Page 26 of Up in Smoke (The Bunkhouse #3)

TRIPP

The porch lights are on when I pull in at Mesa’s house ten minutes later. I walk up to the front door that’s wide open and letting in the evening breeze. A conversation carries outside before I have a chance to walk in.

“It’s fine,” Mesa says. “My friend is coming to get me.”

“If you say so,” another girl says with a laugh.

“I do,” Mesa answers smugly, and I picture her sticking her tongue out. “Now give me your hand. I learned how to read palms at summer camp.”

I chuckle, realizing how tipsy she sounds. Neither of them notices me when I finally step forward to lean against the doorway. Mesa’s house feels like a fucking oven. She and her friend are sitting on the floor, facing away from me.

It doesn’t register at first, but once I put the voice and the pale blonde hair together, the blood in my ears starts to pound. Hattie Jo laughs while Mesa holds her palm in her hand to read the lines.

“Two marriages. One love,” Mesa says dramatically. “Oh my gosh.”

Hattie gasps like Mesa’s prophecy is gospel. “What does yours say?”

“One love, too!” She sighs wistfully. “I hope our husbands will be friends.”

My lungs seize.

“Oh, they will be,” Hattie growls. “Or we’ll pull a double Goodbye Earl .”

Mesa wouldn’t dare. Hattie? Yeah, I’m scared hearing that out of her mouth. Having heard enough, I approach them and cut in.

“Ladies.”

“ Buddy !” Mesa squeals and jumps to her feet.

Great start. I just love hearing her call me that.

I stumble back a little when she jumps into my arms and nearly chokes me with a tight hug.

After setting her down, she stands directly in front of me, my front to her back.

She grabs both of my hands and lifts, wrapping my arms around her upper body and locking us in an impossibly tight hold.

“My ride is here! If you know what I mean, wink wink .”

“This is your ride,” Hattie repeats, voice perfectly even and unperturbed.

Her eyes narrow at me, but she gives nothing away, avoiding a scene. Good to see her impeccable acting skills haven’t dwindled. Funny thing is, we got along like peanut butter and jelly back then.

Still, I took Heston’s side in the end. And she knows it.

I lean down to mumble into Mesa’s hair. “You’re drunk.”

She pulls my arms until they tighten around her and whispers, “I know. And my air conditioner is broken.”

In the south, there are few worse things than no AC. “Grab your bag and we’ll go to the ranch,” I say. My attention turns to Hattie as I try to figure out how much she’s had to drink. She seems less giddy than Mesa, but I’ve never met anyone harder to read than her. “Do you need a ride?”

“No,” she answers flatly.

“It’s not far. She’s renting a little house behind the library in town,” Mesa reveals.

That shocks me as I remember how Hattie used to play around with her daddy’s money. I’m tempted to make sure she gets back safely by demanding I take her into town, but her daring stare tells me to leave her be.

“Oh! This is my friend Hattie Jo, by the way. We met at book club. And Hattie, this is Tripp.”

I chuckle when Mesa sways back and forth, trying, and failing, to make my arms tighten around her even more. If I squeeze any harder, she’ll suffocate. Her voice is peppy and upbeat, and she didn’t hesitate to show her excitement when I arrived. Tipsy or not, I’ll take it.

There are no nice to meet you s exchanged between Hattie and me, who are well-acquainted. She nods with a practiced smile and I do the same. I lead Mesa toward the door, but she refuses to unfold herself from the front of my body, so it’s more of a conjoined wobble than a walk.

“Hattie just moved here,” she babbles on. “And she said she’s staying?—”

“ Okay ,” Hattie quickly cuts her off with a friendly pat. “Be safe getting home. Call me tomorrow.”

“I will! I had such a fun night. Next time, let’s meet at your house and have a sleepover.”

Hattie laughs, but it’s quiet. “We can do that. Here’s her bag.”

I manage to loosen Mesa’s grip on my arms to take the overnight bag that Hattie extends toward me. She gathers her keys from the table and follows us outside.

“Just don’t get any ideas, girl! I already have a best friend and he’s right here!” Mesa twirls around me to slap me right on the ass.

“Good luck with that,” Hattie calls out with a cocked eyebrow as she opens her car door.

I think she might flip me off or shout a valid warning to Mesa. Instead, her lips press into a soft line and the edges of her eyes drop. It’s almost sad. Then, her body lowers, and her door slams shut. I jog to catch up with Mesa, who’s already in the passenger seat of my truck.

We’re not five minutes down the road before she’s chugging the bottle of water in my cup holder. It must sober her up enough to realize we haven’t talked since last night and we’re now alone in my truck together.

I have no idea what to say, so I let her fiddle with the radio in silence, finally landing on some music that we listen to on the rest of the drive to the ranch.

We remain quiet until we’ve finally arrived and walk into my room.

Once I toss her bag by the bed, she shucks her cardigan and heads straight for the shower.

I toss my shirt in the general vicinity of the hamper, change into shorts, and flop onto the comforter.

My feet cross, and I rest my hand behind my head while I smirk down at my phone.

The Bluetooth speaker in the shower is hooked up to my playlist, so I shuffle through songs I know will make her laugh.

As suspected, she’s smiling when she returns with damp, glistening skin and wearing one of my t-shirts that damn near covers her knees.

“Why is there a beer in your shower?” she asks after turning off the lights and dropping next to me on the bed with a sigh. “And the music selection? 2004 called. They want their angst back.”

I scoff. “If you don’t fuck with my emo phase, then we have absolutely no business being friends.”

“So, this is the end.”

I chuckle and set my phone on the nightstand. “Sounds like it. It’s been real.”

Mesa mirrors my laughter, looking up at the ceiling as I settle in to get more comfortable next to her. Getting under the covers would be a good step in that direction, but I stubbornly remain on top of them.

We’re silent for a while. I’m tempted to let the quiet stretch on and let her steady breaths lull me to sleep, but I’ve been quieting my wild thoughts for a full day now. They’re begging to spill out.

“Are you gonna miss this when you’re married, knocked up, and living in the suburbs in two years?” I ask somewhat jokingly.

I could lie to myself and say that the question came out of nowhere.

The truth is that I know exactly where it came from, and it’s a place of fear.

She hasn’t brought up last night or acted awkward around me.

That’s what she wanted, so part of me is happy about it.

But it also reminds me that I am not as unaffected by what happened between us as I hoped I’d be.

Instead of scratching my itch, helping her out, and going back to being friends when it was all said and done . . . I crave more of her. Not just more sexual stuff. Her .

Asking her if she’ll miss me when she’s moved on one day is a self-inflicted reality check—a reminder that we’re friends. It’s shitty of me to break her trust by pushing my luck and getting closer to her.

Never thought I’d worry about losing a girl. Especially in this case, because it’s not just a potentially romantic relationship I’d be missing. It’s my friend. Maybe even the closest one I’ve ever had. It’s her.

My Mesa.

And the thought of someone else taking that away is such a fucking drag. I know it’ll happen, but I still don’t like it. No future boyfriend of hers would ever be okay with what we have. They wouldn’t understand, just like the rest of my friends don’t.

She turns on her side to face me, calm and slow. I see her in my peripheral, but with my hands behind my head, I keep my eyes pointed up toward the slats of stained wood that make up the ceiling.

“Yes,” she answers.

Fuck. It’s immature of me, but I hate the honest answer from her. I secretly wanted denial. Confirmation that she’ll never find herself in that hypothetical situation. An answer like that would be a lot easier to digest.

I know that’s dumb, and trying to understand myself is exhausting. But when my friends are all married off, including Mesa, I’m all I’ll have.

“But I would never move to the suburbs,” she clarifies. “Do you want to get married someday? Have children?”

I think hard about her question, my brows pulling together. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about living out my days with a wife and kids.”

“That’s not a no,” she says, calling out my vague stance on the subject.

“It’s not a yes.”

“Okay,” she whispers.

“What? You’re not going to reason with me? Tell me what I’ll be missing?”

It’s what I expect. I’ve recited a version of the same reply plenty of times.

I already ripped out the back seat of my Bronco—no room for car seats. And I’m not cut out for a serious relationship with one woman for the rest of my life. It’s out of my depth.

“Nope,” she says confidently. “No man should ever have to be talked into something like that.”

“Agree. I mean, there’s low-level appeal there, I guess. I’m not bashing the idea or anything. But it’s not the life for me. I’m just trying to make it out alive as it is.”

“But what good is making it out alive if you have nothing to live for?”

Her voice is soft and lacks any condescending undertone. The question gives me pause. Enough to consider opening the rest of this uncomfortable can of worms with her.

“My home, my friends, my horse. My job, even. I live for those things, don’t I?”

“Valid point,” she agrees.

I hold my breath when she sits up and crosses her legs next to me. She looks at me like she hopes I’ll keep talking and spare no detail. I love it. But I fucking hate how it makes my chest ache.