Page 46 of Saving the Rain (Crimson Ridge #4)

I ’ve been staring at the same photo on my phone for the past twenty minutes.

The scene is snow-covered, a soft, rolling carpet of fresh powder. A good ten inches looks to have accumulated, and the shot is framed to show a clearing amongst dense pine trees.

No footprints. No animal tracks. It’s an unblemished canvas.

A microcosm frozen in time. The sun has just burst over the horizon, showering everything in drops of gold, and while I’m standing here looking at it on my screen, my tongue can taste it—the below-freezing temperatures, the ice crystals hanging in the air.

What does a snapshot like this represent for Raine?

Why would he choose to post this particular picture on his social media when the man only has about half a dozen posts?

It’s not recent; he shared it last winter, but it’s the last thing he’s posted.

Other than that, his social media is as barren as a rocky mountain.

There are a couple of still images from his competitive years as he demonstrates exactly why he won so damn frequently—with chin tucked low, arm thrown high overhead, and fringes of his chaps swinging with the momentum of the bronc beneath him.

They’re images taken by a professional photographer, from events that I recognize where he won big.

Then there’s one of a dog and a horse by a river .

But that’s it. The only peeks into my stepbrother’s life. Nothing to give any clues about where he’s been or what he’s been doing all these years.

I really shouldn’t be hovering in the kitchen at this time of the morning, sipping my coffee and stalking his Instagram. But unfortunately, I left my willpower to stop thinking about him twenty-four-seven back in his bedsheets somewhere.

My thumbs hover over the keypad to compose a message.

It’s driving me to distraction that up here on Devil’s Peak, texting or calling like a normal person is out of the question.

So, I’m doing the agonizing dance of whether to reach out to him—in the way that I’m evidently hanging by a thread to do—or if I should play it cool.

You know... because I’m pretty sure what we did can’t ever be allowed to become anything more than just sex. Even if it wasn’t that way for me, I’m certain that’s all it’ll ever amount to for Raine.

Oh, god. This is absolutely the reason I cannot be trusted with anything; because I destroy it.

I take something perfectly good and normal, and I smash it to pieces, every time without fail.

Now I’ve probably broken my stepbrother, who I keep imagining has high-tailed it back north of the border to put as much distance as possible between us.

Puffing out my cheeks, I close my eyes and give in to the urge, that incessant voice inside me wanting to contact him.

Because even though it wasn’t exactly awkward when I left the other day, it was almost dawn by the time we had both showered and recovered from the intensity of falling into bed together.

When I drove back up this mountain, bleary-eyed and running on nothing but blissful post-sex hormones and cold coffee, it was about five in the morning.

We weren’t really in a state to have a big ol’ heart-to-heart about the fact he’d just turned my entire world upside down, and so we did what we do so well. We didn’t talk about it .

The only problem is, I’m like a balloon ready to explode under the pressure of all the unspoken things dangling between us.

Fuck it.

I tap on the innocent little icon, the button that might spell my misery and ruin.

Being ignored will be nothing new where he’s concerned.

If I send this message and never hear from the guy again, well, at least then, I’ll know where I stand.

It’ll be done, and I won’t have to walk around carrying any more stupid notions—no more wondering what any of this all means.

This faulty, broken compass inside me can be patched up and, hopefully, eventually learn to be directed elsewhere.

Except, when I finally man the fuck up and brace myself to begin typing, my heart stops dead in my chest.

There’s already a message there, waiting for me. Sent the morning after I left his place.

A message.

From him.

Raine:

Did you get back to DPR safely?

A flurry of jitters and bouncing balls and flapping bat wings occupies the place where my stomach should be.

I read and re-read the single line of text with eyes pinballing back and forth.

Is there subtext here? Why can’t Raine spare the use of a goddamn emoji like a sane person to let me know his intended tone?

Are those words scolding, or caring, or indifferent?

My mouth is bone-dry, and I gnaw on the inside of my cheek while trying to figure out what to say in return.

If there was any doubt as to my feelings where my stepbrother is concerned, seeing one solitary message from him—unexpected and unprompted—has got my legs ready to buckle underneath me right where I stand in this kitchen.

I’m so fucked.

Hey.

Yeah, I’m back in one piece. Thanks.

Holy shit. I type the most boring, mundane of replies, promptly delete everything, and then my thumbs fly across the screen to say exactly the same thing again, before hitting send.

As I do, an anguished groan leaves my throat .

Could I sound more pathetic?

I’m not in one piece at all. I’m nothing but squishy, melted marshmallow goo on the inside, and my head is spinning. What the fuck? He wasn’t supposed to message me first. He was supposed to be the uncaring and unreasonably gruff asshole.

That’s how we are, and that’s how things go between us.

Not this... I don’t know what this is.

Raine doesn’t send messages, and he certainly isn’t the type of cowboy to initiate simply chatting .

Oh my fucking god. I think I’m going to pass out with the rate my heart starts pounding, seeing that familiar row of tiny dots begin bouncing immediately.

He’s already typing a reply, and I’m caught between being unable to decide if seeing what he has to say is anything I can handle right at this moment, and bringing myself to walk away from my phone right now.

So, I’m left staring slack-jawed when his words arrive.

Thought you ghosted me, snowflake.

The tips of my ears burst into flame, and my pulse does a swan dive in my neck. I can’t stop to overthink this, if he’s willingly replying—and not berating me for being a complete idiot like usual—I’m too far gone to put up a fight or pretend to be aloof.

I’m the least cool, most over-eager cowboy to exist.

Sorry, I really didn’t mean to.

I hadn’t checked my inbox... I promise I’m not trying to play games or anything.

Honestly, I’m a little surprised you know how to use social media.

As I press send, my teeth sink into my bottom lip.

Am I out of my mind? Am I allowed to be a tiny bit flirty with him?

How will he take it if I tease him just a fraction?

Oh, Jesus, I’m going to overthink this to death if I’m not careful.

Those little dots I’m so damn rabid for all of a sudden start to flutter in front of me as I wait there, eyes glued to the screen, not daring to exhale.

I would say come here and front up with that smart mouth... but I think you might enjoy that a little too much.

Oh my god. Flames lick across my cheeks, and I fully glance around my empty goddamn kitchen while clutching the phone to my chest. As if there’s anyone within a hundred-mile radius other than horses and cattle to witness my simpering little meltdown at Raine’s message.

I do. I like that idea all too much, I fear.

Bet you’re blushing for me, aren’t you, pretty boy?

I blink, mouth dropping to practically hit the floor at the sight of his follow-up message.

Why the fuck do I feel like I want to hurl myself at him every time he taunts me like this?

Christ, I don’t understand it. If it were anyone else, I’d have laughed in their face and shrugged them off.

But with Raine, I start squirming immediately.

Wanting more of those little hints that it maybe pleases him. .. that maybe I could please him.

No.

Cowboys don’t blush.

I bite my lip again. Knowing the absolute opposite of what I’m saying is true. Fuck, I’ve got work I gotta head out and get done around the property, and I really can’t afford to spend time flirting with my stepbrother like a grinning lunatic.

Ahh. My mistake.

But they certainly do beg for my cock, oh so politely.

Jesus... you were already too smug for your own good.

I aim to please.

Aren’t you too busy for chit-chat? Thought you were Mr. Serious Rancher. All work and no play .

Raine sends a photo in lieu of a reply straight away. It’s taken on horseback, looking down at the dark mane and almost bluish hue of Mist from his spot in the saddle.

That sends a bolt of bright sparks straight through me, that not only is he spending time talking with me like this, but he’s carrying his phone around checking notifications immediately, even though, from the looks of it, he’s riding out to check on the cattle at this very moment.

Which is what I should be doing, but it’s pointless taking my phone with me.

A sudden thought of how much easier it would be if I dropped him off one of our spare radio units slides in.

.. and I have to quickly shake off that ridiculous notion.

What the hell would Raine want that for?

He’s not gonna be carrying around a radio just so he can hear my voice.

Christ, I really have plunged into dangerously besotted waters and need to abort mission immediately.

I’m excellent at multitasking.