Page 108 of Braving the Storm
I’m instantly drawn to thoughts of future summer evenings, lazy weekends in the sunshine, driving with the windows rolleddown, and building my confidence up behind the wheel with him by my side.
He makes me feel like I could damn well sprout wings and fly to the moon if I wanted to, and I’ve never encountered that kind of unwavering faith in me before.
There’s a glowing, glorious sensation that spreads through my chest as I imagine what a future with Storm could possibly hold.
How much I so desperately want to be with him.
In all honesty, I feel like a new woman. Before leaving the cabin, I’d caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and as I took in the sight I realized the girl looking back at me was finally the person I’ve always known was there on the inside.
The version of Briar Lane, who is free to be herself.
This rugged, beautiful life, these mountains, they’ve awakened something that feels secure, settled, like warm spring rain caressing my skin. It makes all the noise that used to buzz around in my brain relentlessly ebb away, and makes the decision to stay here even easier.
I knew there was no way in hell I’d return to where I ran from, there was no going back.
Now, it’s clear and sparkling that this life is the one I choose, and allows me to feel more comfortable in my skin than ever before.
As I reach the cafe door, with its cute, covered porch and jasmine vine climbing over the latticework, I pause outside so I can send a quick message to Storm, letting him know I made it safely.
Hiiii. *heart eyes*
I didn’t crash.
Reporting safely from the bustling metropolis of Crimson Ridge.
I’ll come meet you at the ranch as soon as I’m donehere.
Wish me luck.
As I typeand delete a series of kiss-face emojis—instead, opting to simply hit send, rather than terrify this gruff man by acting as if I’m a total girl-obsessed lunatic—I’m tempted to swipe over to the forbidden little secret hiding in plain sight. Thoughts of the video, and all the insanely hot memories conjured whenever I let my mind drift back to that moment, I still can’t hardly believe it’s on my phone. That girl in that video is me, and the entire, wicked scenario keeps on burning a hole in my pocket, our illicit night that nobody knows about.
What if someone saw? Would they know who he is to me? The man’s hand that distinctly shows his name, with his fingers tangled rough and brutally commanding in my hair.
At the time, I suspected, but didn’t fully realize, the care he took not to show too much of my face, so it’s almost impossible to tell it’s me he’s owning.
The only secret giveaway is the sight of my tattoo beside my breast.
Though there’s next to no one in the world who knows that I have it, not even my sister.
Quickly shaking off the flood of memories, I shove my phone away in my bag, and suck in a deep inhale, preparing myself to deliver the speech I’ve partially prepared during the drive into town.
I’ve got the first part down, rehearsed that shit out loud, and I’m primed to cut off whatever unhinged rampage Cris might go on.
From the point when I inform my sister that I’m staying here and never wish to see her ever again in my life, added to the details of my lawyer she can communicate through, I might be a little less finessed on, but I’m sure I’ll manage.
Pushing through the door, there’s a tinkling bell, and my eyes flicker to the table where I sat and had coffee on my disastrous date with Westin Hayes, what feels like a lifetime ago.
Today, there are two guys around my age sitting having brunch together, one has his arm affectionately draped around the back of the other’s chair, and the two are laughing over a video pulled up on one of their phones. Something tugs on my heart a little, pointing at them, sayinghey, that could be you and the man you’re head over heels for.
Does Stôrmand Lane go for coffee? Or indulge in any kind of activity that doesn’t involve chopping wood, rounding up cattle, or fitting horseshoes? You know, the kinds of mundane, trivial things that might pass for a date? Could I convince him to do something like that, with me?
There are rows of tables to my left, and the place is more or less fully occupied, with the hum and clatter of the cafe taking over my senses.
My sister’s blond hair, severely pulled back into a tight ballerina bun, is easy to spot. Except, as I draw nearer to the table where she sits facing me, I want to freeze and turn around, to bolt for the door.
My eyes widen, and my throat seizes up.
However, forward momentum keeps propelling me closer even though my stomach is churning and queasiness rises within me like a putrid tide.
