Braving the Storm (Crimson Ridge #2)

Chapter 13

“ W ait here, I’ve gotta fetch some sandpaper, then the last stop is to grab the paint.”

Sneaking a look at my uncle as he disappears off down the aisle of the hardware store, I do my utmost best not to stare at his ass inside those perfectly fitted wranglers.

I fail miserably.

This store seems to be relatively deserted at this time of the afternoon, so I don’t think anyone saw my eyes linger on the sight of him walking away. But even so, I’ve got to quit this unhealthy obsession with a man who is entirely off-limits.

Ignoring our complicated family dynamic, he’s fourteen years older than me. Not that I’m counting or fixating on tiny details like that or anything. Why am I even spending time working that kind of thing out in my head? What does our difference in age matter when the man is my uncle ? He’s someone who I absolutely cannot, and should not, desire.

Yet, here I am. Far too enamored with this muscular, tattooed, farrier-come-ranch handyman, who wears a pair of chaps like God hand-selected them just for him.

I bend over and rest my forehead against the handle of the cart, barely restraining myself from letting out a wail of frustration. What is this hellscape of temptation I’ve wandered into? Standing in the middle of aisle five, surrounded by nails and screws, meanwhile, I can’t stop thinking about the man who I now share an impossibly small bed with.

Even though that first night was so he could make sure my concussion didn’t worsen, it naturally evolved into an unspoken agreement that he needed to keep an eye on me the next night, so we’d carry on sharing the bedroom. Then, the night after that.

His room.

His bed.

Now, I’m right in the thick of a nightly cycle with a cowboy who invariably finds his way to be wrapped around me. When I wake up, I’m encased in his arms. No matter how hard I try to escape to the very edge of the mattress in a half-hearted attempt to put distance between us, both nights now, it’s happened without any say on my part.

The budding secret I’m harboring is that I eat up every single occasion, even though it’s only been two additional nights. I’m more than addicted to opening my eyes before dawn and feeling the delicious weight of his forearm banded around my waist, along my body, both times cupping over my shorts again like that first night.

He seems to sleep so heavily, probably making up for that week-long agony of being on the couch, that I don’t know if he even realizes what has been happening while he slumbers. I’ve long disappeared from the bed before there’s ever any sign of him stirring.

I know it can’t go on, but I’m also too greedy for whatever this is to put any effort into coming up with an alternative solution to our sleeping arrangement.

Because you’re being a needy, touch-starved little slut for your uncle.

Scrunching my eyes shut, I clench my fingers tighter around the handle of the cart.

As I’m busy judging myself for all my messed-up daydreams, my bag slung across my body vibrates with an incoming call. It startles me out of my haze. I've gotten so used to being either at the cabin or Devil’s Peak Ranch, blissfully without cell reception; I had completely forgotten that down here in town, we would be somewhat reconnected with the outside world.

The vibrations stop, but I know that won’t be the end of it. On cue, they start up again, the buzzing drone vibrating through my cross-body purse.

Letting out a frustrated huff, I dig out my phone—sure enough, Crispin flashes across my screen. My grip tightens as I stare at it ringing until she eventually gets the hint and hangs up.

I’m just about to put it back in my bag, when it starts vibrating again in my hand. This time, unknown shows on the display.

While I’ve blocked my ex on everything, I could put money on the fact it’s him trying to call.

“You gonna answer that, or just stare at it?” My uncle’s voice cuts through my blank state, and I quickly hit decline with my thumb.

“Unknown number.” I shrug, but before I can stuff my phone away, it starts up again with another attempted call.

“Looks like someone’s mighty interested in getting hold of you.” He tosses the sheets of sandpaper into the cart.

“It’s not important.” Declining the call, again, I plaster on a smile. “What did you say we needed to pick up next? Paint?” I go to push the cart forward, then wince as it starts vibrating, this time even louder because it’s still clutched in my hand and pressed against the hard plastic handle.

“Sounds like it might be important.” The wall of man at my side flicks his eyes between my phone and back to me. His steely blue gaze is unreadable. “There something going on that you need to talk about?”

I shake my head, trying to figure out the best course of action to get him off my back. I’m far too embarrassed about the reasons why I ran to Crimson Ridge, and I’d rather eat a frog than tell my uncle anything about the reasons why my asshole ex is trying to harass me over the phone .

“Briar.” His jaw flexes.

“It’s just Crispin being her usual self.” I figure a fragmented truth will be better than nothing. He knows exactly the type of person my sister is, and while I feel uncomfortable lying to him, at least it’s partly true.

I’ve allowed myself to be treated so badly by all of them for so long, it’s humiliating. And I can’t bear the thought of him thinking less of me.

“You want me to sort her out for you?”

God. I find myself staring at him open-mouthed. Just like that, without question, this man would be prepared to willingly tangle with the source of pure misery herself, would be willing to go into battle against the human equivalent of a toxic, twelve-headed hydra… on my behalf.

“Uh, no. It’s fine. She and I had a disagreement before I left. Don’t really feel like taking her calls just yet.” Which is a very polite way to summarize the fact my own sister told me I should count myself lucky a man like Antoine would tolerate me, and that it was perfectly normal for him to get his dick wet somewhere else.

Jesus. I’ll gladly never have to see that woman’s face again as long as I live.

“She always was a piece of work,” he mutters, then strides ahead in the direction of the paint aisle. As I trundle after his broad shoulders, I feel like I can somewhat breathe again.

By the time we finished getting everything required for some ranch fix-up job my uncle is going to be working on—something about an old rodeo friend with a new dude ranch venture he’s preparing to open for business—we’re both starved.

The prospect of neither of us having to cook tonight is what lures us to a bar, I’m assuming, must be the only place in Crimson Ridge to get a drink or a meal after dark .

A cowboy joint, aptly named The Loaded Hog, is lit up with a warm glow and a country bar feel when we get inside. There are booths along one wall, a lengthy wooden bar, and leaners scattered around a space that looks like it becomes the dance floor when the place gets busy.

I feel a tad self-conscious in jeans, a cropped sweater, and boots. Not that I don’t like how I look, but I’ve had it drummed into me for so long that my appearance had to be perfect at all times. God forbid I potentially bring the Lane or Montgomery family names into disrepute if I was ‘papped’ in public portraying anything less than a perfectly curated appearance. Before coming to these mountains, I would never have been allowed to wear something so casual out for dinner, but then again, glancing around, this is far more the style of everyone else in here tonight.

Plus, I love the hell out of these jeans. They work magic for my ass, so I’m quietly pleased to have more opportunities to wear them around Crimson Ridge.

“Oh hey, Storm.”

I’ve barely slid into the booth when a sultry voice appears at the end of our table, arriving within seconds as if by magic. The waitress, who just performed a miracle and formed out of thin air, is fixated on the man seated across from me and cocks her head to one side while loudly chomping gum. Eyes bouncing across every muscle in his body, she practically drools all over our table.

This girl is pretty, damn her. Glossy chestnut hair tied in a ponytail. Blue-eyed. A walking showcase for whatever flawless skincare regime she abides by. To top it all off, she’s got the kind of effortlessly perfect makeup worthy of a centerfold spread. She’s a walking, talking, perfect country princess package.

My hackles are up within half a second.

“Briar, this is, uhh—” He readjusts himself in the booth and scowls at the menu already on the table.

“Luce…” She flashes me eyes that have unmistakable thinly veiled daggers where her pupils should be. “Cute sweater, Briar.”

Her eyes take in my appearance and then bounce back up with a half-hearted, fake-ass smile. Those eyeballs of hers nearly roll straight out of her head as she drawls over my name. This bitch doesn’t think my sweater is cute at all. Her claws are unsheathed and ready to shred me for daring to sit in the same booth as St?rmand Lane.

God, could she cock a leg and piss all over the place more?

“You want to order?” The man across from me doesn’t seem to be taking any notice of this girl, who probably is younger than me, and while that should make me feel better… somehow it doesn’t.

“Uh, yeah, I’ll have the grilled chicken.”

“You want the usual, Storm?”

Yeah, the message is loud and clear. Our waitress is pretty much ready to pop her shirt buttons to prove there’s some sort of history between the two of them.

I busy myself pouring some water from the carafe already on the table.

“Just a burger will do, thanks.”

“You want to order anything to drink with your meal, Storm?”

“Briar?” He deflects the question.

My eyes meet the fierce blue gaze directly across from me. “No, I’m fine with water, thanks.”

He shakes his head and slides the menu toward her. I do the same.

“No problem.” She scoops up both menus, cradling them against her chest, starts to walk away, then turns back. “Oh, so, it’s silly, but you never texted me back, and I wasn’t sure if I left my lipgloss in your truck… I mean, it might have slipped out of my pocket that night.”

Fuck my entire life. Try as I might, I can’t sit here and listen to this girl start reminiscing about her activities involving my uncle that may or may not have led to her misplacing a tube of lip gloss.

“I’m just gonna use the bathroom,” I mutter. Sliding out of the booth without looking at either of them.

Behind me, I can hear Luce continue to chatter away, not like she’s got other customers or anything better to do than hit on the man who possibly, maybe, most definitely fucked her in his truck.

When I find the bathroom, I’m glad to shut the door and let the air rush out of my lungs. God, I’m such a jumbled-up mess of emotions. There is absolutely no reason for him not to be with someone. I mean, for god’s sake, that girl could have been who he rushed off to see the other night for all I know.

Ugh. Yuck. It was her, wasn’t it?

Rubbing my temples, I take some deep inhales, then flip on the faucet to run some cold water over my wrists. My body feels hot and prickly, and I’m suddenly imagining exactly how well Luce and her shiny chestnut hair, which looks like she came to work straight from the salon, attends to my uncle when she’s not waitressing.

I have no right to feel any sort of way about them. None at all.

Drying my hands and smoothing down the front of my jeans, I take a final glance in the mirror. All I need to do is go sit through a meal. I’ve sat through plenty of awful dinners and galas and stupid high society events with miserable, vain people in my life.

I can handle an irritating waitress, even one who intends on shoving her tongue down my uncle’s throat before I’ve managed a bite of my meal.

As I emerge from the bathroom, and make my way back down the hallway to the main bar, I’ve changed my mind. A drink sounds like a fucking outstanding idea, after all.

Having no idea what to order without sounding like a total city girl , as everyone up at Devil’s Peak Ranch has grown fond of calling me, now including both Colt and Layla, I join the line of bodies who are standing and leaning around the bar and order myself a beer. Seems like the easiest option.

I give my thanks to the sweet-looking older lady who serves me. Based on the twinkle in her eye, there’s no doubt she could wrangle any rowdy asshole in here with ease. Grabbing my drink, I turn and immediately bump into a broad chest .

“Oh, shit. I’m so sorry.” It’s damn lucky I didn’t spill my entire drink over this guy’s shirt.

“Nothing to apologize for, ma’am. It’s me being clumsy over here and getting in your way.” He flashes me a smile that is utterly charming. Of course, this is cowboy territory, after all.

Looks like I might not have to brave the terrifying jungle of dating apps since the Universe has literally dropped a dream candidate right in my path.

This guy is probably in his late thirties from the look of him, with a little rugged stubble going on and tousled dark hair. Total lady killer with a smile like that, and the tall, dark, and tempting look is absolutely working for him.

This.

This is exactly what I need.

I swiftly boot aside my pouting bitch of a heart, who loudly protests that this isn’t the cowboy I want. Clearly, my own sense of judgment has been entirely misplaced, and I cannot have what I want, so please, god, let this man smiling down at me be single and have a nice-looking dick he knows how to put to use.

“No ma’am’s here, just Briar.”

“Pleasure to meet you, just Briar.” He extends a hand to wrap around mine, and he’s got that calloused, warm sort of touch that should be making my heart flutter. But instead, I’m more fixated than I should be on the fact there was no jolt of a spark like those times when I first brushed fingertips with… no, pump the brakes, stop it right now, I am not thinking about him or late nights in that cabin alone or waking up with his torso, and other large appendages pressed the length of my spine.

Do not for one goddamn second think about St?rmand Lane’s cock.

Do. Not.

I force a smile and bat my eyelashes at the charming cowboy. Crap, did he say his name, and I totally missed it?

“I’m Westin. Or, just Wes will do just fine.”

He squeezes my palm, and there’s enough of a little hit of nervous excitement at the closeness and charm of him. Ok. Mr. Cowboy is certainly promising, that right there , I can work with.

“Pardon me for being forward, but I gotta ask one question, and that’s gonna decide what happens next.”

I twist my lips into a smile. “Oh, is it now?” He’s still holding my hand, and his eyes have crinkled around the edges in that sexy kind of smile guys like him can totally manage to pull off without even trying.

“St?rmand over there…” He gestures with his chin in the direction of the booths. “Are you here with him tonight?” It’s a genuine question; he’s not being pushy or demanding. But I can tell straight away he knows exactly who my uncle is and isn’t keen to tread on any cowboy boots.

However, none of that helps me where my awkward search for an answer is concerned. When I take a fraction too long to answer, I already see him start to withdraw.

“Oh, no.” I laugh. Do I sound carefree? Like it’s the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard? “That’s my uncle.” I sure as shit hope that came out sounding natural, because, to my own ears, saying that word out loud feels like fingernails down a chalkboard.

Westin—Wes’ smile brightens. “Uncle? Shit, ok, wasn’t expecting that.” He shakes his head and blows out a breath.

“So, what happens next, now I’ve answered your question…” With my free hand, I take a swig of my beer.

From across the room, I swear I can feel eyes on me, but I refuse to look in the direction of that booth, or the waitress who might be straddling his lap by now for all I know.

“I don’t want to disrupt your family dinner plans, but is there any hope a beautiful girl like yourself could put up with a rough-around-the-edges cowboy over coffee?”

Do not cringe at being referred to as family.

“Are you asking me out on a date, ‘just Wes?’” I allow a smile to creep over my lips. Please and thank you. I mean, coffee is a good enough start, and from the look of him, this man could show me a good time around Crimson Ridge, I’m sure of it.

“You name the time and place.” He’s still got my hand wrapped in his, and as he says the words, his thumb slides over mine, and while it doesn’t exactly shoot sparks through my blood, it feels nice.

“Tomorrow? I’ve got some things I gotta do around town, so I could use a coffee, even some lunch if you cowboys eat?”

“Oh, we know how to enjoy a meal, don’t you worry about that.” His eyes stay firmly fixed on my face, but my body flushes all the same at the cheeky insinuation hidden behind his polite mountain charm.

Yup. Cowboy here can absolutely sweep me off my feet and show me a good time. All my prayers have been answered.

We quickly exchange numbers and make plans for our coffee and lunch date tomorrow, which sounds entirely wholesome, but I’m secretly hoping it will lead to some very unwholesome behavior in the not-too-distant future.

As I float away, feeling a little more confident in the new Briar Lane who is determined to find her feet in Crimson Ridge, I look up to see the sight of the waitress with perfect hair, whom I never want to see again in my life, placing our meals down on the table.

Sliding back into the booth, I attack my plate in an attempt to fill the awkward silence stretching across the table. All while the most ferocious yet stunning set of blue eyes opposite me remain cold.

And the entire time, they’re brutally fixed on me.