolate chip cookie? They’re fresh!” she says in that sing-song voice of hers, her curly strawberry-blonde strands piled on top of her head fluttering in the wind.
