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I expect her quick-witted return but all I get are those three dots, appearing, disappearing. I reread her last text and think maybe it deserved less of a smart-ass response because hockey isn’t all I care about.
I care a whole lot about getting a text back from her for one.
ME
FOR THE RECORD, I CARE ABOUT MORE THAN HOCKEY.
The bubbles dance one more time before she finally writes:
JOEY
I GUESS BOTH OF US ARE ON STALL REST FOR BIT. I’M TAKING A BREAK FROM MY JOB AND WORKING WITH YOUR MOM AND THE KIDS FOR A FEW WEEKS. I’LL PROBABLY SEE YOUR MOPEY ASS AROUND.
I push myself up, her words bringing me to attention. Why would she work with the western sport school instead of her vet business? Her expression and words from the bar come flooding back.Fine.She said it was all fine. It’s hard to believe it, but it’s pretty obvious she doesn’t like being a vet. Or maybe it’s work stress. All jobs come with it. My ankle is a case in point.
But a sickening memory emerges from the past and makes it seem a lot worse than being off with a twisted ankle.
My heart beats harder, my veins stiffen… is Jolie okay?
I remember when she went off to vet school, Logan tried to talk her out of it. He’d read the data around mental health in that profession. Honestly, it shocked me when he quoted stats on suicide, therapy… We were in the dorms our last year when he read an article to me out loud, and I still remember one of the heartbreaking thoughts about the highs and lows of being a vet. One minute you’re euthanizing an animal, the next, helping a family welcome a new puppy into their home. Logan, protective as always, confronted Jolie about it. She brushed him off saying it’s worse for small animal vets. She said that kind of thing isn’t as prevalent with large animals and that’s mostly what she wanted to do. But still…
I can’t think of a single other reason why Joey would need a break.
She texts again before I have time to respond.
JOEY
IT WAS DECIDED BEFORE YOUR INJURY, SO DON’T THINK I’M FOLLOWING YOU AROUND OR ANYTHING. YOU’RE NOT THAT GREAT ANYMORE.
I bite my cheek. Whatever is going on, Jolie Hunter is still all sass and wild words. If she still has her humor, that’s something. And know she’ll appreciate mine.
ME
I CAME BACK TO THE CANYON TO FIND MY PLACE NOT BE PUT IN MY PLACE.
JOEY
LUCKY BOY. YOU CAN HAVE BOTH NOW. HAVE YOUR CARROT CAKE AND EAT IT, TOO.
This woman has always had a way of making me smile. And maybe I’m here for these two weeks for a reason. Maybe it was all meant to be, because even though Jolie and I haven’t talked properly for over a decade, I know I can get through to her.
Chapter Eight
I shouldn’t have mentionedI’d be working with his mom for the next few weeks, but the last thing I want is for Ashton Dane to think I’m going to start chasing him around again or that me being here has anything to do with seeing him. He still might be a tasty snack, but I won’t let myself get caught in that orbit again. His gravity was impossible to escape the first time around.
But since I mentioned I’d be at Moon Ridge Ranch, of course, he showed up. To bother me. To get in my hair.
My belly flutters at the sight of him walkingin, limping slightly, with a thin, well-worn t-shirt as a mere silhouette over his broad chest. He wears a jacket with a hoodie sticking out the back and has that goddamn backward baseball cap on. And he doesn’t look like he shaved today. Why am I a sucker for stubble? It’s the pain-pleasure dynamic. And that’s exactly what Ashton Dane is. Pain and pleasure at the same time.
I let my eyes linger on the sexy country boy hobbling across the sand of the indoor arena toward the small grandstands along one side. That boy totally broke my heart. I let him. And I never once got mad at him for it. That’s the thing about him. No matter how hard I try, he’s just too well-meaning to push away. Even now. Even the other night at Sly’s…
Thankfully, five eight-to-ten-year-olds command my attention because they all start to try to lasso one another while waiting for me to snap out of my daydream. I’d better do that right quick because one of these youngsters might get hurt, and Monica—thinking I’m a responsible adult—said she’d leave me to it. She taught me well when I was as small as these kiddos, and knows I can handle the basics.
I give one last glance. He’s sitting now and catches my eye, salutes me. I send one back and turn my attention to the youngsters, but it’s not easy pulling my eyes off him. “So the first thing we need to talk about is, we will not be trying to wrangle each other. That’s rule number one.”
“Hey,” a red-headed boy pipes up. “I thought this was supposed to be fun.”
A soft laugh reaches me from the stands. Ashton leans on the front of the grandstand, one arm draped over the front row barricade, and his fingers trace his upper lip like he eagerly awaits my showdown with these kids.
