Page 47 of The Games We Play
Chocolate? No, Penny wasn’t into sweets. She liked fruit. Apples, mostly.
Maybe I could bake her something?
Jesus, no. I was a terrible cook.
The last thing I wanted was to poison the woman I was trying to win back. That would just create more problems for me, and I couldn’t afford another setback.
I let out another sigh, stopping at the table to stare down at my paper.
I needed something personal. Something that would remind her why we worked.
In those months we’d spent, we’d learned so much about each other, this should be fucking easy.
My boots scuffed against the floor as my thoughts churned, resuming my pacing once more.
Movement helped me think. Sitting still drove me crazy—it always had.
That was why bartending suited me so well. The constant motion, the rush of orders, the feeling that my hands were never idle. My brain thrived in chaos.
Penny was the same way. One of the many things we had in common, one of the things that made us click from the start.
Since we both thrived on experience, maybe I should take her somewhere new, something she would never forget.
I rifled through my memories, mentally flipping through the folder labeledAll Things Penny.Conversations we’d had, little things she’d mentioned, places she’d always wanted to go.
And yet, the second I reached for something solid, the drawer in my mind jammed shut.
“For fuck’s sake,” I groaned, tossing my pen onto the table with a sharp clatter.
I hated admitting when I was out of my depth, but I couldn’t do this on my own. I needed help, which meant swallowing my damn pride and going to the one person who knew Penny better than anyone.
Determined, I grabbed my jacket off the back of the couch and shrugged it on. My fingers tapped against my pockets, checking for the essentials—phone, wallet, keys.
Then, without another thought to talk myself out of the decision, I stormed out the door.
The tires crunchedover the gravel driveway leading up to the cabins on Cassidy Ranch. The Texas sun blazed overhead, not a single cloud in sight to offer even a hint of relief from the growing heat.
Pastures stretched endlessly around me, speckled with grazing horses and cattle, their slow movements contrasting the quickened beat of my pulse.
Growing up around guys like Boone and the others, you’d think I would’ve ended up just like them—spending my days working cattle, sweating under the open sky, putting in hard hours in any and every condition. But I’d never had much interest in that life. The bar was easy. Convenient. At first, it was a steady gig that didn’t ask much of me beyond pouring drinks, making conversation, and keeping the lights on. Now, I’ve come to love it and couldn’t see myself anywhere else.
Still, there were days—especially when my dad was still alive—when I’d wondered if I should’ve done something different. If maybe I had it in me to follow in his footsteps.
I shook off the thought as quickly as it came. I knew I wasn’t cut out for that life.
I pulled my truck to a stop in front of the better-kept cabin on the property. Flowers overflowed from ceramic pots on the porch, the swing draped with throw pillows and a knitted blanket that fluttered slightly in the warm breeze.
Taking a final drag of my cigarette, I let the smoke linger for a second before exhaling, then crushed the ember out in the ashtray in my cupholder.
Here goes nothing.
Time to do something else I wasn’t used to doing—asking for help.
Shoving my hands deep into my front pockets, I made my way up the steps, but before I could knock, the door swung open.
Aspen stood there, arms crossed, eyebrows pulled tight as she studied me with a mix of confusion and suspicion. One hip popped out as she assessed me, waiting for an explanation.
I never showed up at her place, especially without warning, so her curiosity was warranted.
