Braving The Storm: An Age Gap, Cowboy Romance (Crimson Ridge Book 2)
Braving The Storm: Chapter 17

Layla’s message pops up in my Instagram inbox. I’m lying on the couch, doom scrolling and stalking my uncle’s old rodeo footage, and in general, feeling like a complete mess.

Let’s just ignore the fact that I was completely out of sorts thanks to the phone call and threats from my ex ringing in my ears as I walked in to replace us a table. Not to mention other entirely illicit thoughts drifting in that I most definitely should not have been thinking about in the first place…

We chat a bit more, I try to steer the conversation back to horses and her life on top of Devil’s Peak, rather than an off-limits tattooed bull rider, or any of his cowboy friends, before Layla tells me she has to go.

I’m left to my own overthinking as per usual and the crackle of the fire. I haven’t even attempted to turn on the tv to watch anything or replace a movie, I just can’t be bothered. Maybe if I wasn’t so distracted, I would read.

Instead, I replace myself guiltily re-watching clip after clip of a certain rodeo pro on my phone, scrolling through all his old posts on Instagram, feeling the winding tension inside my core build tighter every second I hover and bite my lip at the details I replace on-screen.

There’s one particular slow-motion montage someone has put together of him preparing for events in and around the arena. It shows him doing everything from warming up, to applying strapping tape to his wrist and forearm, and I’ve watched it on loop an embarrassing number of times. The chaps. The hat. The vest covered in sponsor logos. The swagger that is unmistakably the man whose presence fills this cabin, even when he’s not here.

One thing I can’t help but feel puzzled by as I sit here in my pit of wrong-thinking, is that he stopped competing abruptly, but there’s no mention made as to why. No injuries or major issues reported from the competition circuit. One day, he was seemingly everywhere, and the next, he no longer took part in any more events on the rodeo circuit. Maybe he suffered a career-ending injury and simply chose to quietly retire?

Although, from what I know of that man, he certainly commands attention wherever he goes.

God. I really fucking hate that I don’t know where he is, what he’s doing, or worst of all, who he might be doing.

How many other girls has he taught while they’ve been seated on his lap in the front seat of his truck? Is that how Luce misplaced her lip gloss?

Ugh. I let out a frustrated noise and decide that no good can come of sitting here with nothing but the fire, my misbehaving hormones, and my overactive imagination for company.

As I take myself off to the bedroom, my stomach flips when a familiar sound comes from outside the cabin. The rumbling hum of an engine pulls up and cuts out, followed by the heavy thud of the door closing. This is the part that I don’t know how we handle from here on out. He didn’t sleep in this bed last night, and from the way he took one look at me, scowled, and then hurled himself out the door earlier, I doubt he’s likely to tonight, either.

Even if things are awkward, I’m sick of him pretending that couch doesn’t fuck up his body. If we can’t be adults and share a bed, then I’ll be the one who sleeps in the lounge from now on.

I loiter aimlessly in the bedroom, listening to him come inside and bang around in the kitchen, before his footsteps draw closer down the hall. He won’t be coming in here. I can guarantee it’s with the intention of using the bathroom, so I pick my moment in order to corner him.

Just as he’s about to walk past, I step through the open door frame, putting myself right in his path.

“You know, most of the time, regular conversations are a two-way thing, kind of like when I ask you about your day, and you actually answer.”

Piercing blue eyes stare down at me. God, he’s so fucking nice to look at, it’s entirely unfair. Every time we’re close like this, I have to tilt my head to take him all in, and it gives me a front-row seat to the ink up his neck.

Sinfully hot tattoos I’m now fully aware extend down his chest, along his arms, with more scattered over his back too. A tapestry of stories from his life I’m so curious about, yet feel foolish if I were to dare ask.

“You really do seem to replace your bite after dark, don’t you, little thorn?” His gritty voice is far too appealing.

“Are you simply planning to avoid me now?”

He folds his arms and drags a thumb across his bottom lip, studying me with that cool gaze. “I had work to do, and besides, I figured you might need some space.”

“Why? I thought I was supposed to be helping you out with the ranch job.” At least he’s talking to me, but there’s a thick blanket of tension flowing between us in the gloom of the hallway.

“Guessed you would be too busy going on your date to work with me today.” His lip curls in a sneer as he snarls over the word like it’s personally offended him. Oh, this man can talk. Waltzing around in his slutty gray sweatpants and a white tee that hugs all his muscles. My neck prickles, thinking about where he’s just been.

“Is that why you’ve ignored me all day? What about you? Was it Luce again tonight? Was she hunting for another lost lip gloss on the floor of your truck?”

That makes him chuckle, and not in a friendly way. It’s a heartless, callous noise. He’s being a total dick, and my hand tightens around the phone I’m still holding. I’ve got half a mind to smack him upside the head with it.

“What do you care? How was your little date anyway? Did he hold your hand, call you ma’am, and be the perfect, polite, small-town cowboy wet dream?”

I’m fuming at his belittling words. How dare he act like last night was nothing, or didn’t happen, and then to simply avoid me today and ignore me, because he’s obviously got a problem with the fact I went out for coffee.

Even though he’s the one who made arrangements for me to be able to get there and back safely. He’s the one who contacted Layla in the first place. Without her help, I would have been stranded on this mountain, and my mouth opens and shuts as I try to replace the right words in order to argue back.

That’s when the man, taunting me and glaring me down, seems to spy something that snags his attention. His head cocks to one side, blue eyes narrowing in on the phone in my hand. Before I understand what is unfolding, a large tattooed hand reaches out, ripping it away from my grasp.

My stomach plummets through the floor.

Oh god.

Oh no.

Please don’t look at what is paused on that screen.

I try to claw at his arm to get it back, but this man is like a dog with a bone, and he pushes past me, making his way into the bedroom.

Steely eyes flick up to mine, glittering and more unsettling than I’ve ever experienced before now.

As he sinks down on the edge of the bed, with my phone in his big palm, he presses play, and the sound blares through the room like a demonic roar as the announcer on the recording reveals my dirty little secret to the crowd… and also the man giving me an entirely unreadable expression.

Ladies and gents, give it up for Stôrmand ‘Storm’ Lane.