Page 21 of Wildflowers & Whiskey

Beside me, Colt shifts his weight. The movement snaps whatever weird moment was happening.

“Office is yours,” he says.

Wade gives a short nod, then turns, disappearing down the hallway without another word.

Colt turns to me, a little smirk on his face. “We should probably call it a night before I tell you every embarrassing thing I’ve ever done.”

Then, unexpectedly, he leans in and presses a soft kiss to my cheek. It’s not romantic. Not really. But it’s sweet. And it makes my skin tingle.

“Thanks for tonight, Maeve,” he says. “It was good to… talk.”

“Yeah,” I reply. “Thanks for trusting me.”

We walk to the front door together, say a couple of sleepy goodbyes, and then he’s gone.

When I get back to my room, I kick off my slippers, peel off my tracksuit bottoms, and collapse onto the bed in my oversized T-shirt and underwear, not bothering with the covers. I lie there and stare at the ceiling, trying to sink into the quietness of the empty house.

But down the hall, I can hear movement. Papers rustling. A chair scraping against the floor.

Right. Wade’s still here. Just us. Alone in the house.

If my body didn’t feel like a sack of potatoes, I might’ve wandered down there. Dutch courage-fuelled, of course. But before the thought fully forms, I hear the front door closing.

Silence follows. The house is empty again.

Just me and my thoughts.

I should be thinking about Colt. About everything he told me tonight. About his kindness, and that sweet kiss on my cheek.

Instead, it’s Wade that has taken up residence in my mind. The way he fills every doorway he stands in. How his tired eyes lingered on mine before he disappeared down that hallway. It really felt like he was about to say something, which is ridiculous because Wade treats words like they're a limited resource.

Still, I can’t stop thinking about him.

I groan and drag a pillow over my face.

Fuck this shit. I give in.

I slide my thong down my legs, knowing that I either finger-fuck the thoughts out of my head or I won’t sleep tonight. Simple. And yeah, maybe I’m a little drunk. Probably a little touch starved. But I am done caring at this point.

Nothing wrong with fantasising, right?

Not that I need any more convincing.

My fingers find that pulsing ache that’s been taunting me ever since he leant over me in the truck. I let my eyes fall close and conjure the vivid image of Wade carrying haystacks, shirtless. Totally random. Totally not mad about it. His broad chest. Veiny, tattooed arms flexing with every lift. Yeah. That’ll do.

My breathing quickens. My hips shift against the mattress, chasing the rhythm my fingers have started. The heat coils low in my stomach. Tension building with every slow circle.

The room is quiet, except for the shamefully desperate sounds of me falling apart.

Then, I hear something.

A creak.

Downstairs?

Maybe. Or maybe I imagined it.

I really couldn’t care less right now. All I can focus on is this building tension teasing the sweet edge of release. My free hand grips the sheet beside me, twisting it into my fist. My back arches just slightly as the pressure builds, builds, builds—