I swallow. “Anyway. I walked out. Got in my car. Drove until the road disappeared under me. Literally. Hit black ice. Spun out. And the place I crashed just happened to be… the McCoy ranch.”
“Just happened,” Charlotte echoes, brow arching. “Right outside your childhood best friend’s ranch. Very subtle, subconscious.”
“Do not psychoanalyze me while I’m elbow deep in dough,” I warn. “It’s dangerous. I’m armed with cookie cutters.”
Her lips twitch. “So you crashed.”
“Yes. And then…” Heat creeps up my neck because saying his name still feels like lighting a match near a gas leak. “Dallas found me. He brought me to the ranch. Let me stay while the storm was bad.”
“So, you broke off your almost corporate wedding, crashed your car, and then your hot cowboy best friend swooped in and rescued you from a snowbank. That’s basically a Hallmark movie.”
It sounds ridiculous when she says it like that. Neat. Romantic. Like something with a soundtrack and an easy ending.
What actually happened felt messier. Colder. Hotter. Like two people grabbing at something real without knowing what it would cost them afterward.
“Charlotte,” Mom says, fighting a smile.
“What?” she says innocently. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking.”
I reach for more dough, trying to ignore the flare of warmth in my chest at the phrasebest friend.“We’re not… Look, it’s complicated.”
“Complicated… It sounds like you kissed him.”
I slam the star cutter down hard enough that it almost dents the counter. “We are not having this conversation.”
My body remembers it instantly… the cold night air, his warm hands, the way he kissed me.
“Oh my.” Her hand flies to her mouth. “You did. You totally did. You kissed the cowboy.”
“Please stop calling him ‘the cowboy.’ It sounds like I made out with a Halloween decoration from Tractor Supply.”
Charlotte laughs so hard she wheezes. Mom presses her lips together, trying not to smile.
“I’m telling you my life imploded and you’re making jokes,” I say, but there’s no real heat in it.
“That’s my coping mechanism,” Charlotte replies. “Yours is baking. Mine is inappropriate humor and tiny tattoos.”
“That tracks,” I mutter.
Her laughter fades. “So you like him.”
I pause, the truth sitting heavy in my chest. Liking him isn’t the scary part. Trusting myself not to disappear into him, or run from him, is.
Because what we did wasn’t casual. And pretending it was feels like lying to both of us.
Charlotte’s expression gentles. “Faith…”
“It’s different now,” I say quietly, lining cookie shapes up on the tray. “We’re not kids anymore. He’s… been through so much. I’ve been… gone. And my heart is already a mess. I don’t think I can handle another heartbreak.”
Not after how safe it felt to be in his arms. Not after how terrifyingly easy it was to imagine staying.
“Is he a jerk?” she asks.
“No.”
“Controlling?”
“No.”
