She picks up her glass. Sets it down. Picks it up again.
This woman beside me says something and I respond and I don't hear a word of it either.
Remy leans close to my ear. "For someone who's not interested," he says quietly, "she sure is interested."
I look down at the table.
Laney looks up at exactly the same moment.
Our eyes meet for two full seconds before she looks away first.
She picks up her drink again and drains the rest of it in one go.
I turn back to the woman beside me and smile and say something appropriate and feel Laney's eyes on the side of my face like a brand.
My grip tightens slightly around the bourbon glass before I even realize I'm doing it.
Chapter six
Too Close For Comfort
Laney
Iwasn't jealous.
That is my position and I'm keeping it.
What I was, was tired. It was a long day with the storm and the barn and the conversation that got more honest than I planned for. By the time we got to Whiskey River I was running on fumes, bourbon, and that frayed energy that comes from spending too many hours in close quarters with a man who is increasingly difficult to be annoyed at.
That's all it was.
I get to the barn at five-forty-five the next morning, fifteen minutes earlier than usual, because laying in my bunk staring at the ceiling felt less productive than getting something done.
The bunkhouse was quiet when I left. Remy was snoring through the wall the way he always does, steady and completely unbothered by the universe, and Silas's light was already on which means he was awake too but neither of us made a thing of it.
I have a list. The list is long. The list will keep me busy and focused and completely unbothered by anything that is not directly ranch related.
I start with the horse barn.
Biscuit gets his morning check first, same as always. He bumps my hand when I reach his stall and I give him the apple slices I cut up in the bunkhouse kitchen earlier. I was awake anyway and it gave me something to do at four-thirty that wasn't thinking about eye contact across a crowded bar.
I move down the stall line.
June texted me last night after we got home. The message said simply:that woman was aggressively boring and you have nothing to worry about.I stared at it for a solid minute before typing back:I wasn't worried.June sent back a single emoji that I chose not to engage with and put my phone back in my pocket.
I was not worried.
I grab the feed buckets and get moving.
Remy shows up at six with his hat on sideways and a breakfast burrito from somewhere and the cheerful unrepentant energy of a man who slept perfectly and finds everything about this morning deeply funny. He leans against the barn door and watches me work with the specific quality of attention that means he's deciding whether to say something.
"Don't," I tell him.
"I wasn't gonna say anything."
"You were absolutely gonna say something."
He takes a bite of his burrito. Chews. Looks at the distance. "She wasn't even that pretty."
