Page 94 of Braving the Storm

Sorryfeels like a paltry, anemic excuse for my lies by omission.

He knew I had a shitty ex, and that I had run from something back at home in LA. What he didn’t know—because no matter how many times he attempted to leave the door open for me to explain things, I still avoided the truth—was the full extent, the turmoil of events leading me to land here in this cabin with a heavy thud.

Fleeing and leaving behind three years of a miserable, near-sexless marriage. Where I left my wedding ring, sitting on top of a pristine white kitchen counter, next to five printed A4 pages detailing a litany of screenshots, all the texts between my asshole husband and his steady rotation of secretary whores throughout the duration of our time supposedly wedded and upholding the sanctity of that contract.

The foul, cheating bastard can keep his side bitches, I left without so much as a word of warning, and I have no intention of ever seeing the scummy piece of shit again.

At least with Cris offloaded to some little bed and breakfast accommodation somewhere in Crimson Ridge, it gives me time to think, a scrap of breathing space to plan how exactly I’ll manage to figure this all out.

My phone lies on the counter, and I chew the inside of my cheek, picking it up, unlocking the screen, before slamming it back down on the surface again. God, I’m a dumpster fire of a human.

All I want is to run into my cowboy’s massive arms. To inhale that hint of leather and citrus and light smoky tinge that clings to him after a day with the horses. What I would give for him to fill this cabin with his warmth and grounding presence as he tugs on the hem of my sweater and draws me between his knees.

Except Storm isn’t here, and a sharp slice of panic reminds me that he might never look at me the same way again.

He’s got far more important things to be doing than dealing with my bullshit baggage I’ve traipsed all the way up this mountain like a breadcrumb trail of disastrous life choices.

Even if they largely weren’t of my own choosing, I still stayed under Antoine’s roof. I still wore his ring. That’s the real kicker. Iallowed myself to be manipulated into doing every single thing they wanted me to as a good little Lane family empire pawn to shove around the chessboard as they saw fit.

Whatever way it lands, I need to try and explain myself. I’m twisted up like there’s a damn pretzel occupying my stomach at the mere notion he might want nothing further to do with me.

Letting out a heavy sigh, I figure that I’d rather know… I’d rather have the truth spelled out for me in letters on a screen if he wants me to be gone and to never set eyes on me again.

It’s theunknownthat I couldn’t bear to live with.

Snatching up my phone, I can’t text from up here on the mountain but tap out the message to his Instagram instead, before I can successfully overthink things. My fingers fly and I press send immediately without re-reading what I’ve just written.

All I can hope is that he’ll be somewhere in service to pick up the message. Otherwise, I’m going to spend today stuck in this cabin like a starving tiger, ready to gnaw off my own leg.

Can we talk?

Dots bounceon the screen immediately, and my heart leaps into my throat. There’s a risk I might shatter this phone, considering how tightly it’s clutched between my fingers.

Pick up the radio.

I stareat the four words, and my brain stalls like a spinning wheel on a laptop screen.

The radio?

From the corner of the room, there’s a loud crackling noisefollowed by static and I jump about five feet at the unexpectedness of the intrusion.

Then I hear my name.

“Briar.” Another long crackling sound. “Pick up the handset. Hold the button on the side when you want to talk.”

Storm’s voice drifts from the small speaker unit, which is covered in all sorts of antique knobs and buttons. Truth be told, I’d never even paid much attention to this thing sitting on the shelf, it simply blended into the background of the place.

Why have I got giddy butterflies going on in my stomach?

I scoop up the funny-looking handset connected by a spiraling cord, entirely unsure of what to do.

“Darlin’, you gotta actually talk.” His voice might be altered by the radio, but he sounds rich and deep over the line, and it sets my pulse racing.

It feels awkward, but I hold the button down and speak into the handset.

“Hi.” I definitely sound breathless.

Letting the button go, I stare at the unfamiliar object in my hands and chew my lip.