“You’re right,” I shake my head.
“Don’t go building this girl a house, Cole. She’s leaving,” she says.
“You don’t know that!” I yell, voice cracking louder than I mean it to, the beer sloshing in my can.
“Sorry.” I immediately apologize, rubbing my face, stubble rough under my palm.
Maggie takes another sip, the can crinkling in her hand.
“No, I don’t want to see my big brother hurt again.”
I look down, the cold seeping into my skin from the beer can.
“If it’s meant to be, it will… give her some space. Be friendly. Let her miss how things were. It’s all psychological… my bro.”
“Thanks, sis. You’re always good with the ladies.” I push her a little with my foot, teasing, the bed shifting under us.
She laughs—short, real.
“Yeah right. I got problems of my own.”
“Want to talk about it?” I ask.
“I think we both have a hard time expressing our emotions. I think I’m falling for Lanie and she told me she feels like I don’t even like her half the time? How could she think that? She’s the only thing I like.”
I chuckle. “I think Layla feels the same.”
“Yeah, it just sucks. I’d love for Layla to see the real you. She deserves that, Cole. And if you really like her, if you love her like I think you do, be her friend first. Show her the real Cole Michael Marshall.”
I smile at her. She walks over, grabs another beer from the six-pack—the cans clinking cold—and heads toward the door. Before closing it, she turns around.
“I’m here, Cole. I’m staying in Clover. I’m here.”
“Good, you belong here, Maggie.”
I smile as she closes the door, soft clicking in the quiet room.
Be her friend first. I think I can do that. I will do anything I need to. I get up, walk over to my bedroom window that looks out over to the guest house. The lights are on inside, soft glow through the curtains, her shadow moving faint. The night air seeps through the cracked window, cool, carrying crickets and distant owl calls, stars sharp overhead like pinpricks in black velvet.
“Looks like you’ve got a new best friend, city girl,” I mumble, taking another sip, the beer cold against my lips, the taste bitter on my tongue.
Chapter 22
Ranch Life
Layla
The morning coffee feels so good in my hands—warm ceramic mug smooth against my palms, steam curling up with that rich, nutty aroma that fills the guest house like a hug—as I sit at my table ready to write a little bit today. The sun slants through the window, golden and bright, dust motes dancing in the beam, but the light feels mocking, too cheerful for the knot in my chest.
It’s been a week since Cole and I have really spoken except for pleasantries and waves—quick “mornin’” nods across the yard or polite smiles at dinner. It feels odd and cold, like a chill that won’t shake even in this heat. I still eat dinner with the family, the table is loud with Luke’s jokes and Maggie’s stories, but John and Nancy are gone today for a trip. So I’m sure there won’t be any dinners for the next few days and I’ll have to fendfor myself, which means I will need to go into town eventually. Or ask Maggie for a ride.
I’ll have to finally talk to Cole today because rent is due and this is the day I always pay him. Which I give it to him and he gives it to John. This doesn’t have to be awkward. It can be easy. Friendly. Like it has been. But my pulse quickens just thinking about it. His eyes on me, that rough voice saying my name. God, why does even the thought of him still do this to me?
I see Cole outside walking a horse back to the barn—his silhouette tall and steady against the morning light, dust kicking up under his boots, so this is my perfect time to get this over with. I throw on my shorts and a tank top—the fabric soft and light against my sun-kissed skin—pull on my boots, the leather warm and familiar around my calves. Slide the check into my back pocket, crisp paper folding neat.
As I step outside I step on something, a soft thud under my boot. It’s a book and a note… I pick up the book—worn cover, title bold:RANCH LIFE.It’s a self-help book about living on a ranch. The note attached says “thought this might spark ideas for your book. -C”
C? Cole left me a book? That’s kind of sweet and thoughtful. He never asks much about what I’m writing or anything about my books. My heart does a stupid little flip, warmth spreading despite myself. I smile at the book, grip it tight, the pages slightly dog-eared, like he thumbed through it first and I run back inside to set it on my laptop. Along with the note from said C. The paper’s rough under my fingers, his handwriting quick and slanted, like he wrote it in a hurry but meant it.
