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“Gray?” I echoed, keeping my tone neutral even as curiosity flickered within me. “Why do you say that?”
Billy shrugged, the action rolling off his shoulders like water off a duck's back. “Oh, you know how it is,” he said, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “Big man on campus doesn't like when things don't go his way.”
I couldn't help but notice the way Billy's gaze sharpened, the way his hand absentmindedly fiddled with the silver buckle at his waist—a telltale sign that there was more to this than simple observations.
“Sounds like you two have a history,” I ventured, sensing the layers underneath his words. There was a story here, but I didn’t care to learn about it and regretted my words. Luckily he didn’t feel too keen to discuss it, either.
“Let's just say we've butted heads a time or two,” Billy admitted with a nonchalant shrug, although the glint in his eye told another tale—one of pride and unresolved disputes. “But that's old news. What matters is that you're here now, breathing new life into that place.”
“Thanks, Billy,” I said, feeling a reluctant sense of gratitude for his words. It was comforting, somehow, to be acknowledged as a positive force amidst all the whispers of contention.
He stepped forward and removed his hat. “I ah, wanted to apologize for the other night. I reckon I had a bit too much whiskey and let my mouth ramble.”
“Oh, it’s fine, Billy.”
“Naw, it’s not. I shouldn’t have been disrespectful. I hope it doesn’t cloud your view of me.” He took another step forward, into my space and I had to root myself in place so as to not appear weak.
“All’s forgiven. Don’t you worry about it.”
“Good. So maybe I can show you around town some time. Show you the real Whittier.”
My eye muscles hurt from keeping them in place when they wanted so badly to roll.
“Maybe,” I managed to squeak out. “That’s kind of you to offer.”
“Anytime, darlin',” he put his hat back on and tipped it, a gesture I’d grown accustomed to here, but this time felt forced and fake. “Just watch out for Gray,” he added. “He's got a bark and a bite to match.”
“Will do,” I said, though I wasn't entirely convinced that Gray's bite was something I needed protection from. I might have been pissed at him, but couldn’t deny the spark I felt. Something about the challenge of taming that gruff exterior intrigued me more than it should.
And I didn’t trust Billy one bit.
* * *
After a call to Tom, who assured me this was a complication he considered and prepared for, I returned to the farmhouse to get back to work. I’d found that the sting of Gray’s assholery and saying goodbye to my friends had been dulled, replaced by the aches and pains of manual labor.
I didn’t exactly know what I was doing, but I watched a thousand tutorials and managed to get started on the basics of gutting the house and making it livable while Enzo drew up plans for the renovation.
The farmhouse stood proud amidst the sprawling acres, though it was far from the sanctuary I envisioned . . . yet. An air mattress served as my bed, the hum of the single working bathroom's ancient plumbing a constant companion, and the electricity played a maddening game of hide and seek.
“Come on,” I muttered, flipping the light switch up and down, willing the bulb above to obey. On the fourth try, it flickered to life, bathing the room in a hesitant glow.
“Victory,” I breathed out, a laugh escaping me. I wasn't going to let something like inconsistent power dampen my spirits. Not when there was so much to do.
I grabbed my sharp new box cutter and proceeded to slice through the dusty old carpet in the main living room, cutting it up into smaller, manageable pieces. Ripping up each piece and throwing it into a pile was hell on my muscles, but did wonders for my psyche. I welcomed the pain; it was proof of progress, of my relentless drive to not only build a wellness retreat but to carve out my own place in the world, away from the shadow of my father's disapproval.
My father might not believe in me but I sure as hell believe in myself. I ripped up the corner, the staples coming free in satisfying snaps. Gray Anderson might not be in my corner, but I don’t need that emotionally-empty brute anyway.
In no time, fueled by anger and spite, I’d managed to clear the carpet from the entire room, exposing the old hardwood underneath. Sometimes, you needed to rip things up to make them shine.
The setting sun spilled through the window, casting long shadows across the freshly painted wall. Soon, I would face the council, stand my ground, and fight for my dreams. Tonight, though, I allowed myself a moment of quiet pride, surrounded by the tangible evidence of my determination.
“Here's to you, Sunshine Acres,” I toasted with a can of sparkling water, tapping it against the wooden banister. The name of my future haven slipped off my tongue like a promise. “We've got some battles ahead, but you and I? We're in this together.”
* * *
The now-familiar crunch of boots on gravel yanked me from my mission scraping paint off the stairs, and I peered out the dust-streaked window. A familiar figure strode toward the farmhouse, his cowboy hat casting a shadow over eyes as steely as the resolve in his gait. Gray Anderson looked every inch the brooding rancher, ready to stake his claim.
“I can’t believe you’re still here,” he drawled, pushing through the door I had yet to fix properly. It swung open with a creak that sang of long-forgotten care.
