Chasing home, p.4
Chasing Home, page 4
“Wild Bull Ranch. I’m not a big fan of the guy we were dealing with, but—”
“You committed to us. We closed our ranch for you. This has been in the works. You cannot do this to us. I’m calling our lawyer.” Scarlett drops into a chair, her fingers pressing against her temples.
“Hey, I tried to change his mind, but he’s the boss. You don’t want to involve lawyers and pay those bills. No one wins in cases like this. We can pay for the expense of closing the ranch, make it worth it to you.”
Her arms fall to the table. “Listen, we’re having our worst year ever. Tourism is down because of the economy. Walker Matthews from Wild Bull Ranch is draining us dry by constantly competing with our businesses. This was our chance to put our ranch on the map. We need this.”
I close my eyes.
Beau grunts, and the back of the chair pops up. They’re about to square off over this.
The knot in my throat sinks to my stomach from Scarlett’s confession. We’re down this year, and she was banking on this video. Not only will Zander be paying for his time here, but afterward we’ll be able to advertise the fact that the video was filmed here. Maybe even increase our event pricing as a result.
I can’t imagine not having this ranch. I’ve seen the downfall of other ranches over the years. One bad year turns to two then three, and soon enough there’s a For Sale sign up on the fence post. That can’t happen to my family. Too many of us are counting on this, which leaves only one way to fix it.
Zander always gets his way, so there’s only one way to make him stay.
Chapter Seven
ZANDER
My suitcase is already packed.
DeSoto’s been hovering outside my door as though I’m still on tour, guarding a hotel hallway instead of a family ranch in the middle of nowhere. I told him to knock it off. The only people trying to breach security out here might be the set of little girls I saw running around earlier.
I scroll through my phone to keep my head busy. Not that I’m hot on reading blatant lies written about me. Beau and the team did a good job spinning my absence as a post-tour break, but you can’t hide a caravan of trucks and an army of new faces in a small town. Everyone will know where I am soon enough.
My phone pings with a text from Zara.
What is there to do out in Nebraska?
My thumbs hover my screen when a knock lands on the door.
“Beau, you get it handled or what?” I mutter, tossing my phone onto the bed and yanking open the door.
It’s not Beau.
“Romy?”
Her eyes are steady, and her chin is lifted. She tilts her head toward the room. “Mind if I come in?”
I step back. “Uh… yeah, sure.”
She walks past me, eyes scanning the room. “Not surprised they gave you the honeymoon suite.” She scoffs as if I’m undeserving.
“It’s the biggest room.” I shrug.
She shakes her head but doesn’t comment. Instead, she crosses the space to the farthest corner, deliberately keeping her distance from me. There’s resolve in her face and a tightness in her shoulders.
“Listen,” she says, her voice firmer than I’ve heard prior, “I know this is uncomfortable. But I’m not here to stalk you. I haven’t told my family what happened between us, so you don’t have to worry about them hating you on my behalf.”
I clench my jaw.
“I overheard Beau telling Scarlett you want out.”
“I do.” I force myself to hold her gaze.
She nods once. “Then let me make this easy for you. You don’t have to worry about me. I get it—it was a fling. Less than a fling. I was just another rabid screaming female in the crowd you picked out to pass the time with.”
My chest tightens. I want to stop her. Tell her she wasn’t like the others. That she’s still under my skin. But if I do that, I’ll give her hope that this can be something it can never be. Hope that I might be a different person than she thinks. That would make me even more of a bastard.
“Just…” She swallows hard, her voice catching. “I know you don’t owe me anything, but please… stay. Film the video here.”
Her words slice deeper than I expect. I study her. She’s flushed, but not the way she used to be when I kissed her. This looks more like exhaustion.
“Help me understand,” I say, arms crossing, feet planted wide.
Her eyes narrow. “You don’t have to understand.”
“Then I’m leaving.”
Her jaw drops open, disbelief sparking in her eyes.
You’re being a dick. Stop it.
“God, isn’t my asking enough?” Her voice rises, sharp edges breaking through. “Do you think I’d humiliate myself like this if I wasn’t desperate?”
Her fierce gaze locks with mine. And just like that, I’m dragged back to the memory of her beneath me as I slid into her. How I wanted to slow down, savor her, memorize every second because I knew even then she was too good for me.
“So, in just a few hours, you’ve changed your mind?” I ask, my words sharper than I intend. “What happened to it’s a big ranch. We don’t have to cross paths?”
Her annoyance spikes. “Fine. Whatever. Leave. I’m not surprised.” She storms toward the door, putting as much space between us as possible.
Let her go. Let her go. Get off this ranch.
But my hand betrays me, reaching out, fingers curling around her wrist.
She freezes. But she doesn’t turn or pull away.
“Fine,” I say, my voice low. “If it matters that much to you… I’ll stay.”
She exhales as though the air’s been punched from her lungs. I force myself not to trace the pulse on the inside of her wrist with my thumb. We just stand there, breathing the same air.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
I let go, and after a beat, she walks to the door.
“Romy,” I say.
Her hand stills on the knob, but she doesn’t look back. “You should be careful,” she warns. “This might be a small town, but there are plenty of women who’d kill to get into this room. Maybe DeSoto should stick to the hallway instead of raiding the complimentary peanut butter cookies downstairs.”
I smirk. “They’re good cookies.”
Her shoulders loosen slightly. “Nothing compared to the pistachio ones.”
Our exchange garners the barest shift in her posture before she slips out.
I don’t try to stop her. Whatever drove her to me had to be monumental because I’m the last man she’d ever want to ask for help.
I walk to the window just to torture myself, desperate for one more glimpse.
She’s crossing the lot, climbing into a UTV. That blue dress of hers catches the fading light, hem fluttering around those long, tan legs I used to dream about being wrapped around me.
Still do, asshole.
Another UTV pulls up with Scarlett and Beau. He walks over to Romy, holding papers. He’s smiling, but she breaks the distance, her hand touching his arm, and his smile falls. He nods. They talk for one or two seconds before she climbs into the UTV and drives off.
Then Beau glances up at me. He sees me watching then shakes his head, laughing to himself.
Great. Now he’s gonna give me hell.
I wait for the knock, but he doesn’t bother. The door clicks open.
“Last I checked, this isn’t your room,” I grumble.
“Figured you wouldn’t let me in.” He tosses the papers onto the bed and finishes off the cookie he must have taken when he passed by reception. “These are some of the best cookies I’ve ever had.”
“I guess the pistachio ones are the best.”
“Really? Says who?”
“So?” I change the subject, not wanting to talk about Romy and how when she confessed her favorite cookie, I wanted to go down to the kitchen and beg the chef to teach me how to make them just to impress her.
“Here’s the deal. I granted your wish. Again. Which makes this a helluva lot more than three, so you’re out of genie requests. Then I hear you changed your damn mind?”
I grab my guitar, sitting on the edge of the mattress and settling it on my lap.
“Zan?”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “We’re staying.”
Beau glares at me when I glance up at him. “You’re a fucker, you know that? Scarlett Ellis isn’t all sunshine and fucking roses. She threatened my balls. Promised to slit my throat. Might’ve cursed my unborn children. She’s probably gone back to that office of hers to put a hex on me.”
I arch a brow.
“Okay, maybe not,” he admits. “But it wouldn’t shock me if that’s next. So now I have to tell her we’re back on?”
“Yep.” I strum a chord casually.
“I quit.”
“You say that every day.”
“And if you weren’t such a sorry ass, I’d mean it.”
“No, you wouldn’t.”
He shakes his head, muttering as he grabs the papers again. “I should.”
“Probably.”
He stops in the doorway. “You’re buying me a new shirt. This one’s soaked in sweat.”
I chuckle.
“Stop laughing, asshole.”
The door shuts, and I’m sure he’s flipping me off behind it, but I’m thankful when the silence returns.
I scribble a line into my notebook, words coming fast and furious since Romy left.
Maybe Beau’s right. Maybe this ranch is exactly what I need. For inspiration or peace or mental torture, I don’t know.
It could be a good thing or a bad thing, but if I’m stuck here, I might as well benefit from it.
Chapter Eight
ROMY
The sun slips behind the hills, but the plethora of string lights trailing from one tree or pole to the next cast a warm glow.
The huge buffet that Jensen must have planned for weeks is over, though a few of the desserts are still out for people to enjoy as they mill about. The fire is low enough that it’s not throwing too much smoke, just warmth into the crisp evening air. Someone fiddles with a Bluetooth speaker, then curses when it loses connection.
Everyone groans. I look at my phone to see how much longer I might be required to stay. Maybe I can slide out early.
After numerous people try to fix the speaker, Beau walks over with Zander’s guitar.
My stomach sinks.
He sets it in front of Zander with a grin, but Zander scowls and shakes his head.
“One song,” Beau nudges, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. “They deserve a little concert after all the hard work that went into tonight.”
The hard lines on Zander’s face soften. “Which was amazing. Thank you for the spread and your gracious hospitality,” Zander says, voice dry, but his mouth curves in a half smile.
Flutters erupt in my stomach. It’s the same half smile that won me over every damn time we were together.
“Get on with it then.” Beau nudges the case closer with his foot.
The people closest cheer in agreement, egging Zander on. I roll my eyes so hard they nearly stick. Zander’s gaze finds mine over the flames of the fire, and thankfully I have the excuse of the heat from the flames for why my cheeks are so red.
Zander smiles and opens the case. The guitar gleams in the firelight, the warm wood reflecting the flickers of the flames. He slings the strap of the guitar over his shoulder and positions the guitar in his lap. The movements are flawless, showing how his guitar is just an extension of him. He adjusts the strap, strums a few test chords, letting out a breath.
And then—
He sings.
I wonder if anyone will notice if I bolt.
His voice isn’t the one filling a stadium when he’s on tour or the polished studio version that plays on the streaming services. It’s lower, rougher, and more intimate. The notes drop into the night sky and float away, quieting the murmurs of the bystanders.
I tell myself to not watch. I tell myself to drown him out with my thoughts or go help Delaney chase down the last marshmallow sticks for the girls. And I definitely tell myself to get up off the log across from him and disappear into the backdrop of darkness so I’m invisible to curious eyes.
But I don’t move.
My gaze finds him as if it’s being pulled by magnets. Zander sits forward, head tipped slightly down, lashes lowering as his thumb drags steadily over the strings. There’s tension in his jaw, a faint furrow in his brow. I always loved when he did an acoustic rendition at his concerts, and everyone would raise their phones and shine their flashlights. It always felt more personal, as if he was letting me in a little. How naïve was I?
The fire crackles, and people link arms, swaying together. I sit stiffly, arms wrapped around my knees, trying not to let the heat pooling in my chest spread.
Of course he had to pick this song.
The one he used to strum quietly in the bus, when the crew was gone and it was just us. I was foolish enough to think our stolen nights together meant something to him. Back then, I pretended not to hang on every word.
Halfway through the second verse, his eyes lift, finding mine.
Technically, it’s just a glance, but it lingers a little longer than it should, pinning me in place. My pulse trips at hearing him sing the loving lyrics I once dreamed could be about me.
I make the mistake of not forcing myself to look away. And when he looks back over at me a minute later, it’s as if we’re in a game of chicken, and I have to win. But once he has me, he doesn’t let go. He holds my gaze as his voice dips softer.
I clench my jaw. My face stays blank, but inside, I’m as tumultuous as a thunderstorm.
“Hard to believe that something so intimate comes out of him, right?”
I jolt at Beau’s voice.
He slides in next to me on the log, close enough that I smell the faint cologne that probably costs more than I make in a week. His blond hair gleams in the firelight, and as usual, his smile is warm.
I give him a side-eye. “He’s all right.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “Yeah, not impressive at all. He should keep his day job for sure.” He gestures lazily toward Zander, still singing, still lost in the lyrics. “But you have to admire the way he can make everyone stop breathing and hang on his every word for three minutes.”
“Jealous?” I say, keeping my tone light.
Beau chuckles, cups his drink in his palms. “People don’t always appreciate how heavy it is, carrying the weight of that kind of attention.”
“Right,” I mutter, eyes fixed stubbornly on the crackle of flames instead of Zander now. “Must be exhausting being so adored.”
In my periphery, I see Beau tilt his head, studying me. “Believe it or not, he doesn’t love it. Twists your view on who is authentic.”
I snap my gaze to him. “You don’t need to be cryptic, Beau. Just say what you came over here to say.”
“I just want you to know that though most people think he has everything, that’s not true. He has fame. He has money. Hell, he has good looks. I mean, he’s not nearly as good-looking as me, but…” He smirks faintly. “But there’s more to life than all that.”
My chest tightens. “Are you expecting me to feel sorry for him?”
I think about the baby growing inside me and what will happen to that baby when I have to explain that his or her daddy didn’t show up for his scheduled visit.
“Maybe,” he says easily. “I wasn’t in those rooms with you. I don’t know the conversations you had, but you got him to stay here and that says something. At least to me. You know, his best friend for almost his entire life.”
The words hit me square in the heart. “Why are you telling me this? Clearly, he wanted things between us to be over. And I don’t appreciate—”
“I’m just pointing out the facts.” He sighs and takes a quick glance at Zander. “Sometimes he gets in his own way.”
I stiffen, not entirely sure what he’s getting at but not willing to put any hope into what Beau’s implying. Zander was very clear about where we stood when he barred me from entry without any explanation.
Beau grins, apparently satisfied that he got under my skin, then goes quiet, letting the song fill the space between us.
Zander’s voice dips to the last line, softer, almost breaking. For a heartbeat, the world stills. Then the last chord rings out, and everyone reacts to the mastery they just witnessed.
People cheer, whistle, and clap as though he just gave them a concert’s worth of music and not one song. Zander tips his head, mouth curving in gratitude, but his gaze goes straight back to me, then to Beau, and back to me.
“Don’t worry, I didn’t tell him,” Beau says.
“What are you talking about?”
“He didn’t stick around because he feels bad for your family. He’s here because you asked him to be. I want to make sure you know that.”
I stare at him for a moment, then back at Zander, who is still looking at us.
“I have a feeling he was only singing to one person just now.”
I stand abruptly, brushing dirt off the butt of my jeans. “Good night, Beau.”
Before he can respond, I slip into the darkness, needing to put distance between us, but the lyrics still flow through my mind, as does the hum of the melody of a song I’ve listened to so many times.
But no matter how far I walk from the campfire, I can still feel his eyes on me.
Chapter Nine
ZANDER
I’ve been in my fair share of commercial kitchens since my music took off. Chef’s tables in every city, seven-course meals with small flowers put on with tweezers when I’d have killed for a burger and fries.
Romy says her family doesn’t know about us, and I believe her. But that doesn’t mean I’m not on edge. Because if they do find out, they’ll probably boot me off the ranch in a stampede. And I wouldn’t blame them.
