CHAPTER TWENTY
SKYLAR
MY HANGOVER AND I CHECK MY EMAIL THE NEXT MORNING AFTER MY GIRLS’ night out and find missives from both my dad and Jerry asking about when they should come out to Rose Hill to help with a new album. I don’t respond.
I don’t want them here, and I don’t feel like facing the fallout of telling them
as much.
If Ford can ignore them, so can I.
What I don’t ignore is another fake news headline from West. I’m grinning before I even open it.
BREAKING NEWS: Style experts say wearing red lipstick every day is so in this season.
I hope he never stops sending me these. And I may need to stock up on that lipstick now.
I peek around the corner and see West prepping a bale for night check.
I knew he’d be here.
It’s been twenty-four hours since we stood in this exact spot. I don’t know where he went today or what he did, but I found myself checking on the house. Peeking up at the barn. Strolling past to see if he was around.
Last night, I secretly hoped he’d follow me. Blast through the door to the guest bedroom, shove me against the wall, and kiss me senseless.
And against all my better judgment, I would’ve let him. I wanted him to.
Until he didn’t.
Lying in bed, I heard him moving about the house, turning off all the lights, and making sure all doors and windows were shut. My body was strung tight, like it might snap when he marched past my bedroom door.
I wanted him to turn the handle. Crawl into my bed. He’d have found me naked between the sheets, and I’d have reveled in the feel of his strong body over mine.
But he didn’t. And I slept naked, waking once or twice to the sensation of the bed spinning. This morning, I pushed away all my drunken, horny thoughts and blamed them on the tequila.
I popped an Advil and pulled myself together. Sat Cherry on my shoulder for a brisk walk around the property to try and burn some of the tequila calories. And then met with Ford and Rosie to hammer out a recording schedule. Having a plan written down on paper put me at an instant sort of ease. This place and what I’m about to do here felt instantly real and not just like a pipe dream.
It was with this newfound sense of peace that I took another walk. This one was longer and more meandering, and I didn’t think about calories at all.
I just soaked in my surroundings. It led me out to the road and down the main driveway to West’s farm.
The sign from the road said Wild West Ranch. The logo depicted a saddle in a rope frame, but as I drew nearer, I saw a piece of paper tacked to the bottom with duct tape.
On it, and clearly drawn by a child, a similar logo with a unicorn inside the frame. The title that curved around the bottom said Sparkly Turquoise Unicorn Ranch.
It made me laugh as I stood there staring at it. Although I barely know Emmy and Oliver, I could tell she drew it, and her big brother wrote the words for her. I reached into my big boho purse to search for my phone, wanting to take a picture of it. Something to look at and remember this place
by when I’m gone.
But of course, my phone wasn’t there.
So I settled for running my fingers over it and doing my best to commit it to memory. The endearing simplicity of it. The charming lack of pageantry.
Rose Hill has proven to be all those things. And I love that about this
place.
About West.
I watch his strong hands tug the orange twine from the bale, and I sigh before forcing my feet to move into the barn.
“Can I help?” I ask.
His shoulders jump in surprise as he turns to face me.
I swallow as I take him in. God. He really is all man. Head to toe.
He makes my mouth go dry.
“Sure,” he replies, eyes softening as he gazes at me.
We start off working in a quiet rhythm.
“Didn’t see you around today,” I eventually say.
“Were you looking for me, fancy face?”
I smile and shake my head down at the wheelbarrow. It seems safest not to answer that question, so I carry on checking the horses on my side of the barn and filing their feeders with the sweet-smelling dried grass.
“Since you’re avoiding the question, I started early to beat the heat. Then I picked up a new training horse first thing. Surprised you didn’t hear his angry whinnies and heavy hooves all afternoon.”
Now that he mentions it, I did. His voice comes out a little flat and a lot unlike him. So I press, hoping to get him talking about something he loves.
“Are most of the horses here not yours?”
“A few,” he says, turning away to his next stall. “Mostly they come and go. Someone hires me. Their horse spends a couple months here, which sets them on the right path for their next job. Sometimes I buy one I like, train it myself, and then sell it at a profit. Other times I get too attached to sell them at all. And now and then I get a”—his hands lift in air quotes—“problem horse that needs fixing.”
My brows furrow. “How does a horse become a problem horse?”
He shrugs, hands back in the hay. “Usually someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing has messed with their heads. Mistreated them. Problem horses aren’t born. They’re made.”
I find myself blinking rapidly, relating just a little too closely to this conversation about horses. So I switch gears as I turn to check on the next horse. “Fascinating. What else did you get up to?”
West doesn’t respond right away. In fact, his silence has me turning to glance at him. The tendon in his jaw flexes, and he gives his head a subtle
shake.
“I went to visit Tabby. Then her parents. And then my own. Never know when it might be the last time.”
I swallow, not wanting to think about the terms I’m on with my parents.
They may be awful, but sometimes I can convince myself they aren’t. It has to be a coping mechanism.
Even drunk, I could tell from his reaction last night that the news of Erika’s death had winded him.
“That was kind of you.” It doesn’t seem like enough, but it’s all I can think to say.
His head joggles as he steps out the rear door and onto the dirt path that
leads to the back paddocks. “Maybe.”
“Not maybe.”
“I never got into hard drugs the way Erika did, but I did my fair share of dumb shit when I was younger. Constantly in trouble for something.
Sneaking out. Getting in fights. Crashing my car. Put my parents through the wringer in that regard. It struck me last night that it could easily have been me instead.”
He tosses a flake over the fence. “So maybe it was kind. And maybe it was out of guilt. Either way, it’s terrible. Her little boy—” He doesn’t finish the sentence, just clicks his tongue and forges ahead with his work.
We finish the rest of the night check quietly. I get the sense West is secluded in his head tonight, and after the week I’ve had, I’ve realized that sometimes—as uncomfortable as it is—that’s exactly where we need to spend some time.
After we close up, we walk back to the house without saying a word. Just his boots thumping on the grass, my flip-flops making a slapping noise against my heels.
Though I sleep in the house nightly, I’ve made a point of not making myself at home. I spend my days at the bunkhouse, and West and I have been like ships passing in the night when it comes to spending time together inside.
He made it clear he wants to keep this space sacred for him and his kids.
And I respect that.
I don’t want to make him feel uncomfortable, so when he hits the front steps, I break the silence. “I know Oliver and Emmy will be back tomorrow.
I’ll move back to the bunkhouse in the morning.”
I don’t look up at him, but I can feel his eyes on me all the same.
“You’re welcome in the house. You don’t need to do that.”
“I do.”
“What about the mouse?”
I smile, finally braving a glance up at his handsome face. “I’ve seen him a few times now. He’s growing on me. I’ll be fine. It’s like exposure therapy.”
His responding chuckle is soft and warm, and I can hear the bristles of his stubble as he scrubs a hand over his chin. “Wherever you’re most comfortable.”
I nod and watch him turn and head toward the lake.
“Night, Skylar.”
“Where are you going?”
He stops, broad back to me as he stares off into the distance, like he can see the sparkling water through the stand of trees. The fabric of his pale-green T-shirt stretches across his broad shoulders.
And don’t even get me started on the gray wash jeans.
“I’m gonna take the canoe out.”
My brows drop. “In the dark?”
“Do it all the time when the kids are with Mia. It doesn’t feel that dark once your eyes adjust.”
The thought of West canoeing on a dark lake by himself tugs on my heartstrings. “Can I come?”
He turns to me, his expression betraying his surprise. “You wanna come canoeing in the dark with me?”
I don’t know why he seems surprised by the fact that I enjoy his company. I’m not. In fact, I’m at the point where I’m seeking it and not talking myself out of it.
I offer a simple nod and set off toward him. “I do. Is that okay?”
His throat works on a heavy swallow. “I’d love that.”
“There’s a song about this, you know.” I trail my fingertips in the water. It feels like they’re skating over the cold surface. It’s a still night, the only ripples coming from the oars that slice through the water with a reassuring
regularity.
Steady and even.
Just like the man handling them.
“Fancy face, we aren’t fishing.” His voice is hushed. Even though no one is around, we’re almost whispering.
I tip my head back and forth, considering. “We could be.”
The swish of his rowing fills the peaceful atmosphere. “Do you even know how to fish?”
I shrug and pull my hand from the water. “No, but you could teach me.”
“You gonna do a lot of fishing when you head back to Los Angeles? Or Nashville? Where is your home base anyway?”
Home. Neither of those places feel much like home. “I have houses in both.”
A disbelieving huff passes through his lips. The notion of owning properties in two cities must seem absurd to him. Excessive.
And truthfully, after only a week spent in Rose Hill, it seems that way to me too. I’ve just never known any different.
“Which one do you like better?”
Images of the two lavish homes flash in my mind. One all sleek, modern glass facing the Pacific. The other, a country estate. Both have so many bedrooms and bathrooms that I opt to leave several doors closed.
A flash of the bunkhouse follows. West’s cozy, white farmhouse with its red tin roof. Children’s toys scattered across the lawn.
That’s the house that makes my heart beat faster.
“I’m not especially attached to either. I spend a lot of time on the road.”
“Do you like being on the road?”
I turn my head to peek around us. The outdoor lights of the lakefront homes glow. We aren’t that far from the shore, yet it’s so peaceful. So quiet.
“No. I hate it.”
His arms still, and he studies me as we float on the dark water. His attention is too heavy, so I tip my head back and pretend to be especially interested in the milky blanket of stars overhead.
I breathe in.
I breathe out.
I try to escape that creeping sense of dread that fills me anytime I let myself think about going back on the road. Performing. Doing interviews. I think I liked it once. I know I loved to sing. When it wasn’t all about money
and fame and the next album. It got old fast. And now I’m burned out.
“What are you most afraid of?” I ask.
“Me?”
My chin drops only so I can give him a droll look. “No, the fish we should be catching.”
That gets me an eye roll, but I can tell he’s pondering my question.
“My kids dying.”
“That’s an obvious one. I think any parent fears that happening. Even my shitty ones.”
I get a growl for that reference, and he throws the question back at me.
“What are you afraid of?”
I figure if he’s going to skirt the question, I will too. “People finding out my tits are fake.”
He coughs, thumping a fist on his chest to clear his airway. I’m not sure what he’s choking on. Hopefully, the words Can I see them?
“Out of everything, that’s what you’re afraid of?”
I smile and press my shoulder blades together to push my breasts out. The moonlight highlights the rounded top of each globe in the low boatneck T- shirt I’m wearing.
I can feel his eyes on me. On them. Gooseflesh pebbles my skin and I tell myself it’s because it’s colder on the water.
“Paid a lot of money for these babies. Enough that no one could ever truly tell. Hard to be the buxom country bombshell when you’re flat as a board.
How terrible does that make me sound?”
“Do you like them?”
My eyes flick to him. “What?”
“Your boobs.” He swallows audibly. “Forget about everyone else. Do they make you happy? Do they make you feel good?”
I look back down at my breasts, considering his question. A slow smile curves across my lips. “I fucking love them.”
West barks out a laugh from his bench, a short distance from me. We sit facing each other, but his bare foot pushes forward, almost toe to toe with mine. He’s rolled his jeans up, and his feet are big.
“Then who gives a fuck what anyone else thinks, Skylar? Who cares if anyone finds out? You love them. They make you happy. No shame in that.”
“What about you?”
“I mean, listen, I’m not gonna lie. They make me pretty happy too.”
My cheeks flare with heat, and I grin so wide that they ache. My hands press in on either side of my face like that will cool me down.
I feel like a giddy schoolgirl because this rugged country boy—no, man —said my boobs make him happy.
But a few beats later, it hits me that he’s covering the question with humor. I blink at him a few times, and I can think of no reason not to spill my guts to this man who’s proven to be nothing short of trustworthy.
“I think what I’m really afraid of is being irrelevant. You know?” The lighthearted expression on his face morphs to a serious one, and I continue.
“That everyone figures out the public image of me they’ve been spoon-fed isn’t real. That they’ll turn their nose up at what’s left. A girl with crippling anxiety and fake boobs who tries to pet grizzly bears and doesn’t write her own music or play an instrument. I started off in pageants as a kid, and I’m just an overgrown version of that now. No friends, no special skills, just… plastic.”
My breathing feels labored by the time I get everything out. But I also feel lighter. Freer.
Until I look at West. The darkness makes it difficult to fully read his expression, but it’s tinged with sadness.
When he speaks, his voice is all gravel. “Well, I’ve been here to see you try to pet a bear. I’ve seen you with a bruised face. I’ve seen you get anxious.
And Skylar? I like all those versions of you. You have me. You’ll always be relevant to me.”
My eyes sting as I nod and let out a shaky breath.
“I’m afraid of being alone.”
His words freeze me.
“It’s not just my kids dying. It’s the impermanence of everything.” He clicks his tongue and looks away, like he can’t meet my eyes as he spills his secrets. “I’m lonely. I’m especially lonely during the weeks Emmy and Ollie are with Mia. Those are the weeks I struggle with…purpose. I work, sleep, and live in my head. And in my head, I’m a guy who already failed once at a committed relationship—to the detriment of my kids, most likely. And that feels like a heavy burden to carry on with. I don’t want to fail them again.”
“What about the people who work at the barn? I know you train the horses, but I’ve seen other people around.”
A dry chuckle crests his lips, and he finally meets my eyes. “Those are staff. Not friends. And the ones who could be have their own dynamics
outside of the ranch. Everyone around me is creating a life, and I’m just stuck here. Alone. When the kids are at their mom’s house, it becomes abundantly clear that if I don’t go to people, no one seeks me out.”
I hum, thinking about what he’s just said, really chewing on his confession. I remember turning him away that night with the lasagna, and a pit forms in my stomach.
He came to me. He was lonely. And I sent him away.
The moment aches with intimacy and a sort of sorrow. West is the happy, wild guy, and he just shared his most painful inner worries with heartbreaking honesty.
I’ve never felt closer to another human than I do to West right now.
“You and I, we’re not so different.”
All I get back is a rough grumble and dropped eye contact. His shoulders slump as his elbows rest on his knees, his fingers weaving together. Then he bows his head, and it’s inherently wrong for this beautiful, deeply good man to look so beaten down.
I want to prop him back up tall. Lift his spirits. Make him feel better.
My body moves toward him on instinct. Taking care not to tip the boat, I drop to my bare knees on the base of the canoe and delicately crawl across the few feet that separates us.
At first, he doesn’t react, but when my hands land on his knees, the muscles in his quads go tense beneath my fingertips.
His warm exhale fans against the tops of my breasts, the gooseflesh more
apparent than ever.
“What are you doing, Skylar?”
I move closer, ignoring the warning in his voice. My knees press against the arches of his feet as I position myself between his legs and languidly slide my palms up his thighs. The boat rocks with the motion. We both sway in time.
I tilt my head just a fraction, angling my lips up toward his. “Seeking you out.”
He doesn’t respond, but that doesn’t deter me. My fingers clamp onto his jeans, and I squeeze his legs the way I’ve dreamed of doing since I first laid eyes on him.
I press my lips to his knuckles, still braided together before me. Place a kiss on each of the four tattoos that adorn them. This time, when I glance back up at him, I find his eyes tracking my every movement with rapt
attention. They dive into mine right as his hands unlatch and move to cradle my head.
When he holds me, I let loose a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
“And when you leave?” he asks, eyes bouncing between mine like he might be able to will the answer he wants from me. But we both know I’ll leave. We both know this place is a stepping stone. Real life is somewhere else. Doing something else. I can’t throw away a life’s work to make promises to a man I barely know.
Still, my chest aches. My heart throbs uncomfortably. I’ve known West for what feels like a blink of an eye and a lifetime all at once.
People write songs about this feeling.
He calls to me the same way I call to him. Desperately. Thoroughly.
Without even meaning to.
Which is why I look him in the eye and whisper the painful truth of it. “I will miss you terribly.”
The flash of pain in his dark blue depths is more than I can bear. I kiss him to cover it. Kiss him to apologize because this will feel good until it doesn’t.
One week to the day, I kiss Weston Belmont for the second time with everything I have, even though I know it’s going to hurt later.
This time, he kisses me back.
My hands on his thighs, his thumbs on my cheekbones—our hungry lips
press together.
We kiss.
And we kiss.
And we kiss.
I can barely breathe as he stakes his claim. His teeth grazing over my bottom lip. The way his tongue tangles with mine. The soft lapping of water beneath us. The cozy cover of darkness above us.
All I want is to be closer.
I reach for him, slide my hands beneath his shirt. Warm skin, hard lines, and a light dusting of hair beneath my fingertips.
“You’re so beautiful,” I murmur between passionate kisses.
He chuckles against my lips, and a shiver racks my body. That sound. It’s a shot straight to my core. The twisting sensation behind my hip bones is
unbearable.
Another shiver.
“Get up here,” he growls against my mouth, and I swallow the words, not
wanting him to stop.
I fucking cling to him.
But he doesn’t draw away like last time. His hands move lower, and he lifts me, pulling me closer. Placing me right on his lap. My knees land on either side of his body, my pussy lined up with the massive bulge in his jeans.
His hands rove over my rib cage. Under my shirt. Fingers slipping just under the strap of my bra.
He pulls back and lifts his hand to trail his fingers over the edges of my lips. “This fucking mouth, Skylar.”
“You like it?” I dart my tongue out, egging him on.
“If I told you all the things I’ve dreamed about doing to this mouth, you’d turn the prettiest shade of pink.”
I nip at the lower line of his jaw and grind down on his cock. “Then you better tell me in broad daylight, so you can be sure I do.”
His fingers flick at my back, and my bra gapes open between my shoulders. My hips swivel. The feel of him overwhelms me, the pressure of grinding myself on him through our clothes has every nerve ending dancing. I feel him swell even thicker and longer beneath me and gasp at the feel.
“Guess I’ll have to settle for feeling my way around tonight and fuck your mouth tomorrow then.” West’s voice scrapes over my skin, hands pushing up to cup my breasts. They fit so perfectly in his big hands. They may have been made for me, but it feels like they were made for him.
“Fuck,” I mutter as his head drops and his stubbled face drags over my collarbones, lips exploring, teeth dragging, tongue swirling. He tastes my skin like I’m his favorite treat, and I want him to never stop.
His thumbs flick at my already pointed nipples before he plucks at them, teasing me. I tip my head back, eyes closed, letting him play.
“Gonna fuck these too, fancy face.”
“Yeah?” My pelvis clenches and I rock against him eagerly, listening to his breathing go ragged.
The boat’s motion only adds to the friction, and I’m so eager for his touch. I arch my back, offering myself to him. His palms are so big and rough and warm. I want so badly to see how they look on me right now. To watch him explore. Never has such a simple touch set me so alight.
“Fuck yeah. But first…” He shifts, turning us. “I’m —”
But as we turn, so does the boat.
It feels as though it happens in slow motion. He throws his weight to correct it. I lose my balance.
And rather than letting me go and saving himself from the cold water… He comes with me.