Page 13

I grip my coffee mug tighter, memories flashing through my mind of Willow in tight denim, the way they'd hug every curve of her athlete's body. My throat goes dry.

"What. Fucking. Jeans." Knox growls.

Willow's smirk grows wider as she takes a slow sip of her coffee, eyes deliberately flicking to me over the rim of her mug. It's the first time she's actually looked at me since entering the kitchen, and the challenge in her gaze hits me like a physical blow.

"The black ones," she says innocently. "You know, the ones with the rips."

"Oh hell no," Knox growls. "Those aren't jeans, they're denim held together by prayer and dental floss."

I almost choke on my coffee, memories of those particular jeans flashing through my mind. The way they cling to every curve, the strategic rips that show flashes of skin. I'd seen her in them once before I left—a night that ended with those jeans on my bedroom floor.

"I think they're perfectly appropriate," Willow says, her voice all false sweetness. Her eyes flick to me again, and I know this is deliberate. She's pushing buttons—Knox's, mine, maybe her own.

"You're not wearing them," Knox says flatly.

"I think she should wear whatever she wants," I say before I can stop myself.

The table goes quiet, all eyes turning to me. Knox's glare could melt steel.

"Nobody asked you, Calloway," he snaps.

Willow's eyes meet mine again, something unreadable flickering in their depths. Is she testing me? Testing Knox? Both?

"For once, I agree with Rhett," Colt says, breaking the tension. "Let the lady wear what she wants."

"See?" Willow says primly, taking another bite of pancake. "Razor gets it."

Knox's fork clatters against his plate. "Of course he fucking gets it. He's thinking with his dick."

"Language," Jace sighs, though it's a lost cause at this point. “Willow. Wear whatever you want at this point. Make it respectable.”

"I always do," Willow says with a smirk that suggests otherwise. She takes another sip of coffee, those eyes of hers deliberately avoiding mine now.

The conversation shifts to logistics for the media day, but I can't focus on Jace's words. All I can think about is Willow in those jeans, the way they hug every curve, how they made her legs look a mile long. And the fact that she brought them up while looking directly at me tells me she remembers exactly what happened the last time she wore them.

The memory hits me like a freight train—Willow straddling my lap, my hands sliding up the rips in her jeans to find bare skin underneath, her breath hot against my neck as she whispered exactly what she wanted me to do to her.

Fuck.

I shift in my seat, grateful for the table hiding my body's immediate reaction.

Knox slams his plate in the sink, jarring me out of my thoughts. "I'm going to go check on the horses before we leave." He points at me. "You. Stay away from my sister."

I raise my hands in mock surrender. "Just sitting here eating my pancakes, man."

His eyes narrow, but he stomps out without another word, the screen door banging behind him.

"Well," Colt says into the silence, "that was subtle."

Willow rolls her eyes, but there's a tightness around her mouth that wasn't there before. She pushes her half-eaten pancakes away and stands. "I'm going to shower."

"So are those jeans making an appearance today or what?" Colt calls after her.

She flips him off over her shoulder without looking back, disappearing through the doorway.

I drain my coffee, trying to look busy, but that fails.

Five pairs of eyes are all on me. Jace clears his throat and puts his coffee mug down.

“I’m gonna hit the showers and make some calls.”

I sigh and look down at my empty plate, knowing I can’t avoid this conversation.

"You're playing a dangerous game," Levi says once Jace is gone, his voice low and serious.

I push my empty plate away. "Not playing anything."

"Bullshit." Levi leans forward. "I saw how you looked at her. How she looked at you."

"Mind your own fucking business," I growl, but there's no heat behind it. We both know he's right.

Colt snorts. "Might want to adjust your pants before you stand up, buddy."

I flip him off, but stay seated. "You're all acting like I came back here just to get in her pants."

"Didn't you?" Levi asks, eyebrow raised.

"No." The word comes out harsher than I intended. "I came back because this is home. Because I fucked up, and I need to make it right."

Weston sits back and crosses his arms. “We’ll get to that. What happened between you and Willow last night?” “We… we talked.”

Kade and Logan raise their eyebrows at me.

“Fine! We started to talk and… we got carried away. Knox and Jace caught us kind of.”

Colt whistles low. "Got carried away, huh? That why Knox looks ready to gut you this morning?"

I scrub a hand over my face, the hangover and lack of sleep making me feel raw, exposed. "Look, I didn't plan it, alright? We were talking and then—"

"And then your tongue was down her throat," Kade finishes with a smirk.

"Something like that," I mutter, fighting the memory of how she felt pressed against me, how perfectly we still fit together despite everything. "Look," I say, scrubbing a hand over my face, "I know I'm not winning any popularity contests around here. I know I fucked up when I left."

"Understatement of the century," Weston says.

"But I'm trying, okay? I'm trying to make things right."

"With Willow or with us?" Kade asks, his usually quiet voice cutting through the bullshit.

The question hits me like a sucker punch, forcing me to meet Kade's steady gaze. He's always been the quiet, observant one, which makes it all the worse when he decides to call you on your shit.

"Both," I say finally. "With all of you."

Logan snorts. "Starting with getting in Willow's pants again? Real noble, Razor."

"It's not like that," I snap, even as my body betrays me with the memory of her pressed against me.

"Then what is it like?" Levi challenges. "Because from where we're standing, you waltz back in here after two years of radio silence, and the first thing you do is make a play for the one person who took the longest to put herself back together after you left."

His words hit me like ice water, dousing the defensive fire building in my chest. I should have never come back. This was a mistake.

“Let’s take a walk.”

I look up to see Weston standing next to my chair and I follow him outside.

The morning air hits me like a slap, clearing some of the cobwebs from my whiskey-soaked brain. Weston doesn't say anything as we walk, just leads me toward the barn, away from the house. Away from her.

"You gonna lecture me too?" I finally break the silence, kicking at a rock in our path.

Weston shakes his head, his expression unreadable beneath the brim of his hat. "Nope."

We keep walking, the silence stretching between us. Weston's always been the quiet one, more comfortable with horses than people. When he does speak, though, everyone listens.

"You know," he says finally, "after you left, she used to go to your room. Late at night when she thought everyone was asleep."

My steps falter. "What?"

"She'd sit on your bed for hours. Sometimes crying.”

The knot in my throat makes it hard to swallow. "Why are you telling me this?"

Weston stops walking, turning to face me fully. His eyes are steady, uncompromising.

"Because you need to understand what you're walking into. This isn't just about you and Willow getting hot and heavy against a truck. This is about her putting herself back together, piece by broken piece, after you left."

I look away, unable to hold his gaze. "I know I hurt her."

"No," Weston says, his voice uncharacteristically sharp. "You don't know. None of us could reach her for months. She'd work herself to exhaustion during the day, patching up idiots, training until she could barely stand, crying at Ethan’s grave, then crying herself to sleep at night.”

Each word feels like a knife between my ribs. I want to tell him to stop, but I need to hear it.

“You need to understand what you're walking back into. It wasn't just a breakup, Rhett. It was a goddamn earthquake."

I swallow hard, the hangover making my emotions too close to the surface. "I never meant to hurt her."

"But you did." His voice isn't accusatory, just matter-of-fact. "Ethan died in her arms. You broke her by leaving right after. And then something else happened that broke her even more."

My head snaps up. "What happened, Weston? No one will tell me."

Weston's jaw tightens, and I can see him weighing something in his mind. "Not my story to tell."

"That's what Jace said," I growl, frustration building. "What the hell happened that everyone's tiptoeing around?"

Weston sighs, pushing his hat back slightly. "All I'll say is this—when you left, Willow wasn't just dealing with losing you. She was dealing with losing Ethan. She was vulnerable. Made some choices that... put her in a bad situation."

My stomach turns to lead. "What kind of bad situation?"

His eyes harden. "The kind that leaves scars you can't see. The kind that makes a woman look over her shoulder even in places she should feel safe."

The implication hits me like a physical blow, and I have to reach out to steady myself against the fence post. "Someone hurt her?”

“Not my story to tell. You need to talk to her.”

“She told me last night we could talk today.”

Weston nods slowly, studying my face like he's searching for something. "Good. But listen to me, Rhett—really listen. If all you want is to get back in her pants, to scratch an itch or ease your guilt, walk away now."

"It's not like that," I say, the words scraping my throat raw.

"Then what is it like?"

The question hangs between us, demanding an answer I'm not sure I have. What do I want from Willow? Forgiveness? A second chance? Her body under mine again?

All of it. Everything.

"I love her," I say finally, the admission feeling like ripping off a bandage. "I never stopped."

Weston studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "Then you better be ready for the fight of your life. Just remember something—you left, but we stayed. We watched her break and rebuild herself. Whatever's between you two now isn't just about the past. It's about who she's become without you."

His words hit harder than any physical blow could. I lean against the fence post, letting them sink in as we stand in silence.

"I know she's different," I say finally, breaking the silence. "So am I."

Weston nods, his expression softening just a fraction. "Then maybe you should try to get to know who she is now, instead of chasing after ghosts of what you used to be."

His words sting because they're true. Last night, pressing Willow against my truck, I wasn't thinking about who she is now—I was desperately grabbing for what we once had.

"I'll try."

"Good." Weston claps me on the shoulder. "Now let's head back. If we're late for media day, Jace will have both our asses."

We walk back toward the house in silence, my mind churning with everything Weston said. Someone hurt Willow while I was gone. Made her look over her shoulder. Left invisible scars. The thought makes my blood boil, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. I should have been here. I should have protected her.

"One more thing," Weston says as the house comes into view. "Don't push her. When she's ready to tell you what happened, she will."

I nod, trying to tamp down the rage building inside me. "I won't push."

The screen door slams, drawing our attention to the front porch. And there she is.

Willow.

In those fucking jeans.

My steps falter, and beside me, Weston lets out a low whistle. "Lord help us all."

I can barely breathe as I watch her stride across the porch, every movement confident and deliberate. The black denim clings to her legs like a second skin, rips strategically placed to reveal flashes of tanned skin.

Paired with a fitted white shirt with small little sparkles all over at her and red Petite Paloma boots that add a couple inches to her height.

She smirks, knowing that those damn boots were my gift to her when I got my first big sponsorship check. Those damn boots with the white bows on it cost me a doozy. But it was worth it to see her eyes light up.

Willow’s hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders and she’s done her make-up as well. She holds her white and silver cowgirl hat in her hand.

My mouth goes dry as I watch her. She's fucking gorgeous, a walking fantasy come to life, and she knows exactly what she's doing. This isn't just Willow dressing up for media day—this is a declaration of war.

"Close your mouth, Razor," Weston murmurs, amusement tinging his voice. "You're catching flies."

I snap my jaw shut, but I can't tear my eyes away from her. Those jeans—Jesus Christ, those jeans should be illegal in at least forty-eight states. The rips high on her thighs reveal flashes of skin with every step, and the memory of my fingers slipping through those same rips two years ago hits me like a freight train.

"Fuck me," I mutter under my breath.

"I'm pretty sure that's what she's hoping you'll think," Weston says with a dry chuckle.

"Is she trying to kill me?"

"Probably." He claps me on the shoulder. "Or Knox. Or both of you."

Knox steps out behind her, his face like a thundercloud. "Goddammit, Willow!"

She ignores him completely, her eyes finding mine across the yard. The challenge in them is unmistakable, a deliberate provocation that sends heat flooding through me despite Weston's warning still ringing in my ears.

"Jesus Christ," I mutter, unable to look away.

Weston chuckles beside me. "Remember what I said about getting to know who she is now? Might want to start with keeping your eyes above her neckline."

"Shut up," I growl. I'm too busy trying to remember how to breathe.

Willow descends the porch steps, every movement deliberate and graceful. Knox is still fuming behind her, but she pays him no mind. She's always been like this—once she makes up her mind about something, there's no stopping her.

"Morning, boys," she calls, her voice carrying across the yard. Her eyes lock with mine, a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. "Ready for media day?"

She saunters toward us, those boots adding an extra sway to her hips that's making it impossible to think straight. Up close, she's even more devastating—the white sparkly shirt hugs her curves perfectly, and I can see the delicate silver cattle tag necklace resting against her collarbone. The same one I gave her for her birthday three years ago.

I clear my throat, trying to find my voice. "Nice boots," I manage, my eyes deliberately not dropping to take in the rest of her again.

Her smirk widens, knowing exactly what I'm doing. "Thanks. They were a gift from someone who used to know what I like."

The double meaning isn't lost on me, and heat crawls up my neck. Behind her, Knox looks ready to commit homicide.

"Willow, I swear to god," he growls.

She turns to face her brother, hands on her hips. "What? Jace said be presentable. I'm presentable."

"You're trying to give me a goddamn heart attack!" I’m too young to die, Wills!”

Jace emerges from the house, takes one look at Willow, and sighs deeply. "This is going to be a long day."

"What?" she asks, all wide-eyed innocence that fools absolutely no one. "I'm dressed professionally."

Knox snorts. "If your profession is breaking hearts and causing bar fights, sure."

She rolls her eyes, but there's a satisfied smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. She knows exactly what she's doing. The question is why? Is this about pushing Knox's buttons? Or is it about me?

The way her eyes keep finding mine across the yard suggests the latter.

"Let's load up," Jace calls, breaking the tension. "We're already running late."

As everyone starts moving toward the vehicles, Willow brushes past me, close enough that I catch the scent of her perfume—vanilla and something floral. Bluebonnets. The same scent that used to linger on my sheets, my shirts, my skin.

Those damn boots.

"Like what you see, Razor?" she murmurs, her voice low enough that only I can hear.

My jaw clenches as I fight to keep my composure. "You know I do."

Her eyes meet mine, a flicker of something vulnerable beneath the challenge. "Good. Now you know how it feels to want something you can't have."

"We still need to talk," I mutter.

She glances up at me, those storm-cloud eyes unreadable. "After media day."

"Promise?"

Her lips quirk slightly. "Don't push your luck, Calloway."

I watch her walk away, those damn jeans hugging every curve just right, and I know I'm in trouble. Deep, inescapable trouble. But as Weston's words echo in my mind, I force myself to look beyond the physical reaction she provokes in me.

This isn't just Willow being sexy to drive me crazy. This is Willow armoring herself – looking damn good while doing it, but armor nonetheless. The confident swagger, the provocative outfit, the sharp comebacks – they're all shields, keeping everyone at a safe distance. Keeping me at a safe distance.

"You're staring," Colt says, appearing beside me with that shit-eating grin of his.

"Fuck off," I mutter, dragging my eyes away from Willow's retreating form.

"Just an observation." He slaps me on the back hard enough to make me wince. "Come on, lover boy. You can ride with me."

I know what he's doing—keeping me away from Willow during the drive. They've all appointed themselves her protectors, forming a human shield between her and me. Part of me wants to be pissed about it, but the other part is grateful that she had them when I wasn't here.

"Fine," I say, following him to the truck. But Knox blocks my path as I reach for the door.

Knox's eyes are dark, dangerous. "I'm going to say this once, and only once. Whatever game you and my sister are playing stops now."

I meet his gaze steadily, refusing to back down. "It's not a game."

"Bullshit." He steps closer, his voice dropping so only I can hear. "You think I don't see what's happening? The way you look at her? The way she's deliberately trying to get under your skin with those jeans?"

"Knox—"

"No." He cuts me off, jaw clenched. "You don't get to come back after two years and act like nothing's changed. You don't get to pick up where you left off. Not with Willow."

I take a deep breath, fighting to keep my temper in check. "I know things have changed. I'm not trying to pretend they haven't."

"You sure about that?" Knox's voice is razor-sharp. "Because from where I'm standing, you've been trying to get back in her pants since the moment you showed up."

The accusation hits like a physical blow, mostly because there's truth in it. I can't deny the pull I feel toward Willow, the way my body responds to her like a compass finding north.

"It's not just about that," I say, forcing myself to meet his eyes. "I care about her."

"You cared about her before, too. Didn't stop you from walking away."

I flinch, the words landing with precision. "That was different."

"Different how?" Knox steps closer, invading my space. "Different because now you've decided you want her back? Different because you're ready to play house now that it's convenient for you?"

"I'm trying to make things right," I say, keeping my voice low even as frustration builds in my chest. "And yeah, that includes Willow. I hurt her. I know that. But there's still something between us. You can't deny that."

"What I can't deny," Knox says, stepping so close I can feel his breath on my face, "is that you broke her. And I won't stand by and watch you do it again."

I clench my jaw, the guilt and anger warring inside me. "I won't hurt her again."

"You already are." His voice drops even lower. "Every time you look at her like you want to devour her. Every time you try to get her alone. You're stirring up all that old pain."

I feel my temper rising, every muscle in my body tensing. "You don't know what's between us, Knox. You never have."

"I know enough." His eyes harden. "I know she cried herself to sleep for months after you left. I know she took risks that could have gotten her killed because she was trying to feel something—anything—besides the pain you caused."

Each word hits like a physical blow. I want to argue, to defend myself, but the truth is I did leave. I did hurt her. And I have no idea what happened after I was gone.

"I'm not the same person I was," I say finally, forcing the words past the tightness in my throat.

"Prove it," Knox challenges. "Prove it by giving her space. By not pushing. By respecting that she's finally putting herself back together, and your dick isn't worth tearing that all apart.”

His words hit home, and something in my chest tightens painfully. "You don't know -"

"I know enough." Knox's eyes never leave mine. "I know she finally stopped crying last fucking year whenever somebody brought you up. I know she's finally stopped looking for you in every crowd. And I'm not going to let you waltz back in and undo all that progress because you've suddenly decided you want her back."

Before I can respond, Jace's voice cuts through the tension. "If you two are done with your pissing contest, we need to go. Now."

Knox steps back, but his eyes deliver a final warning before he turns away. I exhale slowly, the weight of his words settling on my shoulders like concrete.

"That looked intense," Colt says as I climb into his truck.

I grunt in response, not trusting myself to speak. Through the windshield, I can see Willow climbing into Jace's truck, those damn jeans making my mouth go dry all over again. She glances back once, her eyes meeting mine through the glass, and for a second, I see past the armor—past the sexy swagger and deliberate provocation. For just a moment, I see the vulnerability she's trying so hard to hide.

Then it's gone, replaced by that cool mask she's perfected since I've been away.

"For what it's worth," Colt says as he starts the engine, "I think you're both being idiots."

I tear my eyes away from Willow to look at him. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." He pulls out of the driveway, following Jace's truck. "You're both so busy playing these mind games that you're missing the point."

"And what point is that?" I snap, my patience wearing thin. Colt's always had a way of getting under my skin.

He grins, eyes fixed on the road as we follow Jace's truck. "That you're both still crazy about each other, but too stubborn and scared to actually talk about it like adults."

I stare out the window, watching the familiar landscape roll by. The ranch gives way to open country, miles of Texas nothing that used to feel like freedom but now just reminds me of all the running I've done.

"It's not that simple," I finally say.

"Never said it was simple." Colt adjusts his hat, glancing at me briefly. "But watching you two dance around each other is getting old real fast."

"We're going to talk. After media day."

"Good. Let her lead. Talk in the living room so there’s no more… temptation.”

I shift in my seat, eyes fixed on Jace's truck ahead of us. Willow's riding with him, and part of me wonders what they're talking about. Is he warning her away from me too?

"So what's your grand plan here, Razor?" Colt asks, breaking the silence. "You show up after two years, fuck her in your truck, then what? You think she's just gonna fall back into your arms?"

"I don't have a plan," I admit, the words feeling raw in my throat. "I just know I need to make things right."

Colt snorts. "Make things right. You keep saying that like it's something you can just check off a list. 'Step one: apologize. Step two: kiss her until her knees buckle. Step three: everything's fixed!'"

"Fuck off," I mutter, but there’s no real bite to my words.

“We all want you two back together, but at the right time and for the right reasons. For now, get her outta your head and buckle down for the media circus.”

I lean back in the passenger seat and scrub my hand over my face, trying to push Willow from my mind. "Media day. Christ. I forgot how much I hate these things."

Colt snorts. "What, you mean you don't enjoy answering the same ten questions for four hours straight? 'How does it feel to be back in the circuit, Razor?' 'What's your strategy this season?' 'Will you be attempting your signature move?'"

He mimics a high-pitched reporter voice that has me cracking a reluctant smile despite my foul mood.

"Don't forget the classics," I add, feeling some of the tension drain from my shoulders. "'What's your pre-ride ritual?' As if they expect me to say something other than 'not dying.'"

Colt barks out a laugh. "Remember that reporter from Dallas? The one who kept asking if your tattoos had special meaning? She practically undressed you with her eyes."

"Jesus, don't remind me." I shake my head, a reluctant smile tugging at my lips. "She followed me to the bathroom."

"And Willow 'accidentally' spilled an entire drink on her white blouse."

The memory hits me with unexpected force—Willow's fake apology, the dangerous glint in her eyes that only I could read. She'd been jealous, though she'd never admit it.

"She was always territorial," I mutter, watching the landscape blur past the window.

"Still is." Colt's voice takes on a more serious tone. "That's the thing about Willow. Some things never change, even when everything else does."

I glance at him. "What do you mean?" I ask, trying to sound casual despite the sudden tightness in my chest.

Colt drums his fingers on the steering wheel, seeming to weigh his words carefully. "After you left, there were a few guys who tried to get close to her. Rodeo groupies, sponsors' sons, even that sports medicine doc from Houston."

My jaw clenches involuntarily. "And?"

"And she shut them all down. Hard." He glances at me, something knowing in his expression. "Except for one."

The words hit me like a physical blow. I try to keep my face neutral, but the thought of Willow with someone else makes my stomach turn to lead.

"Who?" The word comes out rougher than I intended.

Colt's expression darkens. "That's part of what you need to talk about with her."