“What about Sammie Clarke?”
His voice is abrupt. “There never was anything with Sammie Clarke, and there never will be.”
The way he says it lets the truth of his words show.
I fist his shirt, pulling him toward me, his mouth finding mine as if it already knew the path.
The kiss is warm and unhurried, one of his hands cupping the side of my face like I’m something precious. I forget that I’m a person who has reasons for all of this to be a bad idea. His thumb traces my cheekbone, and I feel it everywhere.
As the rain hammers the roof above us, Cinnamon shifts contentedly in her stall, and I think distantly that I am going to have words with that horse later.
When we pull back, Cam’s forehead drops to mine. He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding that breath for a while.
“Mallory.”
I should say something dry and deflecting. I have several options prepared. I’ve had them prepared since the calf barn, if I’m being honest with myself, which I’m trying not to be. Because I can’t want him. We don’t even live in the same town.
So I say goodnight and walk out into the rain as if this moment meant nothing, no matter what Cinnamon’s disapproving snort implies.
Traitor.
Chapter 7
Walker
I’m not proud of myself. Now that I know Kate and Mallory live in Indigo Hills, I go onto social media and search every hashtag I can think of, but I don’t find pictures of either of them easily.
It’s when I finally look at Izzy‘s socials that I locate Mallory’s sister. Kate’s featured occasionally, and when I click on her social, there are images of her with Mallory.
Bingo.
Though not very many, and none of them are tagged. That’s disappointing. I’ve spent two years making sure the version of me that lives on the internet is carefully managed: what gets posted, what gets tagged, and what disappears. Mallory apparently had the same idea. The difference is, she didn’t need a whole team to pull it off.
I love that in every picture, Mallory is wearing some form of black, her thick eyeliner calling to me along with that sweetheart face and her pouty lips.
Does it matter, really? I can’t even jerk off to ease the ache in my loins because I’m sharing a damn room with six other people. Thank fuck for the shower. At least there’s a curtain. I was smart enough to make sure no one was around before I showered this morning.
I pictured her curves, her breasts, my hands tracing the soft curves of her body as she washes mine. I could see her kneeling at my feet, her full lips swallowing my swollen cock, thick with need, as I fist her dark hair.
And now I’m mucking out stalls in the horse barn, getting hard all over again.
Damnit to hell.
I spray my face with cold water, which does the trick.
After I move to the next stall, Lucinda approaches, her voice soothing. “Cam.” She’s never called me Walker—it’s always been Cameron.
“Hey, Luce.” I set the sprayer down and shoot my mom’s bestie a huge grin, which she doesn’t return. Fuck. “What’s up?”
She motions to the small barn office, which is empty at the moment. I follow her inside, shutting the wooden door behind us.
I heave a sigh, leaning my elbows on the back of a chair. “The press found me?”
“It’s not that bad. Yet. But a teen boy came to me and asked if you’re related to Walker James.”
“Well, hell.”
Lucinda chuckles, her warm eyes crinkling at the corners. “I asked him why on earth a relative of Walker James would work here. He had no answer and left to get more ice cream.”
