“Good morning,” I say, taking a seat at the table.
Sarah grins. “Good morning and welcome back.”
“You seem happy this morning,” I observe.
“My baby has a job that keeps her too busy to get into trouble. I’m ecstatic.”
I chuckle. “It’s the simple things in life.”
“Isn’t that the truth.” She sets a fresh cup of coffee in front of me and takes a sip of her own. "Did you have a good time at the rodeo?"
Heat creeps up my neck at the interest in her tone. There's no judgment —just the awareness of the woman her son’s pursuing. I can’t deny something happened between me and Wyatt this weekend in Jackson—this is no longer a situationship, not when my heart decided to get involved. But an open heart is different from a trusting heart. On the one hand, I have these growing feelings for him; but, on the other hand, I’m guarded and careful. Maybe I’m incapable of falling head over heels—like a tumbleweed. "It was…”
My phone dings once, and then three more times in a row.
“You’d better get that.” She nods to my phone. “Sounds important.”
“Sorry,” I apologize and swipe the screen. An unknown number has sent me a social media link. I tap on it and see a picture of Brittney dragging Wyatt down the hall of our hotel. I squint and stare. What in the world? I recognize the clothes he wore to the sponsor event. This had to be after hekissed me goodnight. I swipe and see him holding the door to a room open for Brittney. His hair is mused and his lips swollen frommykisses.
My chest is tight, and I force myself to breathe and think.
I can hear his voice in my head:It’s not what it appears to be.
Well, it appears that Wyatt left my door and met up with Brittney for the rest of the night.
Okay. Okay. Don’t freak out. Brittney is certifiably coocoo and whatever this is, I’m sure there’s an explanation for it.
These aren’t selfies but they’re on Brittney’s account. Which means someone else was there to take photos and send them to Brittney. Okay, so they weren’t alone. That’s good, right?
I don’t know why he’s holding the door open for them—maybe that was him just going into his own room. I never saw the inside of it, so I don’t know.
It’s just … he didn’t say a word about this. You’d think he’d bring it up. If not the next morning then after she showed up at the Cowboy Bar—where he brushed her off.
I glare at my phone. I don’t know how to do this. Trusting Wyatt is hard enough for me. I don’t need random women implying that they’re sleeping with him.
Even if nothing happened, this makes me look bad. The night before these pics were taken, Wyatt and I were splashed all over Western socials. Brittney obviously doesn't care if she’s the other woman—or she’s trying to paint me as the other woman.
These pictures shouldn’t bother me. They do, but Ishould be more confident in myself. I mean, I may not be able to trust Wyatt, but I should be able to trust my own gut.
It does bother me that Brittney got my number to text the link to me. I mean, I don’t know that it’s her but I’m pretty sure it is. It’s a classic mean-girl move and all too cliche. It shouldn’t surprise me that she found my number. I’m a consultant and I have a website. She’s targeting me and I do not appreciate it.
I shake my head in an effort to clear it of all this. I’m at work. My personal life shouldn’t take me out of the game. I’m giving Brittney exactly what she wants, and I have to put this aside and deal with it when I’m off the clock.
“Sorry about that.” I set my phone down.
“Everything alright?” Sarah asks politely.
“Everything’s great.” I sit up taller. “In fact, I had an epiphany this weekend.”
Sarah's eyebrows rise with interest. “Oh?”
“Yes. I've been thinking about our strategy, and I believe it’s time we switch gears." I pick up my pen and spin it around my finger, catching it easily. I used to do that in debate class when I was too excited to sit still.
"How so?"
"We've been playing defense—scrambling to meet their deadlines, reacting to their moves, fighting on their terms." My pulse quickens with the recognition of a winning strategy forming. "This weekend, Wyatt told me that you don't beat a bull by trying to tame it—you conquer it by making the buzzer on your own terms."
"And you think we need to stop riding their bull," Sarah says, grasping the implication.