Yeah—a bull-riding win, a beer or two at my friend Duke’s bar, and the thighs of a pretty brunette to bury myself between tonight? That’s exactly what I need.
Heading towards her, I pick up my pace and—
Something small and blond flies into my legs, sending pain shooting up my bad shin. I almost double over with a grunt, but steady myself, trying to hold back my groan.
Fuck. Okay, maybe that fracture isn’tcompletelyhealed yet.
When I look down at whatever the hell got in my way, expecting an animal that’s gotten loose, I’m met with two bright-blue eyes blinking up at me through round silver-rimmed glasses and a face splitting grin that’s missing quite a few teeth. The owner of which is a young boy—maybe five? Six? I have no idea. Kids aren’t my thing—I’m not cut out to be a father. Which is why I would normally just tell this kid to watch where he’s going and then carry on towards the woman waiting for me.
Except, I can’t stop staring down at him, frozen by the familiarity in his face—the ashy-blond hair, the dusting of freckles across his nose and chubby cheeks. And those damn blue eyes.
I have to take a long blink and shake my head just to snap me out of the trance they put me in, where painful memories start to claw their way out from the cold, dark back of my mind.
‘You good there, buddy?’ I ask, glancing up to check that brunette’s still waiting for me. She smiles pleasantly and I hold up a finger, mouthingone second.
And the boy? He just stares at me with wonder like I’m Santa Claus—completely unmoving with those blue eyes of his comically wide. His bottom lip works like he’s trying to speak, but no words surface. He’s clearly from a rodeo-loving family given that he’s dressed like a miniature cowboy—an off-white shirt, brown vest, and he’s even got cow-print chaps on. If it was still daytime, I’d say he’s one of the kids participating in competitions, but those finished hours ago.
I have no idea what to do with him, so I ask, ‘Are you lo—’
‘There you are!’ A woman’s voice rings through the arena. In a blur of denim and long blonde hair she appears and crouches beside the boy, taking his hands in hers, completely oblivious to me. ‘Just ’cause Grandma can’t run as fast as you, doesn’t give you free rein to run off, baby. You gotta keep hold of her hand like you do mine.’
The blonde hair should’ve given her away, but it’s the strong country twang of her silvery voice that has the world tipping around me.
Because I never thought I’d hear it again.
The same voice that used to tell me off for cussing too much at school. The same voice that could coax light out of even the darkest corners of my soul. The same voice thatgasped in my ear the first time I touched her. The same voice that broke my heart in the cab of my truck nine years ago.
Honey Goldman.
The sight of her knocks the wind from my lungs harder than any of the times I’ve fallen off a bull. Whatever song was playing through the speakers is barely audible under the shrill ringing in my ears, the thunderous thump of my heart.
‘I’m sorry, Momma,’ the boy whispers, hanging his head.
Momma.The name is a knife to the stomach, twisting as I frantically do the mental math in my head, watching the two of them. A pang of relief hits my chest knowing I was a few years too early, but there’s also a faint ache underlying it that I don’t want to explore. Just like when I saw them briefly at the Willow Ridge fair earlier this summer, hoping it was all just a hallucination.
Once again, I have to remind myself that I don’t care.
That was never supposed to be my life.
I’m not cut out for that kind of love.
Honey said so herself.
‘It’s okay, baby. Thank you for apologising.’ Honey ruffles the boy’s hair and plants a kiss on his forehead, before taking his hand. It’s then that she finally stands back up, turning to me as she says, ‘I am so sorry about N—’
She stops short, almost stumbling when her eyes meet mine.
Being under the scrutiny of those baby blues again for the first time in nine years has my world jolting, memories playing out in them.
It’s not like I didn’t know I’d see her around again eventually after my best friend, Wolfman, who coachesfootball at Willow Ridge High, told me she’d gotten a job there this summer. But it doesn’t make seeing her any less of a shock. It just makes my need to get out of town even more pertinent.
‘Sawyer.’ My name comes out of her on a breath.
‘Blue,’ I automatically respond, wincing at my use of a nickname that probably means nothing to her after nine years. But when she’s staring at me with those bright eyes, I can’t help it. Just like I couldn’t back then.
Her lashes fly high at the name and I blurt out, ‘Sorry. I mean, Honey.’
‘It’s okay,’ she replies, body rigid.