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The concern catches me off guard.

“No,” I admit quietly. “Not really.”

He goes still, and for the first time since all of this started, saying it out loud makes everything feel a little more real.

Chapter

Twenty-Two

Briggs

The fence post probably doesn’t deserve the amount of force I put behind the post driver, but I’m not exactly in the mood to care.

Metal rattles under my grip, the impact vibrates up my arm, and judging by the look Tripp keeps throwing me from where he’s leaning against the truck, I’m not doing a great job pretending this is a normal morning. Which, fine, it’s not.

Yesterday went sideways fast, and every time I think I’ve managed to shove it out of my head, there she is again. Autumn in the feed store parking lot, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, mad enough to commit another felony because some girl couldn’t keep her hands to herself. Autumn with her fist curled in my shirt after I kissed her. Autumn going quiet when I pulled back and said the worst possible thing I could’ve said.

You’re not right.

Real smooth.

I line up the post again and come down harder than I need to, jaw tight as the memory settles in my mind. That isn’t what I meant. Hell, she probably knows it isn’t what I meant, but knowing that doesn’t fix the fact that I made it sound like kissing her had been a mistake. It wasn’t. That’s the part that’s been crawling around in my head since yesterday, digging in worse every time I try not to think about it.

Not the punch. The kiss.

The way she kissed me back without hesitating, like she’d been just as close to snapping as I was.

“You planning on beating the shit out of that post more,” Tripp asks, “or actually fixing it?”

I don’t look up. “Depends.”

He laughs under his breath. “Aw, buddy. You miss your girlfriend already?”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“She punched somebody for you.”

“She punched somebody.”

“For you,” he says, grinning wider when I finally glance over. “Most women don’t commit assault unless they care.”

“She broke somebody’s nose.”

“She’s a romantic.”

The corner of my mouth almost moves before I kill it, grabbing another post just so my hands have something to do. Tripp notices, but before he can say something else irritating, Clint comes around the trailer carrying barbed wire over one shoulder, coffee and vanilla drifting with him while River lingers near the trough, her big dapple-gray head lowered nibbling at the pasture.

I shove the post into the dirt harder than necessary. “She called me emotionally constipated.”

Tripp laughs loud enough that a couple birds scatter off the fence.

Clint tries not to smile and fails halfway. “Fair.”

I cut him a look. “You wanna be helpful?”

“I’m helping.” He drops the wire near the post and nudges it straight with his boot. “Apologize.”

I snort because it’s easier than admitting he’s probably right. “Pretty sure she’d rather fight me this time.”