Page 7 of Fall or Nothing

“Face it. He’s ghosted.” So much for thinking my luckhad changed. I exhaled sharply and forced myself to stop looking.

“Sage, there you are.” The pastor’s wife caught me by the arm. Pamela had teased platinum hair, perfectly plucked eyebrows, and bright lipstick, always looking ready for a Southern beauty pageant. Transplanted to Montana after she met her husband in college, the Christian couple were well-regarded in town. “Harper told me about the lavender bath oil you make. Do you think I could buy a few bottles of it for my church ladies? Christmas is around the corner and nothing would make me happier than to shop locally for them. I’ll take five bottles.”

My hand flew to my heart. “Oh, but I’ve never sold?—”

“Wonderful. Sage will have those for you soon, Pam,” Harper appeared at my elbow suddenly. Pam grinned, satisfied, and moved on.

“Harper, I make things just for fun. Never sold a bottle in my life.” I turned on her, although tempered myself since she was both a friend and my boss and owner of the Copper Cup coffee shop.

“I know, but I had an idea when I was talking with Pam earlier about putting up a shelf of locally made art and products in the shop, what with Christmas coming and all,” she explained. “And don’t worry, I’ll help you figure out pricing and such. You just make up another batch and bring them into the shop as soon as you can. Oh, I see my husband wants me by his side again. This event has been just what his campaign needed leading up to next week’s election.”

She rushed back into the arms of her tall sheriff, leavingme speechless.

When I started dabbling with my herbs and spices, I never imagined I’d sell anything. The possibilities kept me thinking, though, as I threw myself into helping wherever needed the rest of the night—refilling cider, adjusting decorations, encouraging people to dance.

Now and then, my eyes drifted, just in case Carter reappeared and I could give him a piece of my mind for leaving me hanging. Clearly, he wasn’t as interested in me as those butterflies in my stomach wanted to believe.

THREE

Stranded

CARTER

What was I thinking?One look into Sage’s eyes and I realized I couldn’t do this.

Those warm, curious eyes that lit up when we talked about plants… they saw too much. Or maybe they sawme—the real me hiding behind the new-cowboy act—and that scared the hell out of me more than anything.

I wasn’t a good liar by nature to begin with.

Living without my money and the Magnus last name would be a challenge. But to stand there in front of a pretty and innocent woman like her, pretending I fit into her world, surrounded by small-town people?

Made everything a little too real.

I shoved my hands into my pockets and got lost in the crowd, but her voice kept echoing in my head. That easy, genuine sound had cut through the noise of the barn dance like nothing else tonight.

My fingers curled around the keys to the Ferrari, still in my pocket since I’d followed Chris on the drive over her.Without another thought, fear took flight. I ran straight to it.

Fuck it.

One night. Just one more night to be the old Carter, then tomorrow I’ll figure this mess out.

My joy ride tearing down the curvy road eventually led me to a bar, with a bunch of motorcycles parked out front—which should have been my first clue to stay away.

When I entered, all eyes landed on me. All eyes belonging to the grungy, leather-wearing, long-haired, and bearded members of the Raisin’ Hell MC Club, according to the patches they wore.

They all took one look at me, from Chris’ Stetson on my head down to his rich Lucchese buck leather boots, and practically snarled.

The ginger-man at the bar shook his head, eyes narrowing. “You’re in the wrong place, man.”

I swallowed. But one stiff drink was all I needed. Then I could head to the nearest airport and get as far away from here as possible.

“Bartender… drinks on me,” I shouted, pulling out my black card and holding it high in the air. That was the only way I knew to make an entire MC club my new best friends. And thank fuck Chris hadn’t taken my wallet away from me yet.

The ginger-man patted the empty barstool next to him, suddenly sporting a toothy grin. “Well, hell, we’ll accept your hospitality. Where are you from, friend, because I can tell you’re not from around here?”

“Just passing through,” I responded. The bartender puta beer in front of me in a frosted mug. “Can you add a shot of your best bourbon on the side, please?”

“Yes, ol’ chap, please give us all a finger of bourbon, compliments of my new pal here,” the ginger-man mocked my accent and roared with laughter, along with all of his followers around the bar. He must be the ringleader.