Page 54 of High Water

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking about all of that. I didn’t realize you were sentimental about this, but I’ll buy something new. There’s a place in town I’ve been wanting to go anyway, and they have some bridal gowns. I’m sure Fallon will be excited to have one as well.” Fallon is going to yell about not wanting to have “this man” buy her anything, but that’s not what he needs to hear right now.

“I’ll take care of the cake.”

“I can pick something out. Marlowe might have time to whip something up for us if I ask nicely. Do you still like vanilla with buttercream?” I try to hold out an olive branch by letting him know I still remember things about him. I used to think about him every time I went to a birthday party for one of Fallon’s friends, and they served vanilla birthday cake. Wishing he were there with us to see her growing up and enjoy sharing a piece with her.

“No.”

“No? No, you don’t want me to get a cake, or no, you don’t like vanilla?”

“No, I don’t like vanilla. Not unless it’s you making it.”

“You don’t? I thought⁠—”

“I never liked vanilla. You got it in your head that I did when we were kids, and you always made it for me. I ate it because you made it. Not because I liked vanilla.”

“Oh.” I’m quiet in the wake of that revelation, and he starts to walk off. “Well, what flavor do you want? You pick, and I’ll get Marlowe to make it. She and her bakery are the seventh wonder of the world.” I follow after him as he makes his way to his truck.

“Surprise me.”

“That’s not fair. I haven’t known your tastes for fifteen years. How am I supposed to guess correctly?” I call after him. As much as I’m still working through my feelings and anger, I do care about him. I want him to have something he enjoys in all of this, and I feel awful.

“Guess you’ll have to figure that out, won’t you?” He reaches for the handle on his truck, and I dip in between him and the door, bringing us within inches of touching, our lips close enough that if we both lean in, we could kiss. Right here. Right now. And, honestly, if it’d calm the stormy look on his face, I’d do it. Especially after his grandmother’s lecture today.

“How?” I ask, softening my tone.

“Try,” is his only response, his eyes raking down my body and landing on the low cut of my blouse. He normally averts his gaze and tries to make it seem like it was accidental when he does this, careful to maintain an air of plausible deniability, but he’s blatant now. His eyes eat up my skin and sweep over the swell of my breasts.

Is it hot out here already? Maybe it was one of those way too early in the year eighty-degree days Colorado always manages. The one you get right before a blizzard and a foot of snow two days later.

“And,” he adds, breaking the tense silence that’s mounting in the tight space between us. “Get yourself some new lingerie to wear under the dress too. I know you won’t let me see it, but I want to know it’s there.”

“What color?” I try to offer another white flag. He starts to speak, but I cut him off. “And don’t tell me to guess. If I’m doing it for you, then I want to know I’m doing it right.”

There’s a flash of something bright in his eyes, and a small smirk spreads on his lips.

“Black, so it can match your heart when you say your vows, or red so it can match the color they were at that Christmas party when Ethan watched you disappear into a bathroom with me. Your choice.”

My lips part as the memory flashes through my mind like an old VHS tape I’d buried deep in the recesses of its archives. His hand slips under my chin, and he brings his mouth whisper-close to mine.

“Yeah, I know, honey. It’s one of my favorite memories too. I bet you two fought about that one long after I was gone. Didn’t you?” His smirk curls until it’s almost a full-blown grin.

“You’re…” I study his face, trying to make sense of the soft-spoken ranch hand I knew and the man who’s talking to me with such a callous disregard for propriety now.

“I’m?” He raises a brow in question.

“Shameless.”

A laugh rumbles from his chest, and he leans forward, pressing his forehead to mine.

“And what does that say about you that you like it so much, Jones?”

I like it far too much. Far more than is good for me, or either of us, really, given how desperate I am to have him kiss me again. I tear myself away from his grip, and he doesn’t fight me.

TWENTY-TWO

Aspen

“Good, isn’t it?” Hazel asks as she and Dakota watch me take a bit of the strawberry-rhubarb-stuffed croissant that Marlowe’s debuting this week. I nod enthusiastically as I chew my bite.