Anyways. Point is, I turned down an afternoon and evening with the guys. I’m usually the first one to accept that kind of invitation, but I just couldn’t bring myself to go. I’m just not feeling it. I don’t know why.
Maybe it’s because the only thing on my mind lately is Ruth. Her beautiful smile, that laugh that sounds like the song of angels. Lately, the only thing I’m interested in is spending time with her. And since she’s a whole damn ocean away, that time has to be spent on the phone.
It’s a little after four in the afternoon. I ate one of Mom’s famous turkey subs for lunch before we sat down to do a little work on marketing for the ranch, but I’m hankering for a snack already. I’m just staring, unseeing, into a kitchen cupboard when my phone buzzes three times on the counter. I glance down to see Ruth’s name on the screen, and it gives me an idea.
Everett
you up for a facetime call, ruth?
When she responds with ayes, I tap the video icon next to her contact photo with one hand, and reach into the cupboard with another, pulling out a bag of chips. I’m pouring them into a green bowl—one withpastascrawled over its interior and around the outside—when she answers, and immediately, I feel all the tension leave my body at the sight of her smile.
“It’s a little soon to be taking me to bed, isn’t it?”
Ruth throws her head back and laughs, and the world could end right here. I’d never know, and I truly don’t think I’d care, as long as I had that sound in my ears.
“It’s after ten at night here,” she explains. She’s in bed, propped up against a mountain of pillows, wearing a wine-red button-down pyjama shirt. The colour suits her. Every time I see her face, she’s even more beautiful than the last time.
“Oh, shoot, I forgot about the time difference,” I say. Pangs of guilt stab at my stomach, but they’re immediately healed by another one of those laughs.
“Don’t worry about it,” Ruth says. “I work for an American company. I work into the evening a lot.”
“Not tonight, though?” Hope blooms in my chest. Hope that work is being good to her. Hope that she’s not even thinking about work right now. Hope that she’s choosing to spend her evening with me instead—even if it is over a video call.
“Not tonight,” she confirms happily. “Tonight, I’m all yours.”
And fuck, if that doesn’t feel like the best damn thing in the whole world. I feel a grin tug at my cheeks so hard they start to ache, and I grab a jar of salsa from the fridge as Ruth asks about my day.
“It’s been fine,” I say. It has been fine. It’s been fine, until now, when it’s great. “Fixed some fences out on the pasture, and then helped Mom with some marketing things. She wants to try something newthis summer, bring in some more groups for horse riding camps and even some equine therapy.”
“Wow.” Ruth raises an eyebrow. “Equine therapy, huh? What exactly does that entail?”
“Honestly? I don’t really know.” I scoop the salsa into a small bowl and nestle it among the chips in the larger one. I rinse the jar and toss it into the bucket I use for recycling. “But Brooks’s sister has a friend who just finished college, and apparently it’s a new thing, it’s good for kids with—what’s the word we’re supposed to use? Neuro-different?”
“Neurodivergent?”
“Yeah, that one. Mom said it’s good for kids who are neurodivergent, and adults, too. I think riding horses is good for pretty much everyone, to be honest, so I’m all for it.”
“Do you have a horse?”
“Of course I have a horse, baby girl, I live on a ranch,” I say with a laugh. I stick my hand into the fridge again and pull out a bottle, swiping it against my wall-mounted opener to release the cap. I toss that into the bucket too.
“Of course you do,” she says with an eye roll and a smile. “You’re a cowboy, of course you have a horse. Duh.” She slaps her forehead with an open palm, and I laugh.
“You wanna play twenty questions? You can ask me about my horse.” I wink as I juggle my phone and food, carrying everything and a bottle of beer into the living room. I use an ornamental wooden bull to prop the phone up on the coffee table as I dig my hand into the bowl of chips. Scooping up some salsa, I pop the snack into my mouth and chew, savouring the sweet tang of tomato and jalapeño as the flavours explode on my tongue. On the screen, Ruth’s eyes flicker with something, darkening ever so slightly as she shifts to tuck her feet beneath her.
“Sure,” she answers. “You wanna go first, though? I feel like you probably have some questions burning a hole somewhere.” Her little laugh sounds like a choir of angels, and fuck if just talking to her isn’t giving me all kinds of thoughts I shouldn’t be having. Especially not for a woman I hardly even know. One who lives thousands of miles away, at that. I smile at the thought of all the questions I’m dying to ask.
“Oh, honey, I could ask you a hundred questions—a thousand, even—and I’m sure I’d never even scratch the surface. I want to know everything. Your birthday. Your favourite colour. Your favourite sandwich.”
“Well, that’s three,” she says with another laugh. “January second. Maroon. Chicken salad. Now you have to answer.”
I make a mental note of all of Ruth’s answers. If we weren’t on a video call right now, I might even write them down so I don’t forget. I don’t want to ever forget a thing about this woman.
“October eighteenth,” I begin. “Summer sky blue. And you can’t beat a humble ham and cheese.”
“Acceptable,” Ruth hums with a smile. She lifts a hand to push her glasses further up on her nose and I notice her nails are painted maroon. Her hands are otherwise bare; no jewellery except for the wine-red band of a sleek, discreet smart watch on her left wrist.
“Acceptable, huh?” I ask with a smile of my own. A little thrill shoots through my veins, prickling at my skin as Ruth’s nose wrinkles in a bigger smile. I’m slowly starting to unravel the enigma of my airport girl—sheismine, I feel it in the very marrow of my bones—and she might be my most favourite mystery I’ve ever tackled. She hums again in agreement before pressing her lips together.
