Page 15 of And Forever
I whip my head around to face the owner of the voice so fast I feel a twinge in my neck. But it’s worth it to hear that nickname again. To see Charlotte in a pair of denim cut-off shorts and a plum checkered button-down tucked into the waistband, showing off a small belt buckle. It has two horses in motion on it. The textured waves in her hair give it a wind-tousled look, and her eyes pop with a liner that matches the deep color of her shirt. Her lips are painted a glossy pink, making the plump pout all the more tempting when she curls them up in a sassy smirk. Her well-worn, dusty caramel boots complete the outfit.
I stand and pull out the chair she’s indicating, nudging it into place once she sits. Charlotte puts a can of soda and a basket of fries on the table. She plucks a salty morsel from the pile before munching happily. She extracts another, lifting it to me in offering. I snag the long, skinny shoestring and hum appreciatively when the crispy exterior gives way to the soft potatoey goodness inside.
“You picked a good spot,” Charlotte begins as she leansforward to cross her arms on the balcony. I swipe another fry, grunting in acknowledgment as I shove it into my mouth without her seeing. She glances over her shoulder, taking a brief stock of the fries before looking at me. “I’ll be able to tell my Mom that I socialized without being mixed up in all ofthat.” she waves a hand to the party below. “She has it in her head that I ‘need a little fun.’”
“Do you?” I can’t help but ask. She settles back in her chair, thinking. I steal a few more fries while I wait, grinning when she picks up the basket and hugs it close, wise to my thievery. I can’t help but laugh. “Guess that’s my answer.”
Charlotte considers her possessiveness, her shoulders relaxing infinitesimally before she giggles. Her head falls back, onyx waves glossy in the light as she shakes her head, loosening up. When she turns back to me, she releases her death grip on the fried potatoes and puts them back between us. She pushes out a long exhale, then flashes me a broad smile. It’s a little fake, but the effort behind it is genuine.
“There she is,” I tease, picking up a handful of fries and devouring them in two bites. “Ready to kick ass again.”
I lick my lips, absorbing the salt left behind, and try to ignore the way Charlotte’s eyes lock on the motion of my tongue. Her expanding pupil slowly blots out the green. It isn’t the first time I’ve seen her look at me like this, but it is the first time that I think she might act on it. The scrape of chairs against the wood floor behind us makes Charlotte blink and throw a quick look over her shoulder.
“God, Cherie, who knew that booking this place was going to be an absolute stroke of genius,” a high-pitched, feminine voice finishes on a squeal. “No one knows what happened to the guy, but now he’shere?Talk about finally getting an ungettable scoop!”
“Arya, donotget us kicked out of here because you think you can get Wilder McCoy to agree to an impromptu interview. You’re not even anactualjournalist—I love you, but a vacationblog isn’t exactlyThe Times. Plus, I was on the waitlist for almost twoyearsto get our cabin, please don’t fuck it up.”
Charlotte stills, even as her face darkens. The smile falls away, and her brows narrow. I resist shifting in my chair. Even if I want to run out of the barn, I know not to draw the attention my way.
“But it’sWilder McCoy,” the one with the squealy voice—Ariya—pleads. “Don’t you want to know what happened to him?”
“No, it’s none of my business.” I relax a little when the other one—Cherie—acts like the voice of reason. Though my relief is short-lived.
“Ugh, fine,” Ariya whines back. “Maybe I’ll just find out if he’s as good of arideas the rumors say.”
The innuendo is clear, although I can’t see the woman’s face. Charlotte pushes her chair back before rounding the small table. Just like so many years ago, she reaches for my arm and hauls me to my feet. There’s no horse to jump on the back of, but she rescues me all the same. The two women behind us blink in shock, and a cocky smile crawls across my face at their clear discomfort. I lift a finger to my brow in a small salute of greeting.
“Ladies,” I purr, holding back a laugh when Charlotte’s fingers curl tighter around my hand, her annoyance hidden behind a steely mask.
“Heridesbetter than ever,” she spits, slowing her pace just enough to see how her barb lands. “Always leavesmesaddle sore.”
I can’t help but hold my side to try and keep the laughter in as we make our way to the stairs leading to the barn floor.
10
CHARLOTTE
EVERS RIDGE, MONTANA — LATE JUNE
My blood boils as I descend the stairs, one hand still wrapped around Wilder’s forearm behind me. I’m glad the man has an excellent sense of balance. With the way I’m dragging him along, the clipped pace I’ve set, and the height difference between us, it’s only his years of rodeo experience and training that are likely keeping him from sending us both tumbling.
We hit the ground and I steer us toward the dance floor, the bass of the music doing little to calm my heart rate. I’m painfully aware that I have no right to react the way I am.
Wilder isn’t mine. He hasn’t been for a very long time. But that didn’t stop the white-hot flare of jealousy and possessiveness that streaked through me at the table. Just hearing that woman’s thinly veiled intentions set me off. All I could think about were the dozens of buckle bunnies who used to chase after him. The ones who never cared what kind of person he was, just that he was hot as hell and a good fuck. I won’t stand idly by to watch it happen again.
“Charlie, where are we going?” Wilder pulls back a little,stopping us at the edge of the moving crowd. I turn around to see him looking at me with a mixture of amusement and concern. He rotates the arm I’m gripping to break my hold before carefully extending to touch my hip. He doesn’t tug me closer, but the weight of his warm hand resting there is just as heavy as the possibility that he could.
“To get away from those vapid, wannabe buckle bunnies who think you’re just a piece of ass.” I step toward him then, into his warmth and sweet hay scent, looping my arms around his neck. I sway my hips with intent, picking up the rhythm of the band’s current song and weaving us into the crowd. Wilder doesn’t hesitate to follow my lead. The hand on my hip slides around to the small of my back, joined by his other one shortly after. I try to hide the way my breath wants to hiccup, how my heart wants to skip a beat just from his proximity. If Wilder notices, he has the good grace to ignore it.
“Idohave a great ass,” he says. It’s the perfect, mostWilder McCoything to say, and I can’t help but lean my head against his chest as I shake with laughter. When I finally suck in enough air to recover, I glance up to see his trademark cocky grin blooming brightly. My feet stutter to a stop as I look up at him. I haven’t seen this face in years. The memories of it pale in comparison to experiencing the real thing. It’s unserious, playful, and the kind of heat I’ll feel for days.
“I’ll take your word for it,” I deflect. Wilder nods at my quip, letting the moment pass comfortably as we continue to shuffle along the dance floor. Silence descends between us, but it doesn’t feel suffocating. Without much thought, I toy with the short ends of Wilder’s hair at the back of his neck. The length is gone, making it impossible to loop around my fingers. Just another change during our time apart, and it suddenly makes me eager to know everything else that’s different.
Until now, so many of our interactions have revolved around what’s happening right in front of us: the ranch. Winona.Apologies and forgiveness. As the music starts to shift to a slower tempo, I tell Wilder as much.
His hands bring me a little closer. Whether it’s for conversation or contact, I don’t know, but I’m content to just exist in his arms. His blue eyes reflect the golden hue of the bistro lights, but they bore into mine with intensity. “I mean, it makes sense. We don’t really know each other anymore,” he acknowledges. “I’d like to change that. I’m still trying to figure out if I have the right to say it, but I’ve fuckingmissedyou, Charlie. So badly; it’s like a part of me I didn’t know existed went to sleep, and it’s now waking up again.”
His words hit like bee stings, sharp and direct. While there is the faint lingering of guilt, it’s the reflection of my own longing and loneliness that lands with something akin to pain. Wilder’s right: a part of myself seemingly disappeared when we parted. It quieted, shying away from growing and changing. It buried deep within me where it couldn’t be hurt and pushed me on tosurvive. But since Wilder’s reappearance in my life, that hibernating part of my soul has slowly shaken itself from slumber, quaking uncertainly. I want to do everything I can to encourage it, even if there’s so much that scares me.
