Page 5 of Up in Smoke (The Bunkhouse #3)
“It will be fine ,” Hazel reassures. “We’ll talk soon. Promise.”
I still haven’t moved. Sophia pretends to faint just before the virtual meeting ends, leaving me to stare at my own stunned reflection on the now-black computer screen.
“Is this a bad time?” Savannah asks hesitantly while walking into my kitchen.
It’s not much of a trek from the front door considering my entire cottage, aside from the bathroom, is just one small open space.
I don’t mind the lack of square footage, but my collection of antiques, trinkets, and indoor plants are cramped, to say the least. I shake my head and then cover my eyes with both hands, rubbing them until the shock wears off enough to speak.
“No, I’m glad you’re here to distract me. Pretend you didn’t hear any of that, and I’m not trying to claw my way out of a dumpster fire right now.”
“Deflecting. I like it,” she says with a shimmy of her shoulders.
I let out a sigh of relief knowing she’ll go along with my plea for a subject change, despite the end of the meeting she just overheard. Friends that match your level of delusion are diamonds in the rough, and I’m glad I’ve found mine.
“I come bearing gifts.”
“Please say figs and brie.”
“Figs and brie.”
Correction, best friend.
I walk up beside her and reach into the bag for the goods. She bumps her hip to mine, and we laugh over our indulgent food and wine habit while laying out our spread. When my fingers curl around a bundle of honeycomb wrapped in kraft paper, the moan that escapes my mouth is borderline pornographic.
“I will eat this entire thing and then fall into a coma for the rest of the day, just so you know.”
Savannah folds the now empty tote bag and then pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head. “You’re so dramatic.”
“Says the girl who adds edible glitter to her bottle of vitamins.”
“Touché,” she giggles. “Speaking of drama, please tell me you can still come over tomorrow. You know Blythe’s maid of honor couldn’t make it into town last minute, and we’re running out of time for fittings. We’ll make a fun night of it.”
She turns to pull a cheese knife from a drawer, and I fetch the charcuterie board from the lower cabinet. If I had known I’d be burying myself in a pile of work this weekend, I would have told her no when she first brought up the dress fitting last week.
Savannah goes out of her way to be a great friend to me, though. I hate to think I’d let my professional life come in the way of helping her and her engaged friend when they need it.
“Plus,” she continues after plopping a green grape into her mouth, “everyone’s dying to finally meet you.”
I sigh and open a container of prosciutto.
I haven’t ventured out much since moving here, preferring to spend my days in the backyard or under a shade tree if the weather is nice enough.
Cuddled under a blanket with a book if it’s not.
Being able to do those things whenever I want is the whole reason I moved here. Well, almost the whole reason.
There’s more to it and a deeper motive for why I probably shouldn’t be attending Savannah’s makeshift dress fitting.
I didn’t just leave the city to escape the hustle and bustle or to have land for my garden and greenhouses. The more embarrassing explanation is that after tallying up my appalling number of failed romantic relationships in recent memory, I have a problem.
Maybe it’s that I fall in love as easily as a bar of chocolate melts on the dash of a car in the middle of summer. Maybe men these days are all good-for-nothing scoundrels. Maybe both.
Either way, I realized that the moment they fail to meet my standards or the hit of new limerence wears off, I end the relationship and move on to chase the next high. Who in their right mind forgets a hundred heartbreaks by hunting down another one?
Trauma response, bad habit, borderline masochism—call it what you want. I prefer hopeless romantic, but I’m not naive enough to believe that term adequately describes the severity of the matter in question.
All I know is I’m not proud of it, and I’ve fully committed to a break from love until my head clears and I’ve figured out a way to date without getting pathetically attached after a single, sultry smirk. Men are wholly unnecessary for me right now, and it’s time I remember that.
It’s going well so far, and my sense of worth as a self-reliant woman has gone through the roof as a result. No clocking in for a job I don’t like. No wimpy, ill-intentioned males in sight. That’s an exquisite way of life if you ask me.
My newly packed work schedule does put a wrench in things. The lack of ample orgasms isn’t exactly ideal either, but that’s nothing new for me.
“Are you ignoring me or having a redundant conversation with yourself in your head again?”
I scoff with an edge of laughter. “Shut up, I can’t help it. I have a lot on my mind right now.”
“Come over tomorrow, then,” she suggests again, her tone softer and comforting this time. “I can’t let you and your thoughts stew in your bed all weekend.”
“And you need me to try on the dress,” I add.
She laughs and steals another grape. “And I need you to try on the damn dress. Based on pictures and videos I’ve seen of Blythe’s maid of honor, you’re the same size and height.”
“I’m happy to help, and a change of scenery could be good,” I agree. That puts a smile on her face, but I don’t let the idea of me giving in take root for long. “But I’ve heard things about your beloved bunkhouse, Savannah. You know my opinion on that .”
I have the girls in my book club at the library in town to thank for that piece of knowledge.
Sometimes I wonder if we meet up to actually read books or just gossip.
I rarely contribute to the conversation, having just moved here.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t pay attention to the dirt they dish out.
The bunkhouse is notorious. Half the things I’ve heard are hard to believe and almost surely exaggerated. Even with that consideration though, it sounds like a place I should absolutely avoid right now.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Plus, a lot has changed around there since we first met last year,” she defends.
“Oh, you mean like you getting sucked into a permanent residence on fuckboy island?”
“Fuckboy island?” She howls with laughter. “It’s a ranch, Mesa. And Warren would take offense to that.”
I point a tiny spoon at her. “Your boyfriend is a straight shooter and would wholeheartedly agree with me, actually.”
“Either way, half of the guys there are off the market anyway. And the rest of them aren’t your type. Trust me.”
I think about it, scrunching my brows together while arranging a pile of sliced French bread in a neat line. She may have a point because I have never once in my life considered rolling in the literal hay with a cowman. Cowpoke, cowboy, whatever.
Then again, if my past love life is any indication, my poor taste in men knows no bounds.
“ Please .”
I give her the side-eye and let out a long breath. “Fine. Because your friend needs my help for her wedding and because I love you. But I’m not going to stay late.”
“ Yes ! B will be so happy.” Savannah smiles and pulls me in for a hug. “And me too, of course. I’ll send you the address. Is seven good for you?”
“Isn’t that a little late at night for a dress fitting?”
“Well, the planner wants to see the dresses and suits tried on together. The boys work until after dark this time of year. They missed all their appointments at the tailor— shocker —and this is kind of our last option. You can come earlier if you want, though. I’ll be there.”
I shrug. “Seven is fine, I guess. Drop me a pin.”
My phone chimes with a notification a second later, and I pick it up to save the location she sent. My stomach drops like a block of cement sinking to the muddy bottom of a lake when I see the batch of emails and app-related project notifications right under it.
The filtered sunlight creeping in through my wavy old windows feels too bright, all of a sudden. Every heartbeat thuds in my chest loud enough to drown out the sound of the wine bottle opening just a few feet away.
It’s silly to be stuck in a state of overwhelm like this when it comes to work. I’m tougher than that. But I’m also nearing thirty years old, which means I’ve learned enough about myself as a person to recognize what sparks joy and what doesn’t.
Banning romantic entanglements for myself and backpedaling to the world of corporate demands sparks nothing but despondency, so I’m afraid I’m off track for the time being.
Oh, and I think I just felt a motherloving cramp. What a time to be alive.
I swipe angrily at the screen, clearing most of the unwanted notifications. After finally clicking on the link from Savannah, my maps app pulls up to reveal a massive plot of land only a few miles from here.
The edge of the property is six minutes away. I bookmark the address labeled “Prairie Rose Ranch.”