Sliding my headphones in, I pull on my gloves and flex my fingers until they fit snug. The air inside the barn is thick with hay and cedar dust. I breathe it in, grounding myself in the ache of my muscles and the rhythm of work—clearing out the soiled bedding, spreading clean shavings, doing everything I can to take his advice and not overthink this.
No distractions. No fantasies.
Just work.
Theysaytimeflieswhen you’re having fun, but it moves even faster when you’re working from sunrise to sunset.
I don’t mind it.
Keeping busy means I’m not stuck in my head, overanalyzing everything. Like how nobody’s called or texted to check on me.
Emmett invited me on a trail ride with a smaller group—a break, supposedly—but it didn’t really feel like one. Not when I had to force a smile through the sting of blisters and the ache in every muscle.
Still, it was nice to step away from the barn for a little while—from the foul stench of horse manure—and breathe in the fresh, clean mountain air.
On Friday, I had lunch at the lodge and talked with Lydia. I like her more than I expected to. She’s not what you’d assume at first glance—she’s loud, unfiltered, and unapologetically herself.
She’s the polar opposite of the girls I saw sneaking out of the bunkhouse this morning—trying too hard to be something they’re not.
I would know.
Her dark, wavy hair brushes the waistband of her jeans, the rich color bringing out the warm glow of her skin. A gold hoop pierces the right side of her strong nose, and her arms are inked in delicate fine-line tattoos. She radiates confidence and truly doesn’t care what anyone thinks.
I wish I could be like that.
She holds her own with the guys, too. They came in for lunch as I was leaving, and she handled Wesley’s grumpiness with nothing but sweet smiles and easy jokes.
The other guys on the crew tease her constantly, but she always has a comeback and makes them laugh loud enough to echo through the vaulted ceilings in the lodge.
But my favorite is when she and Emmett really get into it. Their personalities are so similar, it’s like they were made to challenge each other—but neither of them ever backs down.
Sometimes they get so heated, it feels like there’s something more there. Then again, maybe I’m projecting. I’m definitely not the best at reading that kind of thing.
Every text I’ve sent to Kolson since I got here has been left on read, and after Tori brought up the photos, I’d be an idiot to keep waiting around and holding onto hope that one day he’d notice me.
I might be inexperienced, but I’m not stupid.
It hurts to admit whatever we were is over, but I don’t have the energy—or the mental bandwidth—for the mind games anymore.
I take a sip of my water, fold my napkin over what’s left of my sandwich, and push the plate away. I’m too nervous to eat. Wesley texted late last night for me to meet him and Emmett at the bar so we could all drive together.
Lydia walks over, slowly reaching for my plate. “If you don’t like sandwiches, why do you order one every day?”
“I like sandwiches,” I say, glancing at the clock behind the bar, then at the door.
She clears her throat and lifts the napkin, revealing the untouched half of my sandwich. “Could’ve fooled me. We can make you something else so you’re not hungry—”
“I’m fine, really,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m not hungry.” I tack on a smile I hope reads as sincere.
She narrows her eyes and frowns. “Alrighty. Whatever you say.”
I glance back at the door and take another sip of water.
“No matter how many times you check that door, they’re still gonna be late,” she smirks.
“Oh, um, I was just—”
“Uh-huh. You don’t have to be shy around me. It’s no secret those boys have everyone within a hundred miles wrapped around their fingers,” she says with a laugh. “It’s been that way our whole lives.”
