Page 11 of Brim Over Boot
Well, that’s a fucking visual.
“This is one hell of an apology,” I point out, voice flat.
He makes a frustrated sound close to a growl. “You steal clients from meallthe damn time, Noah. All the time. I don’t see why I should apologize. Maybeyoushould.”
“It’s called making a living,” I say a little louder than intended. “You didn’t make it easy to set down roots in this town. Everyone knows the precious goddamn Darlings who can do no wrong. What was I supposed to do? Not try to make a life for myself? Feed my family on one horse a month?”
He blinks, looking startled.
“If anyone here is entitled, it’syou. Do you ever think of anyone but yourself?” I snap.
Colton looks taken aback, but it only lasts for a split second. He stalks closer, tension lining his frame. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“And you know nothing aboutme,” I reply. “Run along, little Colt. Unless you’re ready for that wholedrop to your kneesthing. I would soloveto hear an apology coming out of your mouth.”
“Fuck. Off,” he says, only a few inches in front of me now. “And stop calling me that.”
I smile. Slowly. “What? Little Colt?”
Colton shoves my shoulder, and I’m positive he’d come at me again if his brother Lawson didn’t take that precise moment to approach.
“Jesus, Colt,” the man says quietly, stepping in front of Colton, his back to me. “What are you doing?”
Lawson’s teenage daughter—Wendy, I think her name is—is standing off to the side, watching us curiously.
“Nothing,” Colton says, visibly shaking himself loose.
“That didn’t look like nothing,” Lawson says, taking a second to glance at me over his shoulder. Presumably seeing I’m not about to attack either of them, he walks Colton further away, but not far enough for me to miss his words. “It looks like you were about to sock him in public. What’s going on?”
I don’t wait to hear Colton’s response. Pulse thundering and the bag of cookies crinkled slightly in my grip, I make my way to where my bike is parked on the other end of our town’s one downtown street.
I wanted him to hit me, I realize. It would’ve given me an excuse to hit him back.
I store the cookies in my saddlebag before swinging my leg over my bike. Daphne purrs to life, the sound and vibration as familiar to me as that of the engine in my truck. Helmet on, I pull away from the bustling street and the still-busy Blossom Bash. I don’t feel the cool air against my skin as I navigate toward home. My irritation is keeping me plenty hot.
After parking in my driveway, I head for the front of the house. It takes me a second to realize I’m stomping my way there. I slow my gait, frustrated with myself.
He’s the only person who gets to me like this. The only person I’m painfully tempted to throttle, if only to feel the satisfaction of watching Colton Darling’s eyes go wide in surprise. Anything would be better than that narrow-gazed hate he projects my way every time I’m within his sights.
Goddamn it.
I forcibly shove the man from my thoughts and unlock the front door.
“Walt?” I call.
“In the back.”
I leave my boots on and head through the house, down the narrow hall toward the back room where the chessboard is set up in between a large bookshelf and a somewhat ratty couch we’ll never get rid of because it was Walter’s mother’s. My grandmother’s. The floral cushions are tufted, set atop vintage wooden legs that are curved in a decorative style and somewhat scuffed. It’s where Walter reads. Me sometimes, too.
“Hey,” I say, finding him sitting on the couch. He looks up at me through his reading glasses, eyes brightening when I toss the bag of sugar cookies his way.
“Bad for my health, you know,” he says, pulling one delicate tulip free.
I huff a laugh, knowing my uncle never has and never will eat overlyhealthy. I just do my best to slip vegetables into his meals when I can.
“I’m gonna be out back for a bit,” I tell him, heading for the door at the tail end of the house.
He raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t respond.
