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“Okay, keep your hat on.” He clicks his tongue. “Wondered whether you’d be bringing anyone from college to this party … maybe the mysterious girlfriend I heard a few whispers about?”

A rock wedges itself in the back of my throat. “Uhh, no. She wasn’t the right one, ya know.”

“Sorry to hear that, son.”

“I dodged a bad situation, trust me.” I let out a wry laugh, feeling every inch of that moment on the sidewalk when my stomach just about fell out of my ass when I realized that Izzie was pregnant and had my entire life flash before my eyes.

And then the look of anguish on Flinn’s face when I hightailed it out of there without really saying a proper goodbye. What else was I supposed to fucking do, all things considered?

Dad moves to grab the broom leaning against the side of Maple’s stall. But he’s not racing away, so I decide to poke at him about his own love life, since deflecting attention off my own misfortune sounds like a much better plan.

“What about you?” I clear my throat, guiding the grooming brush along Maple’s flank.

“What do you mean?” He pushes the broom with enough force it might snap.

“You don’t need someone?” I smirk.

“No.” That broom must be made of steel.

“Sure about that?”

“You betcha.”

A smirk plays on my lips. Oh, so maybe the old man isn’t quite as dead inside as I thought after all. There might be hope for him yet. “Maybe you’ll find someone this New Year’s Eve?”

“Unlikely,” he mutters, more to himself than to me.

Giving Maple a final pat and a kiss on her forehead, I toss the brush into the bucket and fold my arms, watching him sweep out the center aisle. “They might be right under your nose and you never opened your eyes.” It shouldn’t give me as much joy as it does to push his buttons.

“Well, open your eyes and turn that fucking trough water off before you flood the place,” he barks at me before stalking off in the direction of the tack room.

Ahh, yes. Back home … Rhodes Ranch, where the cowboys are hopelessly single.

CHAPTER 20

I miss my cat, who isn’t my cat. And I miss my cowboy, who isn’t my cowboy.

How much more pathetic can a guy be, two days out from Christmas?

I’ve just watched Hans Gruber fall thirty floors off the top of Nakatomi Plaza—in the ultimate holiday movie, if there ever was one—yet, there’s only so much action a marathon of shoot-’em-up flicks can be useful for providing a distraction. Iconic catch phrases only go so far toward temporarily numbing my brain to the reality … that I’m lying alone with an aching empty space occupying my chest and my bed.

Apparently Flinn switched my hopeless romantic setting to expert level, and now I’m stranded here, flying solo, with no idea how to play the game anymore.

So maybe that’s why I’m staring at his Instagram profile, hoping he’ll post something … anything …

Not desperate behavior. At all.

I can’t help it. All I keep seeing in my head is that final moment on the sidewalk, with him and his sister side by side, and the fallout of her bombshell reveal about being pregnant with the guy she’s been screwing behind my back.

Jesus. What a mess.

It’s eating away at me not knowing how he is or what happened after I walked away. In all of this, it’s Flinn I’m thinking about nonstop. As it turns out, the guy I was supposed to move on from is impossible to forget.

Taking a big gulp of whiskey, I groan and press send on the message I’ve written and deleted fifty times while lying here. I shoot my shot.

Hey. Got any suggestions for what a guy should make to eat tonight?

I’m all out of cat kibble.