This is what the loss of the hopes and dreams I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life chasing looks like.
I give my studio one last look before retreating the two steps I had walked in and shutting the door again.
Tears salt my lip, but I don’t wipe them off as a broken laugh shreds my throat.
It’s almost cruel that I woke from a dream about one man I don’t want to want only to be reminded of the dream shattered by the only man I ever wanted.
“How about neither. How about neither are, were, or will ever be a good decision,” I mutter as I walk down the hallway on the way back to my bedroom. But when I pass a window and look toward the bunkhouse—at the darkened night beyond and the moonlight that seems to give the shadows a life of their own—my feet falter as the light inside flickers on.
My breath catches when I see a silhouette cut across the doorway. For the briefest of moments, I think that it’s Fletcher and not Jack, my mind brought back to the months before his death when he spent more time there than at the main house, working late into the night.
Or, rather, making bets with his bookies.
Fletcher is dead, I remind myself.
But Jack’s truck only rambled down the road and its headlights cut across my bedroom wall a few hours ago when he came back from wherever it is he goes every night when he clocks out. How in the hell can he already be up?
But he is. And I watch as he reaches for the bar braced in the doorway and slowly pulls himself up, pauses, and then lowers himself.
He does the pull-ups with an ease that’s impressive but with a determination that seems as if it’s a penance. One after another. Over and over. There is no break, just a punishing cadence that gives the impression—even across the distance—that he’s agitated by something.
Curiosity has me watching him and asking myself questions I say I don’t want the answers to, knowing that’s a lie.
Latent desire has me not turning away, my dream a not-so-distant memory that holds me captive just as securely as the man himself.
I could turn away.
I should turn away from the muscles rippling in his shoulders as he moves or the moonlight that reflects off sweat on his torso with each pull-up and then measured release back down. His body in tune as he demands physicality from it.
But I don’t.
Because I wonder.
And I question.
Would it be so bad to have a man like Jack Sutton for a lover? Would it be wrong to want to lose myself in someone simply so I can maybe find myself again?
It would be the worst mistake I could ever make because it would mean I didn’t learn from the first time I’d made it. After all, wasn’t the need to find myself one of the reasons I followed Fletcher in the first place? He offered me a way to be free of the restrictions of my parents so I could be me. He promised a future where we could raise our child with unconditional love.
I scoff.
Yes, he offered that, and what a pretty lie it had been.
I need to stop watching and go to bed.
Succumbing to the exhaustion from exerting himself for the past however long it’s been, Jack puts his feet on the ground and braces his hands on his knees to what I can only assume is to catch his breath.
Way too many complications to add him to the mix.
I jump as my refrigerator icemaker kicks on and then close my eyes and laugh at my own nervousness. When I open them again, I find Jack standing, back straight and head angled just slightly to the side. It feels as if he’s looking straight at me.
A gasp sneaks past my lips before I freeze, quelling the urge to duck away from the window.
I know there is no way he can see me since the room behind me is so dark even my silhouette would be hard to make out. Yet, he still stares in my direction through the darkness, and I still stand where I am, staring back as chills climb over my skin and prick my scalp, pulling it tight.
I’m not sure why I stand here like this in the early morning hours with an invisible connection across the distance that I’m not even certain is real, but I do. And then, as if he doesn’t understand it either, Jack gives a subtle shake of his head before disappearing into his house and shutting the door.
I need to stay damn clear of him . . . at all costs.
10
TATE
I know he’s behind me.
Even if his shadow didn’t cut the bright sunlight the open stable doors welcomed in, I’d still know he was there.
Because he’s been everywhere over the past few days.
If he’s not in the ring letting the horses get to know him, he’s in the stable organizing it to his liking while irritating me by putting things in places different than I’m used to. When he’s not hammering something somewhere, fixing whatever it was I obviously didn’t, he’s dropping schedules and ideas on my desk in the form of Post-It notes because I’m never around long enough for him to talk to me.
He’s even in my thoughts when I don’t want him to be simply because he has to be.
Jack freaking everywhere.
So much so that I’ve been feeling claustrophobic in my own house, on my own land, as I try to navigate to anywhere but where he is while also having to work with him in some capacity.
We’ve worked in silence when we were forced to be near each other, him asking what’s wrong in that confident yet playful way he has while I assert that everything is fine.
This is all because I decided to give him the job.
No. It’s happening because I decided to let him in and use the situation to figure out how to trust again.
Strictly for the ranch that is.
The anger I have derives from something else. I know it despite how vehemently I try to deny it.
It’s because every damn time I look at him, I’m reminded of his gentle way with Willow the other day, his spectacular voice, and the incredible way he kisses.
And then I feel ridiculous all over again because who gets embarrassed by a kiss that happened in a dream? Who tries to tell themselves it means nothing when they had the same damn dream again last night?
It’s ludicrous at best, asinine at worst, and frustrating all around.
Of course, the dream comes rushing back to me now as I feel the heat of his stare on my back. I pretend he isn’t there and continue to measure the supplements for each horse so I can mix it in with their grain.
“Are we ever going to talk about this?” Jack finally asks, the dirt beneath his feet crunching on the concrete floor as he shifts his weight.
“Talk about what?” Nonchalant. Unaffected. My attention still focused on what I’m doing.
“About why you keep avoiding me.”
“I’m not avoiding you.”
He chuckles, and the deep rumble echoes off the wall so that it hits my ears twice and makes it seem as if he’s everywhere. “Yes, you are. Now, what seems to be the problem, Knox?”
“My name is Tatum. Or Tate.”
“Or Knox,” he says, pulling me to glance over my shoulder at him for the first time. His silhouette is haloed by sunshine, and there’s the slightest of smirks on his lips.
Click.
Jesus. Get a grip.
“I’m working here. Shouldn’t you be doing the same?” I snap, irritated at myself for wanting to take his picture.
“I am. Part of my job is communicating with you, and you are sure as hell making that more than hard to do.”