Page 5

Morgan smirks, lifting the glass in his hand to his lips. “I’ll wash it.”

“Bet your ass ya will.” I take his drink and sniff it. It bites back and I narrow my eyes. “Goddamn it. Who gave you that?”

He nods to Lillian. “This girl.”

“I did not, Jackass.” Lillian rolls her eyes and takes Morgan’s keys from him. “You stole it.”

He probably did. Morgan takes off toward the bar once more and Lillian shakes her head. “What am I going to do?”

“Probably should have thought about that before ya fucked a married man.”

Lillian snorts, hitting my shoulder. The Christmas lights hung up over the bar twinkle in her eyes. “They’re getting a divorce.”

“Uh-huh.” I snake my arm around her shoulder. “That’s what the other woman always says.”

She stares at Morgan, disappointment in her eyes. “You’re one to talk.”

There’s truth in that statement but I refuse to acknowledge it. Instead, I point out the bruise on her arm and give her a one-armed hug. “What the fuck kinda shit are y’all into?”

Lillian glances at her arm and then rolls her eyes. “It’s sad. The bruises he left last longer than he does.”

I have no idea what she means by that. And then she walks away from me, toward California. I sneak a glance at the girl Barron’s so captivated with. This isn’t going to end well for him. Hell, maybe it will, but to me it has drama written all over it.

Sighing, I know I need to get home before the roads are a solid sheet of ice. Which they probably are already, but at least I might avoid the ditch a few more times the earlier I head home.

“I’m taking off,” I tell Barron, making sure he knows where Sev and Camdyn are before I leave. They’re causing trouble next to the jukebox, fighting over what song will be on next.

“See ya tomorrow?” Slouched to the side with his arm around the chair next to him, Barron grins, his cheeks flushed, and eyes hooded. I’ve seen this look before.

I nod. On Saturdays I work the ranch with him and Morgan. Been that way for the last ten years, and on Sundays, I spend them with my mom. I guess there’s one thing about small towns you can appreciate. Traditions.

Outside, I take my time walking to my Jeep. The frozen chunks of ice cling to the gravel like it’s going to be there a while, and a slow trickle of snowflakes falls from the sky as my boots crunch on frostbitten ground.

Every time I breathe in, my nose hairs stick like I’ve inhaled glue. Yep, nearly negative outside. Prying the door to my Jeep open with both hands, I slide into the driver seat and crank the engine over. The cool air blasts through the vents and it’s like pellets of ice on my warm cheeks. Looking up, I give the bar another glance, the neon reflecting off the gray-lit sky, and think of Abbi.

Tilly’s bar and the ranch behind it, Abbi and I spent our childhood here, on this land causing trouble, and where did it lead us? To that night in my truck when I couldn’t return the words she so desperately wanted, and it’s a memory I don’t mess with. It doesn’t stop me from picturing that light in her eyes and it reminds me my heart is still waiting for the end.

CHAPTER2

Regret

JACE

I suppose I have it.

The drive home is predictable.I end up in the ditch twice, but at least I only live a couple miles from the bar. I still live with my parents. I know, pathetic, but it allows me to build my own place without taking out a loan. I started building a barn home about a year ago, similar to the one Barron built on his dad’s land. It’s a nice distraction from reality, until it isn’t because sometimes I think, who the fuck am I building a house for? I’m certainly not Noah fromThe Notebook. I’m not building her a house in the hopes that she’ll come home and see that I’ve built her dream home.

I guess in some ways I’m doing it for myself. At least I tell myself that. Could be a crock of shit for all I know.

I’m thankful the lights are off. At least I won’t have to talk to anyone. Unfortunately for me, that damn invitation is still on the counter and haunting me. I have half the mind to toss in the fire, but I don’t. Instead, I take it with me to my room and set it on the nightstand.

I sit on the bed and stare at it again. I think about her hand in hand with someone else until my stomach twists and I can’t take it. I drop my eyes to the words:

Together with their families, Abigale Mae Lockett and Griffin Christopher Hemington request the pleasure of your company at their wedding.

Fuck this. And fuckthisguy. I’ve heard he’s a doctor, family is loaded, but will that make Abbi happy? The girl I knew, no, money doesn’t mean shit to her. I think back to us in my truck the night I didn’t choose her. I remember if I would have asked her, she would have told me yes. My head spins, the paper fuzzy as whiskey swims in my veins and burns. I’ve met this Griff guy once. The night of that concert. I’m not sure if they were together that night or not. I never asked while she was riding my dick in the back seat of an Impala.

I grip the invitation tighter, my calloused fingers marking the white textured paper. I think about her on that damn porch swing the day I knew I loved her. Eleven years old, her toes in the Texas dirt, smiling at me and wearing my cowboy hat.