I consider turning around and leaving without announcing my presence, but then, I recall my brother Hutch calling me a “grumpy motherfucker” last night at dinner.
Honestly, I guess it’s true. I can be a bit of a hard ass. But I’m a busy guy, andranchingis my business. I like shit to run smoothly. Between that and taking care of Vern’s place, I don't have time for one more thing.
My brother Hutch is always giving me shit, but it isn’t a crime to want things organized and running efficiently. And ever since Pop turned the ranch over to me, things are better than they’ve ever been, becausethisgrumpy motherfucker gets things done.
Apparently, I’m itching to use this moment as an opportunity to test my brother’s theory. Even though this seems like a really bad idea, I can't seem to stop my feet from moving in her direction.
Carried on the soft breeze, George Strait croons softly about “taking Amarillo by morning” from somewhere at the front of the garage.
I stride through the garage, eating up the ground in my dusty work boots, and my palms flex into fists at my sides. It's been seventeen goddamned years, and I’m mostly definitely over Wrenley Hardcastle. So, why does it feel like my head is going to explode?
“Hello?” I call as I round the workbench, not trying overly hard to disguise my annoyance.
The woman bent over the bench jumps with an unladylike yelp at the sound of my voice. She loses her grip on a tube of green goo and sends the bike tube she’s holding tumbling off the workbench.
“Shit,” she gasps, and I’d recognize those wide brown eyes that startle up toward mine anywhere.
I blink stupidly down at her, all the irritation in my gut coming to a screeching halt. My throat goes dry, and I swallow hard to clear it.
Because, the truth is, I’m shocked. Stunned, actually, if I’m being honest. At my body’s reaction to seeing this woman standing here in Timber Forge after all these years.
I’m momentarily struck mute. I open my mouth to say something,any-fucking-thing. But nothing comes out. So, I slam it shut again. She looks much the same. Older, yes, but somehow more beautiful than she was all those years ago.
Suddenly, there is a war raging between my head and my heart. And, evidently, my cock wants in on the action as well because I feel the stirrings of a hard-on, too.
What the actual fuck is that about?
It’s been seventeen years since the most incredible summer of my life. Seeing her now, my memory floods with images of her at eighteen, all long legs and sun-kissed skin, freckles dancing across her nose and shoulders. Long, golden-blond hair whipping out around her face as we speed down country roadafter country road, her head tipped back on a laugh at something I’d said.
It all feels like it was yesterday.
Seventeen years since I watched the taillights of her granddad’s yellow ‘70 Chevy pickup fade into the distance. Seventeen years since she left me standing on that old, dirt road with the shredded remains of my heart beating wildly out of my chest.
My heart pounds like a trip hammer in my ears as I stare down at her. It wouldn’t be hard to get lost in her again. And quickly. My heart squeezes at the look in her eyes, and I determine to lock that fucker down.
“Hello, Hank,” she breathes out on a small smile. “It’s been a long time.”
CHAPTER THREE
wrenley
Hank Hayes isthe last person I expected to run into today. As far as I know, no one but my granddad’s attorney knows I am back in town, and I need room to breathe before the gossip mill starts turning.
I didn’t sleep well last night. So, when my alarm went off at eight a.m., I turned it off and then slept blissfully until noon. Having lived life by an alarm every day for the last umpteen years, it had felt amazing.
I spent my time since going through old photos in the living room. It is nearing dinner now, and I am none too keen on canned stew again, having had it for lunch. I need to make it into town for something more appetizing, like a greasy burger and fries, preferably with a cold beer to wash it down.
The problem is that my granddad apparently sold his truck. So, I’ll either be walking or riding a bike into town. The latter seems more appealing. That is, if I can get this bike tire to hold air. So far, I’ve had no luck.
My stomach does a weird flip that catches me completely off guard. Hank is standing in front of me.
Hank.
Here.
In my granddad’s garage.
It’s fine. This isfine.
