He looks at me deep in my eyes for a moment, like he wants to say something, something I might want to hear.
But he doesn’t. He puts his hat on, turns, walks slowly out the door, closing it gently behind him.
The click of the latch is deafening.
I stand there, chest heaving, tequila burning in my throat, tears finally falling hot and fast. I got the good side of Cole while he was here, the breakfasts, the pool, the nights tangled up talking until dawn. I’ve seen how he could be. What we could be. And then he left and was different. Distant. Cold. I don’t deserve that. That was the bad side of Cole, the side that shuts down, that can’t say the words, that leaves me guessing. I just don’t know how to process this. I need communication. Open communication. I need space.
Chapter 21
Your New Best Friend
Cole
I barge into the house, screen door slamming behind me with a sharp crack that echoes through the quiet night air, the wood frame rattling like it’s pissed too. The warmth inside hits me, thick with the scent of meatloaf and fresh biscuits, garlic lingering heavy, making my stomach growl despite the knot in it. I go into the dining room where everyone is sitting eating a late dinner because we just got back and we’re all starving.
“What the fuck, Maggie!?” I stand over her while she’s sitting at the table, voice low but sharp, my shadow falling across her plate. “Abby was here?”
“Back off, Cole,” Maggie says, standing up, shouting in my face. “I wasn’t the one who invited her. It was Nancy.”
“Nancy?” I turn, look at her. So does Maggie.
My dad looks surprised—worried, even. The room goes still, the only sound is the faint tick of the wall clock and the hum of the fridge, silverware paused mid-air.
My dad says really calmly, “Why was Abby over here, Nancy?”
Everyone is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Forks hover, eyes wide, the tension thick as molasses.
Nancy lets out a long exhale. “Oh my. I didn’t think it would cause all this.” She takes a sip of tea, the cup clinking softly against the saucer. “Her father is sick. He comes every Wednesday to get eggs. This week Abby came instead. That is allll.”
My heart is pounding out of my chest at the betrayal, blood rushing hot in my ears, fists clenched until my knuckles ache.
“I don’t want her or her father at this ranch ever again.” I look at dad and everyone sitting around.
That’s fucked up. Who knew about this? Everyone? And behind my back? What the fuck!! I grab a six-pack out of the fridge—the cans ice-cold, condensation slick against my palm—and storm up to my room, boots thudding heavy on the stairs, each step vibrating through the old wood floors. The hallway’s dim, shadows stretching long from the single bulb, air cooler up here, smelling faintly of dust and pine from the open window.
I slam the door shut, drop onto the bed—the mattress dipping under my weight, springs creaking—and pop a lid on a Coors. The hiss is sharp, foam bubbling cold as I take a long sip. The beer’s crisp, bitter, sliding down my throat like a temporary balm, but it doesn’t touch the fire in my chest.
The thought burns. Abby here, on my land, while I was gone. The betrayal stings sharp, like salt in a fresh cut. But Layla… She thinks that’s what I want? Some ghost from the past? No. Layla is what I want. That body, curves that drive meinsane, soft and full, fitting against me like she was made for my hands. Everything. Her laugh… bright, real, the kind that cuts through my bullshit and makes me feel lighter than I have in years.
Three knocks at my door—soft, hesitant. I look up, it’s Maggie. So I stand and switch positions—my back against the headboard, rough wood cool through my shirt. Maggie sits at the bottom of my bed, the mattress shifting under her weight.
She stares at me, eyes searching, like she’s reading every line on my face.
“I fucked it up, Maggie. Bad. I’ve done everything the wrong way. I should’ve asked her to go. Why didn’t I ask? Why didn’t I respond?”
The words tumble out, rough and raw, my throat tight. I crack open a beer—the pop echoing in the quiet room—and hand it to her.
She takes it, sips slow.
“No, you are. You’re a fucking idiot.” She leans forward. “You like her, Cole. More than like. You just don’t have the balls to say it.”
I shake my head, frustration boiling. “She thinks Abby is the kind of girl I want. She thinks I treat her differently because she’s a bigger girl, when in fact I think she’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. She’s all I think about. Day in, day out. I asked her to stay. I want her to stay.”
The room feels smaller now, the beer can sweating in my hand, my pulse still hammering from the confrontation downstairs.
Maggie hesitates, then says, “If she was to stay here, Cole… where would she stay? In the house you told her you built for Abby?”
I freeze. Fuck. Why did I tell her that? That’s why I don’t open up. That’s why I don’t say anything. The regret hits like agut punch, sour and sharp, my chest tightening until it hurts to breathe.
