Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 99399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
Trace had made that clear.
But though the man who’d kissed Trace on the porch had been hard to see in the shadows, he’d seemed younger. My age.
Trace turned forty-seven later this year. While he definitely didn’t look it—with his lean muscles and sun-honeyed skin—he was technically old enough to be my father.
And even if I hadn’t known that my entire fucking life, I would have learned it that night over six years ago when I’d finally gotten up the nerve to ask him if he’d ever date someone much younger than he was.
His eyes had slid over to me from where he’d been standing on the shallows of Rock Creek, throwing his fly line in the summer sun.
“How young, Wolfe?”
The question had been a warning shot. I hadn’t heeded it. I’d been twenty-four and desperate, unable to wait a minute longer for him to notice me.
I’d shrugged, all electrified nonchalance. “Seventeen years?” My voice had cracked, betraying both my age and my nerves. I hadn’t been brave enough to repeat it in a regular voice. A man’s voice.
He’d turned back to face the river and his sharp hook skimming dangerously over the water. His biceps had bunched with each flick of his wrist as he cast longer and longer. It had looked effortless. Even back then, Trace had been to our family’s place in Montana often enough to have gotten good at fly fishing. Dad had taught both of us at the same time, me in my little boy waders and bucket hat and Trace in his much cooler men’s waders and backward ball cap.
But that day on the river, in addition to the backward cap, his face had also been hidden by dark sunglasses and devastating beard stubble.
The stubble had moved as his jaw flexed. “Never.”
It had been definitive, a word shot from a cannon with full knowledge of the damage it would do when it landed.
I’d turned back to my own hook, which had gotten stuck on a dead branch in the water. Though my throat was thick, I’d managed to swallow and breathe. To nod and let out a huff of fake laughter like it had been a joke.
And then I’d simply… kept on living. Pretended it had never happened. That I’d never asked the question or put that horrible idea out into the world.
Because what the fuck else could I do?
Within months, the project to fund the SERA program had popped up on my radar at the foundation out of the blue.
“What’s this?” I’d asked Papa. “What’s SERA?”
His face had lit up. “Slingshot Emergency Rescue Academy. Trace is finally going to follow his dream. And the Bluebell Foundation is going to help him.”
So I’d helped Trace leave. Helped him run away.
I didn’t believe he thought of it that way. He probably didn’t think about me much at all, or even understand what I did for my family’s charitable foundation. But I was the one who’d approved every fucking payment to the vendors involved in his project. I’d spearheaded the legal process to cut out the land grant from my family’s large parcel. I’d run background checks on the architect, the builder, and the outfitters. I’d researched the best liability insurance and made sure his—and our—investment was secure.
Then I’d sat back and watched as he’d built his new exciting life over a thousand miles away from me.
There’d been many times in the past six years I’d thought about relocating to Montana, if only to have him back in my life in a casual way, but I’d known better.
An addict can’t stay free if the damned drug is within arm’s reach.
And it had been fine. I’d been fine. Sure, I’d had my weak moments, but they’d led me to my songwriting career.
The career I should throw myself into now, and fuck everything else.
I yanked the safety tether from the treadmill and hopped onto the side rails. Sweat poured down my face, and my chest heaved.
After walking a few circuits around the room, I settled on the mat to do some stretching. The light from the room reflected an eerie blue on the snow drifts outside the giant floor-to-ceiling windows.
My phone buzzed with a text from my sister.
Rosie
Why aren’t you staying at the ranch with us?
I thumb-typed back a response.
Wanted to get in a good workout and the gym is better here. Heading to Majestic early in the morning for a meeting. I’ll see you tomorrow night when I’m back.
This wasn’t the real reason, of course. The real reason I hadn’t planned to stay at my brother Lennon’s ranch was that I’d wanted to see Trace.
Something about the improbable Grammy win, or maybe how devastatingly lonely I’d felt, had infected me like a virus. I kept remembering how I’d solemnly promised myself that if the song took off, that would be my sign to do… something.