Braving The Storm: An Age Gap, Cowboy Romance (Crimson Ridge Book 2)
Braving The Storm: Chapter 35

Sending Briar back in the morning after the kind of night we just shared wasn’t exactly my plan. Every part of me insisted, damn well planned on threatening bloody murder in order to keep her right here, to park her shitty little rental car up, and tuck her by my side.

Except, the whip-smart thing she is, my girl knew she needed to be at the cabin. That on the off-chance her fuck face of a sister—Briar’s own words—decided to turn up, uninvited, and unannounced, it would be much worse for all of us trying to explain both our absences.

That left me pacing and doing my best effort to wear holes in Beau’s perfectly finished floorboards of his ranch, in a futile attempt to carry on with all the shit I need to do today.

All the while, my mind has been, and is, firmly with her.

Every aspect of the past forty-eight hours has upended things. Tipped the scales to make it clear what does and doesn’t fucking matter to me.

I nearly damn well told her everything last night as she curled up against my chest, nearly confessed how fucking brutally gone I am for her. The only thing stopping me, was knowing that Briar has got more important shit to deal with than me blurting out that I’m in love with her.

She’s had enough thrown her way; my stupid little sentiments can wait. Briar Lane deserves to be told she’s loved and adored and has me damn well wrapped around her little finger when it’s someplace special.

Not in the middle of a half-furnished ranch, with paint cans and dust cloths draped around like shrouds.

There’s also the matter of timing.

What I would give to be able to freely tell her everything, without the conversation hanging over our heads from the kitchen. Not two seconds after revealing all my bullshit past, all my crappy decisions, and not when I’ve just told her about the worst damn time in my life.

Briar deserves so much more than someone like me, but damn, there’s absolutely no way I’m going to give her up.

I’m a selfish asshole like that.

The ghosts of my past came racing out of that hidden box last night, and at least she didn’t run from me once she found out. It’s hard enough coming to terms with the stranger who I don’t even remember, wearing a ring I presumably gave them while blind drunk, signing on the bottom line to hitch themselves to my life when I wanted nothing to do with them.

That sort of cluster fuck is especially tough to reconcile when that so-called estranged wife decides to overdose in the tub and leave a note insinuating that it was my fault.

As if she wasn’t busy chasing after another man who only wanted to keep her as a dirty secret, a hole to fuck on the side. As if I wasn’t already so long shot of her, we hadn’t spoken other than through lawyers in years before she went and ended things.

That one decision amounted to tanking my entire career, taking the only thing I had, the only thing I was good at, and tearing it apart the moment she made that fateful choice that she didn’t want to carry on any longer.

The worst part of it all, other than being a needless, senseless death of an impressionable young woman, was that it wasn’t me she was trying to hurt by ending things.

I just happened to be the unlucky asshole who the hammer of public judgment fell upon.

As I shove my hat on my head and toss the few tools I prefer to keep with me in the back of my truck, I see the sun setting behind the pink mountains in the distance. The evening air is cool and crisp in my lungs as I blow out a breath that turns white before me. Crimson Ridge herself glows more burnt umber than red at this time of night, with Spring on its way. High in the faded light, a crescent moon reveals a thin silver line, one of those clear-skied evenings where the stars begin to pop out and wink one by one the longer you gaze up at them.

I want to be able to show this to Briar.

I want to lie here, in the flatbed of my truck, with her wrapped in my arms, and count the stars as they start to show up.

She’s my person. The girl, all these sorts of meaningless, simple moments, are meant to be shared with. Not on my own like I’ve done for so long now, but with her tucked against my chest, when she’ll no doubt tell me the names of the stars appearing before us because she’s smart as hell and knows so many things like that. Even if she shrugs it off and pretends it’s no big deal.

Maybe tomorrow, I’ll lay it all out.

I can cook her breakfast, make her coffee with the almond creamer she prefers, and sit her ass down at the table that I only ever want to sit at when it gives me the opportunity to be directly across from her, and I’ll tell her.

Or maybe I’ll just outright burst through that door and blurt the words. Simply beg her to stay with me. To put it all on the line. I’ve got absolutely fuck all to give her, but maybe she might take a chance on a broken old asshole, and choose not to leave.

My chest squeezes as I settle inside my truck, readjust my hat, and then start the ignition.

It’s only ever her that I see in these brief, quiet inhales. Thoughts of our time together over the past weeks fly in, consuming everything.

The second my hand replaces the slope of her waist from behind, my pulse begins to thunder. Briar stands in the kitchen, another assortment of twigs in hand, as she fills the water glass from the faucet. The same one that has doubled as her vase sitting on the table beside the window since she arrived.

“Flowers.” She hums, tilting her head to one side as I fit myself against her spine. That small movement allows my lips to brush up the curve of her neck with ease.

I stand at her back, like the lovesick fool I am, watching her fuss with the handful of branches. Just like she’s done so many times since first arriving here. A little ritual she carries out seemingly every few days. These have got small buds on them, but since it’s still early spring, and snow’s still on the ground, they’re nowhere near close to blooming yet.

“Flowers?” One hand braces against the counter as I curl around her from behind. “Even though it’s technically spring, out there, it’s practically winter still, darlin’.”

She makes a point of grumbling, and I can’t help the smile that forms against her neck. “They might not look like it right now, but eventually, one day, these will be spring flowers.”

“Right now… they still look like twigs in a cup.” I tease.

Briar huffs, the way she does; it’s a cute little frustrated noise I love hearing her make whenever she’s inwardly rolling her eyes at me.

“Back in LA, everything was fake. The smiles, the flowers, the supposed antiques. Nothing was ever real.” She starts to carefully arrange a dozen lengths of what looks to be cut from a shrub she’s found outside.

“To me… it feels like home if there are fresh flowers. It means someone cares enough to make a place beautiful with something that isn’t practical.”

“You want this place to feel like home.” It’s not really a question, more of an observation, as I rest my chin on her shoulder and watch her fingers move everything around until she seems satisfied with the angles and positioning before adding a little more water.

“I want this place to feel special.”

I’ve been lost inside my thoughts for the entire drive back up the mountain. By the time I pull up outside the cabin, I see the light spilling from the interior, and to my relief, it’s just my girl there. When she hears my truck arrive, Briar’s already opening the door to greet me, with a smile brightening her features.

This right here is it.

This is how I want to feel every time I pull up and crank that handbrake, and it’s a sensation that settles in my chest, warm and secure.

Coming home to be with her is the fucking prize.

Knowing that Briar’s goodness and sweetness fill every inch of space inside that cabin, yeah, that shit swells inside my chest, like a firelight glowing, too.