Only in your dreams the.., p.1
Only in Your Dreams (The Mountains are Calling Book 2), page 1
Copyright © 2024 by Madison Wright
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
Cover Design by Sam Palencia at Ink and Laurel
Developmental Editing by Made Me Blush Books
Copy Editing and Proofreading by V.B. Edits
Contents
Dedication
1. Finley
2. Grey
3. Finley
4. Grey
5. Finley
6. Grey
7. Finley
8. Finley
9. Grey
10. Finley
11. Grey
12. Finley
13. Grey
14. Finley
15. Grey
16. Finley
17. Grey
18. Grey
19. Finley
20. Grey
21. Finley
22. Finley
23. Finley
24. Grey
25. Finley
26. Finley
27. Finley
28. Grey
Author's Note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
For my Poppy,
I really wanted to be your mom.
Love is a sham. A ploy of the desperate to find meaningful connection in life. A way to add weight to what is ultimately admiration or attraction or lust.
Gosh, my life would be so much easier if I actually believed that. Instead, I’m in the hopeless romantic camp. I cry during rom-com movies and at pharmaceutical commercials featuring elderly couples frolicking through a meadow with the help of their arthritis medication. I’ve unironically attended poetry readings. I’ve signed up for every dating app imaginable. And on one rather unfortunate drunken evening, I even paid a poorly rated Etsy fortune teller to predict when I would meet my soulmate.
Frankly, I have no self-respect.
Which is how I ended up single at my brother’s wedding, six days after being dumped by the guy I thought was the one. I’d looked up baby names that would sound nice with his last name. I’d picked out the engagement ring I would start making increasingly less subtle hints about. I’d even switched to a month-to-month lease instead of signing on for another year at my apartment.
All I ended up with was a mortifyingly quick breakup at my favorite coffee shop. My iced caramel macchiato with two pumps of white mocha and extra whipped cream was sweeter than my boyfriend’s dispassionate breakup speech. Sorry, ex-boyfriend.
I really needed to start thinking of Gus as my ex and not as the future father of our two-point-five children and the builder of my dream white picket fence around our adorably dated cottage.
There would be no garden in our yard from which I could stock my flower shop with my own cut florals. There would be no children with his eyes and my hair. There would be no lazy Saturday mornings in bed arguing about which of us would have to get up to let our golden retriever into the yard. There would be no tan line on my finger from his ring. There would be no us, and likely no one else.
I would grow old and gray alone in my house with no less than six cats that would inevitably feast on my corpse after I pass.
Man, I get morose when I’m tipsy. In fact, I’ve probably passed that threshold and dived straight into drunken territory. But to be fair, I’m at a wedding, and there’s an open bar. My brother’s wedding, with his new wife, who has become one of my best friends in the year and a half they’ve been together. They’re so thoroughly in love that it makes my heart ache just to look at them. Case in point, my brother had an actual wedding, with a ceremony and a reception. I always assumed his second wedding would be like his first, a casual affair in the courthouse with a selfie of him and his bride sent in the family group chat after the fact. But Wren, his now wife, loves our little mountain town even more than I do. She wanted to invite every resident, and although Holden half-heartedly grumbled about it, he didn’t put up much of a fuss.
So they hosted a January wedding for four hundred of Wren’s closest friends and family, along with people Holden considers acquaintances at best even though he’s known all of them since birth. And I’m standing on the outskirts of the dance floor in a wrinkled bridesmaid dress, watching the two of them and Holden’s daughter, June, spin in off-beat circles, wrapped up in their own world. I’m so mesmerized by the way my niece’s dress twirls around her calves that I don’t notice someone sidle up next to me. I recognize his scent immediately. Fresh linen and the same cheap bar soap he’s used since high school.
Grey Sutton, my brother’s longtime best friend.
“You’re drunk,” he says, not looking at me.
I shoot a glare up, up, up at him. I swear he always grows when I drink. Maybe I just slump. “You’re observant.”
Pale blue eyes finally meet mine, partially obscured by a lock of caramel brown hair falling into his face. “You’re testy.” He says this with one side of his mouth hitching up into the faintest of smirks.
“I’d say you would be too if your significant other of two years dumped you six days ago, but that would require you to make it past a first date, and I know you haven’t done that since getting chest hair.”
I swear a cloud passes over his eyes for the briefest of seconds, but when it’s gone before I can decipher it, I gather it must be the alcohol in my system. I doubt I could spot Bigfoot if he were to stand directly in front of me right now. Everything is so pleasantly fuzzy around the edges, including the sharp pain in my sternum that’s been hounding me since the breakup.
His lips twitch again, his grin growing wider as he watches me. “Yes, well, if I finally settled down with someone, whatever would you have to criticize me about anymore?”
“I’m sure I could find something.”
His broad shoulder bumps into mine, only the thin, starchy fabric of his dress shirt separating our skin, since he discarded his suit jacket hours ago. “I’m sure you could, Fin. Maybe I should finally get hitched just so you can get more creative with your insults. The playboy ones are starting to get tired.”
“I’m sure your dick is too.”
His laugh is loud and booming, and to my surprise, it’s the first thing to bring a genuine smile, rather one tinged with sadness, to my face for the first time in a week. Sure, I smiled watching Holden and Wren and June today, but I’m just drunk enough to admit that it was a happiness overlaid with an aching jealousy, a desperate longing to find what they had.
But this smile holds none of that. It’s the kind of floating merriment that feels incandescent and bubbly, like champagne in your soul.
When his laughter dies down, Grey says, “Fin, I’m honestly surprised you think I’m out here sleeping with all these women I go out with.”
I stare up at his messy hair and the five-o’clock shadow dusting his chin. “And I’m honestly surprised you don’t have dozens of children running around the county.”
He raises a thick brow, and it disappears behind his hair. “Would you be jealous if I did?”
I nod, honestly. “Yeah, I probably would.”
His gaze sharpens, and I swear I feel his body tense beside mine. “What?”
I let my gaze drift back out to the dance floor, taking in Holden, now holding a giggly, sleepy June, his free arm wrapped around Wren’s waist, the three of them swaying to the music, fairy lights casting their skin in a magical golden glow.
“I’d be jealous you got to have children with no effort when I’ve been trying so hard to get to that place my entire life.” My words slur a bit at the edges, the alcohol making me more honest than usual. “I just want it, you know? I want it all. The husband, the kids, the house with the white picket fence and the wraparound porch. Saturday morning pancakes and movies on the couch.” I snort and look up at Grey, finding him watching me closely, expression soft and unreadable. “I know that sounds like hell to you.”
A muscle flickers in his jaw, and his arms cross over his chest before he looks away. “I don’t—”
He’s cut off by a body crashing into mine. Tall and slim, smelling of tequila and fruity perfume. Clothed in an off-white satin dress, normally long black hair tied in a knot atop her head.
Nora.
I smile, another genuine one, and wrap my arms around my best friend. She’s sweaty from dancing, her eyes wild and carefree. “Come dance with us, Finny.”
I laugh at the name her two-year-old has taken to calling me, since he can’t pronounce the L in my name. Nora is just as drunk as I am, but unlike me, her husband will call them a car tonight and make sure she takes her makeup off and pops two ibuprofen before they climb into their giant bed together.
I’ll be lucky to pass out on my couch, still in my bridesmaid dress, and I’ll wake up cold and alone with a raging hangover.
It makes my heart pinch, but the dazzling smile on her face has me nodding and following her onto the dance floor anyway. When I toss a glance back at Grey over my shoulder, there’s an unreadable expression on his face as he stares after me. Tenderness and something else. Something sadder. What I imagine I looked like watching Holden and Wren and June a few minutes ago.
I bump into someone dancing, and after I right myself, I turn back around, hoping to figure out what Grey’s look meant, but he’s gone, and I
Nora tugs me the final step to where her husband, Raj, is dancing with our friends from high school. Soon, we’re joining them, a mass of warm, breathless bodies doing the Cupid Shuffle.
It’s easy to get lost in it, the dancing and the drinks that keep ending up in my hands. It’s a relief to let go of the heavy sadness that’s been plaguing me since Gus unceremoniously dumped me a week ago. You know, since he doesn’t want to be in the wedding photos when this obviously wasn’t going anywhere. That had been news to me. He told me he thought he’d been upfront in the beginning, that he wasn’t looking for anything serious, that he wasn’t ready to settle down. And that’s true, he had. But that was two years ago. I guess I thought I could change him. I wouldn’t make that mistake again. From here on out, I’d only date men with a house in a good school district and an inherited engagement ring from their late grandmother that they’re waiting to propose with when they find the woman of their dreams.
There’s not a category for that on any of the dating apps. I’ve checked. It also doesn’t help that I live in the smallest town in America, with more tourists than residents year-round, and I’ve known almost every eligible man in a ten-mile radius since preschool. They’re all either married or gay or making their rounds like Grey.
And just like that, the ache is back. After making an excuse to Nora, I stumble off the dance floor, unsteadily walking toward the bar. Before I can get there, Grey is at my elbow once more, but this time, he reaches out to steady me.
The world is spinning on its axis, a blur of blue eyes and messy hair and a smell so clean and fresh that it’s not even offensive to my precariously delicate sensibilities right now. I lean heavily into him, and his hands find my hips, large and warm and heavy.
“Okay, Finley,” he says, his breath hot against my neck where he’s leaning down to speak directly into my ear over the loud music. “I think it’s time to get you home.”
I want to argue, to protest and say that I’m not ready, that I want to drink and dance more, but despite the years-long bickering match between us, I know Grey has always got me. He’s one of my pillars, like Nora, Mom, Holden, and now Wren. He will hold me up when I can’t. Literally, right now.
So I just sink into him and nod against his chest. I think he lets out a relieved breath, and it makes the wisps of golden hair that have fallen from my half updo dance against my sticky neck. I think we’re moving. Either that or I’m even drunker than I thought. I hear him speaking, although I’m not focused on his words. And then I hear Holden and Wren. I peel my eyes open enough to look at them, to paste a sloppy smile on my face.
“I’m so happy you’re married.”
Wren grins up at me, but I think there’s a little sadness behind her eyes. Holden’s too. I want to tell them I’m okay, that they don’t need to feel sorry for me, especially not on their wedding day, but I don’t have it in me to lie about my mental state. And actually, I do feel okay. I’m warm, tucked under Grey’s arm, his hand solid and firm on my hip.
“I’m happy we’re married too,” Wren says, leaning forward to wrap me in a hug. She’s quickly become one of my favorite people in the world, and I’m so thrilled she’s officially a part of the family. I’m going to make sure to express that to her when words are easier. When my mind isn’t fuzzy and there’s not an embarrassing lump in my throat, signaling tears I didn’t know were forming.
Gosh, I’m a mess. I think Grey knows it too, because he hurries our goodbyes and leads me off the dance floor and toward the dark gravel parking lot of the farm. I’d stumble and probably face-plant if not for the way he’s holding me up. I’d cry if he spoke right now. I’m on the verge of falling apart, and now that I’m away from the twinkling lights and the magic, I just feel dizzy and empty and cold.
And nauseous.
When I pull away from him and stop to heave in the grass, I’m surprised to feel his warm hand gathering my hair and holding it against the base of my neck, his other smoothing up and down my spine comfortingly.
I think he’s talking, whispering soft words, but my head is too spinny to process them. My skin grows cold and clammy, and I shake uncontrollably until Grey wraps his arm around me again, leading me to his truck.
He opens the door, helps me inside, and closes me inside the dark interior. It smells like him in here, clean and masculine, and I like the way the leather of his seats feels beneath my hands. All of it helps ground me, and by the time he climbs into the driver’s seat, I’m feeling a little less unsteady.
His eyes find mine in the dark, and I hear the crinkle of plastic. A water bottle. “Can you drink this, or do you need help?”
He’s gone into firefighter mode, I think. It’s the only reason he’s taking care of me this diligently. Either that or I look even worse than I feel, and he’s genuinely concerned for me.
I hope Gus gets genital warts for the number he’s done on me.
My head rolls against the headrest. “I can do it.” But when I lift the bottle to my lips, it splashes onto my dress. Then Grey’s hand is there, holding the bottle steady. I gratefully gulp down the water, rinsing the nasty taste from my mouth.
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it.
He holds my gaze for another long moment, a wrinkle between his brows. And then he’s putting the truck in gear and backing out of the parking spot, gravel crunching beneath his tires. “Let me know if you need me to pull over.”
With a salute so poor military forces all over would cringe, I say, “I promise I won’t puke in your car.”
In the slice of light from a streetlamp, the concerned look on his face melts away. It’s quickly replaced with that smirking grin I know all too well.
“Just don’t puke on the dress. I don’t think you’re going to be able to shower and change by yourself if you do.”
I shiver as images of him stripping and bathing me inexplicably flitting through my mind. I can practically feel his hands on me, smell the soap he always uses making circles on my skin.
I force my gaze back to the road, but watching it move isn’t helping with my dizziness and nausea, so I turn back to Grey. “I’m watching you because looking at the road makes me want to throw up. Don’t let it go to your head.”
That half smile. “I wouldn’t dare.”
“I don’t believe that for a second.”
“I wouldn’t either.”
It’s not long before he’s pulling into the small parking lot behind my apartment building. My flower shop, Unlikely Places, is downstairs, but my studio that overlooks Main Street is upstairs. In the morning, the sunrise is going to shine into my apartment and make me want to kill someone. Probably myself. And Jose Cuervo. He’s never been nice to me.
“Don’t get out,” Grey says, putting the truck in park and killing the engine.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
A moment later, he’s opening the passenger door and helping me out. It’s not helping my nausea, but I force myself to wait to throw up until I’m in my apartment.
It’s a good thing he’s here, because I would never have made it up the stairs on my own. I lean heavily on him, thankful that I gave him a key when I moved in a few years ago, because I just realized I left mine back at the farm. My car too.
I’ve always wondered what rock bottom feels like.
“This isn’t rock bottom,” he says, fitting his key into the lock.
I didn’t realize I’d said it out loud.
I barely make it into the apartment and to the toilet before heaving again. Grey is there once more, holding my hair, crouching beside me, waiting with toilet paper so I can wipe my mouth.
I stare at him in the dark, only my night-light illuminating the small bathroom. “Sure feels like rock bottom.”
His calloused fingers are rough against my skin as he pushes a lock of hair behind my ear and scans my face with soft eyes.
“Looks like starting over to me.”
I slump back against the cold bathtub, drawing my knees up to my chest. I’m horrified to feel my bottom lip quiver. “I don’t want to start over.”
His fingers thread with mine, squeezing gently, tethering me to reality. “I know, Fin, but you’re not alone.”
