I hide my nerves behind the task of filling the pot with water and coffee grounds. “Milk and sugar are–”
“I know,” his soft voice interrupts me.
“Right. You’ve been in this house more than me.”
“Mon…” he trails off, unsure of what to say to that. It’s not a lie; there’s nothing he could say to make me feel better. I’ve missed fourteen years of my father’s life.
“Here.” I turn with a full cup of coffee only to find him right behind me.
Unable to look into his eyes, afraid all my deepest fantasies would be visible, I stare at his throat. I’m startled when he takes the mug out of my hand, places it on the counter behind me, and then moves into me. Without thinking, I back up until I bump into the granite behind me.
“What are you doing?” I ask, a slight quiver in my voice betraying how much his closeness affects me.
“We’re going to talk about what happened. And since you’re avoiding me and won’t listen, I figure this will get your attention.” His demeanor exudes confidence, like he is perfectly confident to do this in my father’s kitchen. Like being close to me doesn’t affect him in the slightest.
I lean back as much as possible to gain some personal space, but he won’t let me. His presence is overpowering all my senses, making it impossible to form a coherent thought. All I can think of is how it would feel to reach out and touch the skin of his throat. Run my hand down his chest and feel the ripples of his muscles.
I’m pulled from my thoughts when I feel his finger on my chin and he pulls my gaze to his. I’m not prepared for what I see when my gaze connects with his. My eyes widen in shock when I recognize the same blaze deep within his irises.
I swallow past the lump forming in my throat. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
His mouth twitches as if he finds my denial amusing. “I’m sure you’ve convinced yourself of that over the past two days of ignoring my phone calls.”
“That’s something we should talk about. How did you get my number in the first place?” I latch onto the first thing I can think of to not talk about what happened.
“Wayne,” is all he has to say. Of course, my father would give him my number. Why wouldn’t he? He probably thought it was about Whisky. Not like I’ll ever tell anyone what happened in the barn. No need to add homewrecker to the list of ammunition this town can use against me.
“Right.” I finally tear my eyes away from his and look over his shoulder at the wall behind him. “Now, can you move back, please?”
“No,” his answer is so quick and unyielding, my eyes snap back to his. I can feel my anger rising at his inability to do as he’s asked. “Ah, there she is,” he continues with a smirk so full of promise it takes my breath away.
“What?” At his odd response, my anger is replaced with confusion.
“Whenever you get angry, the real you emerges. The strong woman who knows who she is and what she wants.”
I scoff, remembering his words from that first days we met. “You don’t know me. To you, I’m the ‘spoiled society princess who can’t be trusted,’ remember?”
This time it’s his gaze moving to the floor, like he’s ashamed of his words. “I see those words have left a mark.”
“It’s nothing I haven’t heard before. Most people just have the decency to meet me before they let me know they’ve already made up their minds about me.”
“You’re right. What I said was uncalled for. I let other people’s opinions and rumors influence mine. It wasn’t fair to you. I should have never said what I did. I apologize for those words, Montana.” His hands frame my face. I can see the genuine remorse and regret at the hurt he caused. “I’m sorry for what I said, but you have to know I don’t think that anymore. Not after seeing you with Whiskey or Lucifer. I was a judgmental bastard, I know that.”
My mouth snaps shut on the protest I was about to utter. No one has ever apologized for perpetuating the rumors, for believing the lies or the façade I put up to keep people at bay.
“I…” I trail off, not sure what to say.
“I would really like it if we could start over. I’m not that guy, the one who talks behind people’s backs and badmouths them to others.” His thumb is tracing the shape of my cheekbone, raising my body’s awareness of just how close he is.
“I don’t know. You seemed pretty set in your opinion of me.”
“And I was wrong. I’ve been watching you this past month. We both know you weren’t wrong that first day when you said to me horses can read dishonesty. The way both Whisky and Lucifer react to you, how they gravitate toward you, is proof that you aren’t who I thought you were. Otherwise neither one of them would trust you the way they do. Especially Lucifer. That boy doesn’t trust anyone.”
“So what you’re saying is you trust a horse’s instinct more than your own?” I can’t prevent the smile starting to form. At least he’s trying to right his wrongs. I doubt it’s easy for him to humble himself like this.
“I have been made aware that I have a tendency to make snap judgements about people. Many of whom don’t deserve my prejudice.”
I can’t
