Page 24 of A Photo Finish
Cole. I should probably tell him about this minor mishap. Just in case. I can already imagine the blank expression he’ll give me, the way his jaw will tick as he crosses his arms.
I limp to the door, and Billie follows. “Let me drive you home.” I’d come here with her after hanging out at the barn all afternoon, which also means I have no independent way of getting home.
“No, you’ve been drinking. I’ll walk.”
I hike my bag over my shoulder and slide my good foot into the rain boot I wore over as Billie holds the front door open for me.
“Let Vaughn drive you home.”
“Ha!” I bark out a laugh. “I think I’ll pass on that for now. I need a couple days before I can look him in the eye again, thanks.”
“You sure?” She nibbles on her bottom lip nervously. “It’s raining pretty hard.”
I reach into my bag and pull out a small umbrella. “I’m all set. It’s not that far.”
Billie doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t stop me either—something I appreciate. I don’t like being babied, and I don’t need people treating me like porcelain because I have an injury. My brothers would have been back up on a bull with a tiny fracture like this, and here I am wallowing around like a wounded princess.
I step out into the dark, damp night and sigh. Raindrops pelt the top of my umbrella, the pinging sound loud all around me. The smell of dirt and rain permeates the air. It smells fresh, like new growth. The perfect night for a walk to clear my mind and cool my cheeks.
* * *
Walking was a bad idea.The heavy April rain has washed away all the charm of the night rather quickly.
My leg hurts, I’m cold, and this shitty little umbrella leaks. If I hadn’t been such a wuss, I would have just accepted the ride from Vaughn. What’s a five-minute drive for him is more like a twenty-minute walk for me. Probably longer with my limp. And I’m not even halfway.
“Motherfucker,” I mutter as I hobble down the gravel road in my stupid walking cast—which is also not waterproof, which means my sock inside is getting soaked. And cold. I rarely swear, but now and then, a situation warrants it. This situation is one of those. This night is one of those. Actually, this week is one of those.
Tears sting at the back of my eyes. The bridge of my nose tingles. I’m not a crier, and this isn’t an unmanageable situation. But right now, everything feels heavy. Like more than I can bear. My career, my leg, my personal life. Sometimes being an independent grown-up is exhausting.
I stop and stare up at the sky, trying to force a deep breath into my lungs, but my frustration wins out, and I end up screaming to no one at all, “Fuck my fucking life!”
Which is right when headlights turn down onto the road, illuminating me like the Broadway actress that I am not, like the universe is just dying for someone to witness my meltdown, or splash me as they drive by. But when the truck gets closer and slows, I realize I recognize it. A window rolls down, and a thick forearm shoots out, waving me forward.
“Get in!” Cole shouts.
I feel like under different circumstances I would say no. But at this moment, all I feel is intense relief. Like I don’t even care who’s here to save me, as long as I’m being rescued.
He reaches across the front seats and throws the door open before I even get there. A simple gesture, but I still feel like I could hug him for it. I fold down my umbrella and haul myself up into his big truck, hating how high off the ground it is but loving how dry and warm it is all at the same time.
I say nothing as I slam the door and buckle myself in. I can sense that Cole is looking at me. I can feel anger radiating off him in waves, like when you sit too close to a space heater. But I don’t care. I just drop my head back against the headrest, close my eyes, and sigh, suddenly very exhausted.
“Are youtryingto make your leg worse?” His voice is precise—I can hear his military background in there. He sounds authoritative, and I like it. It’s not a question so much as a demand. It reminds me of the night we went too far.
“Thank you for picking me up,” is all I say back, instantly feeling a little dopey. Wine, cold, and strapping yourself in on an emotional rollercoaster will do that to a girl, I guess. And I assume Billie is behind this—something she’ll pay for later.
He just grunts and drives. I sense him moving around beside me and squint from under my lashes to see what he’s doing. One big hand reaches over to my side of the dash, and I watch his heavily corded forearm flex as he presses the seat warmer button for me. Is he worried about me being cold? I follow that arm up to his fingers as he rotates the knob to maximum heat, not missing the way his veins bulge over the top of his strong hand.
Everything about Cole is hyper masculine. Something my body can’t help but gobble up, even though my mind screams at me to ignore him. His body, his features, hisvoice.God. His voice. All deep and gravelly. He could make a killing as a phone sex operator if that was still a thing. And if he ever said more than a few words at a time.
As a pen pal, he’d been slow to come around. But in real life? He was like squeezing blood from rocks. Next to impossible to get talking.
Which is why I don’t bother making small talk. I let my eyes close and revel in the heat pumping out of the vents all around me. If he’s not going to talk to me, I won’t waste my energy talking to him about what may have come to light at Billie and Vaughn’s house. Want my trust? Earn it.
When the truck finally slows and comes to a stop, I open one eye and peek at him. He’s staring at me, completely closed off, but staring at me nonetheless.
“Stay there,” he clips out in that bossy voice.
I’m too bone-tired to argue, and I watch from under heavy eyelids as he hops out of the truck. He may have upset me, but I’m not above watching the way his jeans stretch across his ass and thighs. The man is huge, a wall of muscle. He could crush me if he wanted to.
