Page 35 of Wildflowers & Whiskey

There's something in the request that sits heavier than face value. She's all serious and deep in thought, like if she doesn't learn to ride, it will mean something more than just missing out on exploring the ranch. Like it matters in a way she hasn't quite put into words yet.

“Yeah,” I say. “Of course.”

Her shoulders drop. Just slightly. Like she'd been bracing herself for a rejection without realising it.

“Yeah?” She looks at me properly for the first time since we sat down.

“Yeah, Maeve.” I smile. “Tomorrow morning, if you're up for it.”

More one-on-one time with Maeve? Like I was ever going to say no to that.

“Yes, thank you so much,” she says, and before I can respond, she's thrown herself sideways, arms around my shoulders, enthusiasm firmly in the driving seat.

I laugh and squeeze her back, fully embracing her closeness. “We'll have to start slow, though. Get you comfortable around them first, build their trust. No riding right away.”

She pulls back, wrinkling her nose. “How long till I can?”

“Depends on how good of a student you are.”

She lets out a small laugh. “So potentially forever.”

“I didn't say that.”

She smiles at that, and my chest does what it's been doing around her more lately. That quiet, inconvenient lurch I've stopped pretending isn't there.

The last of the light drops behind the hills. The evening settles around us, the ranch ready for its rest.

And just like that, the dopamine high I was riding earlier has returned. All thanks to the girl who is becoming more than what I ever could have wanted.

The girl whom I am pretty sure I am falling for…

Chapter Twelve

Maeve

Watching the hues of orange and yellow blanket the Wildbrook Hollow mountains, I sit on the little porch swing and savour the warmth of the coffee cupped close to my chest, taking a quiet moment to breathe it all in before I return to my usual morning activity. Reading.

I still cannot believe this is my life. This level of peace every morning, before the workday comes flooding in. I get up extra early just to protect it—to savour at least one hour of reading in the quiet. Something I could have never experienced in London, no matter what ungodly hour I dragged myself out of bed at.

Every day, I wait for the inevitable. Something that brings back the feeling I know all too well on my trips. The slow realisation that wherever I've landed isn't quite right. That I don't belong there any more than I belonged in the previous place. It's followed me my entire life. Shown up eventually everywhere I've tried.

But it hasn't come yet. Not here.

And I pray to God, Buddha, a Leprechaun, and every other lucky icon in between that it doesn’t. Because this place, this life, is starting to feel like it could actually be it.

Today’s book of choice—just like every day for the past two months—is a very steamy cowboy romance. I am fully aware that reading these kinds of books while surrounded by more than a dozen off-limit cowboys is a poor decision on my part. But apparently, I am a masochist. One who can't help but dream of a strong, rough cowboy doing things that would have Satan himself reaching for a fan.

The scene I’m currently devouring has me fidgeting, the porch swing rocking back and forth with more enthusiasm than intended. I take in every single word, getting lost in how it must feel to be the female main character. And just as the cowboy’s rough, calloused hands reach around her neck to pin her up against the wall, a fresh cup of coffee appears in front of my face. The steam fogs my glasses immediately.

If it weren't for the cup of coffee blocking the view of my e-reader, I would be a very mardy girl, ready to jump down the throat of whoever is attached to the hand holding it. But as the steam clears from my lenses, I clock the rose tattoo curling up toward the wrist, ink slightly faded at the edges from age.

A hand I have looked at more times than I'd like to admit over the past few weeks, while we work side by side, while he leans over paperwork at the kitchen counter, while he absently turns his flask between his palms during lunch. A hand that I won’t ever get to experience, because it is attached to my boss, who is a big no-no. Off limits. Must not go there.

But God, it’s hard not to imagine. Even more so now he is around more often, making me feel like I am constantly being edged just by looking at him.

Maybe it is time I start reading something different… Maybe a thriller? Nothing about a thriller is sexy, right?

I take the cup, grazing his fingers with the motion—definitely not on purpose—and pass him my empty one in return. Wade disappears back into the house without a word, returning moments later with his flask. He places himself in his usual spot at the far end of the railing, one boot crossed over the other, both hands wrapped around the flask, eyes fixed on the sunrise This has become our routine. Since our trip to town, Wade has become a regular participant in my morning routine. At first, I found it strange. He would just stand away from what I have claimed as my spot, leaning over the weathered porch rail smouldering into the sunrise. Then, gradually, the coffee started appearing, served with what I assumed is his attempt of a smile, a slight softening around the jaw, and barely a full rise of the corners of his mouth. Still no words. If I was lucky, I got his signature grunt or a hum in response to my thanks, but nothing to provide me an insight of what this 100kg—give or take—ball of confusion’s goal is.