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I shrug. “They’d never catch me.”
The crow’s feet beside his eyes tighten when his mouth twists. He shakes his head, silver hair flying in the wind. I laugh softly, not risking strengthening the pain in my throat.
“Suppose you got a point there. If we linger out here any longer, they’ll take all the good shit on purpose,” he says a beat later.
I sniff and let him lead the way inside.
A disgusting amountof money later, my grandfather is off making delivery plans for his new purchases while I linger by his truck, breathing into my hands to bring some warmth back to them. It was a stupid decision not to bring gloves, but fuck if my grandfather won’t just let me sit inside the cab while I wait.
Most people leaving don’t pay me a lick of attention—either from being used to seeing me around for my entire life or just not giving enough of a shit to bother gawking at me—so it’s easy to tell who the out-of-towners are. The muttered words spoken between friends as they stroll by, wide-eyed at my presence, are enough of a giveaway.
Citizens of Cherry Peak don’t bother whispering when they’re speaking about anyone, even when it comes to their “hometown celebrity.” They’re loud and unafraid of the damage their words could cause.
Maybe it’s the out-of-towners’ effort to hide their curiosity that has me acknowledging the two teenage boys with a half-smile when they pass by, their eyes bright with surprise and misplaced awe. I slip into the mask I wear when meeting fans and watch as they grin and shuffle past, not making any move to come speak to me. I’m grateful for that.
A familiar buzzing rhythm moves along my thigh before I use frozen fingers to pull my phone free. One look at the text and my guard shoots up, invisible snakes hissing in my mind.
16045557841: That picture wasn’t meant for you.
A cool reply from the stranger Caleb couldn’t resist replying to yesterday. When she didn’t respond back to him—or me, I guess—I figured she tucked tail and blocked my number after he sent that ridiculous flirty fucking answer. Maybe I should have been the one to block the number just to be safe. To avoid this exact situation.
Not even a heartbeat later, another message comes through.
16045557841: You didn’t like . . . keep the photo, right? I would appreciate if you removed it from your spank bank if you did.
I scoff, smoke puffing out of my mouth. As if.
Me: I’m not that desperate.
I read the words again and wince, but I’ve already sent the message. That didn’t exactly come out how I meant it to, and when she replies, I know I’ve fucked up.
16045557841: Desperate? DESPERATE? Alright. Leave it up to me to even accidentally text a world class asshole. How typical.
I tap my thumbs on the screen, tonguing my cheek. My grandpa’s voice rings through the parking lot, marking his return. I don’t miss the anger-bitten words he hollers to George before stomping toward the truck. With my fingers moving with a slow numbness, I type out four quick words and hit Send before slipping my phone away.
Me: That came out wrong.
Grandpa reaches me two breaths later, and we slide into the truck, heading back to the ranch. He’s normally a quiet man, but this isn’t a normal silence. For the majority of the drive, hebroods, as Grandma would describe.
I let him sit in his silence for the hour-long drive back but halt him when we pull up outside of the house and he goes to get out of the truck.
“What happened?”
He stiffens, freezing with one hand on the door handle. “Nothin’ you need to worry about.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“You were perfectly fine not carin’ about our problems for a long while, boy. You don’t gotta start up again now.” He grinds the words out, avoiding eye contact.
I swallow, my chest tightening, but focus on keeping my voice level. “I’ve been wonderin’ how long it would take you to finally admit how you felt about me being back here. Took longer than I thought.”
“I didn’t admit anythin’, smartass. Get inside. Your grandmother is waitin’.”
“I’m not a young kid you can boss around anymore,” I point out, the words steely.
Something happened in that goddamn auction to bring this out. I’ve been walking on eggshells since I got back, just waiting for him to finally let me know how pissed he was when I left the ranch to pursue music. Of course, the bullheaded man refused to be honest about his feelings until now. When someone said something to him to spark this reaction.
“By all means, spend the night with the pigs, then,” he growls before carefully shutting the truck door and stalking up the porch steps.
