By the time I realize how late it is, it’s already past three in the morning. Drunk and exhausted, I barely make it to the couch before passing out and abandoning my laptop.
When I wake up, my mouth tastes like regret and bad decisions. And my head, let’s not even go there. I check my phone.
2:07 p.m.
Well… shit.
Sunlight floods the room like it’s personally offended by my life choices. I shuffle over to the window, coffee in hand, and squint outside.
Cole is down by the fence line, talking to the ranch hands, probably bossing them around, if I had to guess.
I scowl. Typical.
I take a sip of coffee, standing there in my oversized T-shirt and yesterday’s emotions, when he looks up. And of course… he sees me. Our eyes lock. And then he starts walking toward the house.
Oh hell no.
I step back from the window like I’ve been caught committing a crime. I’m not dressed. I haven’t brushed my teeth. My hair looks like I wrestled the couch and lost.
A knock sounds at the door.
Nope.
“Yes?” I call through it.
“Can you come out?” Cole asks.
“I think I’m good,” I reply.
“Layla.”
The way he says my name makes my chest ache.
“I’m busy, Cole,” I say, even though I hate every word of it.
I want to talk to him so badly it physically hurts. But I don’t move. Wanting him doesn’t mean I owe him access to me.
You don’t get to kiss me and then abandon me in the woods in a storm and expect me to play nice.
I watch through the peephole as he stands there a second longer, shoulders slumped, before turning and walking away.
Good.
His head hangs low. He should feel bad.
And so should I if I let him think this is enough to get on my good side.
A few nights pass. I don’t go to dinner. No one comes knocking.
I write like a woman possessed.
By the end of the week, I’m twelve chapters in—no writer’s block in sight. Turns out I write best when I’m emotional. Or pissed off. Or when a grumpy cowboy has crawled under my skin and made himself comfortable.
Anger is a hell of a motivator.
I miss Nancy’s cooking more than I care to admit. It’s strange how quiet things have gotten. No Maggie popping in. No Luke cracking jokes. Maybe Cole told them what happened. Or maybe they’re just giving me space.
John did say I was always invited to dinner. And I believe him. You’d think like father, like son—but clearly that’s not the case here. Or maybe I showed up too late to see the nice version of Cole Marshall. Maybe some girl messed him up real good.
