Page 115 of Braving the Storm
You want to learn something, darlin’?
Well, here it is…
I’m in our bed, with a pillow that still hangs onto your sweetness. All I want to do is wake up tomorrow morning and, by some miracle, hear that shower running, even though I’d much rather have you by my side, because at least if you’re in that bathroom, it means you’re here and not a thousand fucking miles away.
I miss the little humming noise you make when you take that first sip of coffee in the morning.
I miss the way you twitch a little in your sleep just as you’re dozing off. It’s cute as fuck.
Biting backthe surge of emotion, I turn my attention to the newest messages that have arrived while I’ve been huddled here on the floor.
You took my cuff.
So, even though I don’t know if you’re ever coming back, you’re still mine, unless you return it to me in the mail or some shit.
I might not have your sweet little body here to hold onto, to use you however I want, but I can still tell you all the things I want you to hear.
All the things my girl deserves to hear.
I’ll keep on checking on you, little thorn, even if you never reply, or want to see me again.
That’s the problem, you see. I’ve got all the time in the world for you. My life used to be counted by the tiniest of margins, by seconds instead of minutes or hours, and I’d spend every single one of however many seconds I’ve got left trying to make you happy.
Blowing out a long,unsteady breath, with fat tears brimming over, I swipe out of the message thread before I throw all caution to the wind and break down and beg him to come rescue me.
This isn’t Storm’s mess to fix.
I don’t doubt for a second he’d come if I asked him to. What I couldn’t live with is the knowledge that I’d knowingly put him back in the worst, sickening kind of spotlight. Antoine might look like he’s polished and refined, but he’s brutally calculating. The man would ensure not only that there was fresh clickbait fodder spread to the media like a virus every week, but he’d pay the most immoral, unscrupulous vultures to camp outside our little slice of paradise in the mountains.
He would hound Storm until life became unbearable, and it would be all because of me.
So, I do what any self-respecting woman with heartbreak roaming through her veins would do. I spend time pouring over his videos, his rodeo montages, and I give myself the opportunity to be with him, even if it's just a glimpse of a frenzied eight-second bull ride.
After drinking my fill, I quickly visit the Devil’s Peak Farriers Instagram, fully expecting there to be nothing new on the page, and brace myself to ignore the litany of thirsty comments left on any photo or video Storm makes an appearance in.
However, there’s a brand new post, and my heart immediately triples its rhythm upon first glance.
The sight I recognize is a close-up photo of the kitchen. No one would know where he’s taken this photo unless you had been tothe cabin, and my eyes bounce around the image, noting the tiniest details.
The cupboard door that always hung crooked has been fixed, now proudly sitting straight on its hinges, and on the front panel are three brush strokes of paint in different shades of charcoal.
I’m utterly confused as to why he’s posted this photo, and immediately tap into the caption. Hope is determinedly flapping its wings, yet I’m biting the inside of my cheek almost raw with nervous anticipation that it might leave me feeling forlorn if I discover through a fucking post on Instagram that he’s playing house with someone new.
My eyes snag on the simple words paired with the photo of paint samples and the cabin’s kitchenette I wish I was standing in right now.
“Painted with the color on the right because they all look the same to me, but I’m guessing it’s what you would pick. I stood in the middle of the hardware store today with a different color in my hand, and then all I could hear was your voice telling me it’d look stupid, and that it would clash with the art you bought that day. So… hopefully you don’t hate it?”
It reads like a diary entry, but I know it’s for me.
This man is not only taking care of me by talking to me, checking on me, but he’s also taking care of our cabin.
I’m so fucking in love with him, it aches.
My hands shake and my cheeks are damp from where my eyes won’t stop leaking, and I very nearly don’t notice that there’s another photo to swipe through to, sitting hidden behind one showing the kitchen cupboards.
That’s when it punches a hole in my damn chest and captures the residue of my soul. Stealing it straight back to Crimson Ridge.
There’s no additional caption, just the image.
