Page 52 of Braving the Storm

After drying myself off, and scrubbing the towel over my hair, my hearing is on edge, listening for any indication that Briar has gotten back while I’ve been in here.

Do I want her to be?

Do I want to walk out this door and find her safely returned, and not looking like some asshole just felt her up in his truck. Or do I want to go out there and find everything quiet, back to the way it was with me up here all alone on this mountain? Before Briar and her sweetness and spark that I’m so fucking addicted to turned up unexpectedly and flipped shit upside down.

I shove into a pair of sweats and a clean t-shirt, then head out to find the cabin empty.

My eyes immediately flick to the clock on the microwave. It’s not late, but Christ, her date was at lunchtime and it’s nearly seven p.m. Layla was supposed to be looking out for her, and I’m starting to feel like I need to revisit my plans to threaten everyone with a dick in Crimson Ridge to stay away from her.

Starting with Wes and his perfect goddamn charming smile.

He would look a whole lot less charming missing some teeth.

Right as I’m debating whether to pick up the radio unit and put out a call, the sweep of headlights plays across the cabin. A truck engine and crunching gravel announce the arrival of whoever just brought Briar back up the mountain.

That tightness banded across my chest eases as I glance out the window and see the familiarDevil’s Peak Ranchlogo on the door—Colt’s truck pulls up beside my own, with Layla at the wheel.

I duck my head and busy myself with digging out some leftovers to heat up for dinner. I’m crouched down, rearranging the Tupperware stacked in the fridge, when the front door clicks shut behind me.

“Oh, hey.” Briar sounds happy. There’s a lightness in her voice. “How was your day?”

I straighten up and turn around, and the sight that greets me is the best and the worst fucking thing in the world. She stretches to reach up and hang her bag on the hook behind the door and while her back is turned, that moment gives me the perfect opportunity to openly stare.

The dress she’s wearing that hugs her thighs and ass is made of a material that looks so goddamn soft, a rich cocoashade clung tightly against her skin. She’s got her dark hair piled up in a messy top knot. Fuck. My eyes bounce everywhere, down to the cowboy boots she bought that first day here which reveal a small peek of smooth skin, a glimpse of her bare legs below the knee.

The worst part, or maybe the best part, is that she’s wearing an outfit like that, and she’s got my jacket slung around her shoulders.

She went on a date today wearing my jacket, and that triggers every feral, possessive sensation I’ve been trying my hardest to smother.

Briar turns, and the smile brightening her face says it all as she shrugs out of the coat. A move that shows off exactly how that dress molds to her curves. How it fits her body like a glove, and she looks so beautiful, there’s no way Wes didn’t fall for her within half a second.

Dropping the containers onto the kitchen counter, the rush of blood hits my ears. I’m pissed off at every single circumstance between us, and that’s what turns my mind blank. Instead of trying to beat back this thing eating me alive, I give in to the surge of petty, rage-filled jealousy.

Shoving into my own coat and boots, I’ve got my keys and my phone in my hand, the other on the door handle before I can blink. Without turning, or properly looking her way—because I can’t face having to take in another second of how stunning this girl looks—I storm out of the cabin like a rampant whirlwind.

And because I’m really desperately trying to do my best to make this girl despise me, the words as I slam out the door are a snarl, a bark, as she watches me leave, open-mouthed.

“Don’t wait up, darlin’.”

Chapter 17

So…tell me everything.

Layla’s message pops up in my Instagram inbox. I’m lying on the couch, doom scrolling and stalking my uncle’s old rodeo footage, and in general, feeling like a complete mess.

You were far too good at avoiding my questions on the way home earlier.

I’m well-versed in the art of deflecting conversation off myself.

So, your game of fifty questions about me and the ranch and the horses was cute and all…

Picked up on that, did you?

Now it’s time to spill, city girl.

I’m sure you’ve got something better to do than talk about my date.

Uh oh.