Page 17 of Paper Horses

“It doesn’t matter now, does it?” I said, wishing we could talk about anything but the day that had left me empty and had destroyed him.

“I bought a ring.” The air clawed through my lungs with a wheezing sound. “Had it all planned. I’d take you to the lookout point and propose. Follow through on what we’d talked about for years. But you picked a fight, a stupid fight, by the way, and ruined it all.”

Pressure sat behind my eyes. I heard my father’s voice chastising me when I fell and scraped my knee as a child. Telling me I was a weak little girl and that a boy would never cry. So I’d sucked my tears back, wiping the free ones until they’d never fallen again, even when my mother had died. Even when I’d walked away from Hudson. Because if men didn’t cry, then neither did I.

“I didn’t know that,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. Knowing compounded the pain. Maybe it was for the best. If I’d known, it would have made it harder.

“So don’t scold me for dating other women.”

“Nine months isn’t just dating.” God, what was wrong with me?

“Should I have kept it to countless one-night stands like you?” he snapped.

Was that jealousy I heard in his voice? The same that had coated my words?

“I haven’t slept with countless men,” I argued. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“No? Maybe it is my business—certainly more than it’s yours to judge me. I wasn’t the one who left. It took me six years to convince myself that you weren’t coming back. That I needed to move on. So don’t you dare judge me for doing that.”

I winced, his words like a strike of electricity against my skin. I didn’t tell him it had taken me seven before I’d even considered another man. Even then it had been nothing more than a night of pleasure, never anything that had meaning. Maybe it should have made me feel better that he had waited almost as long, but it didn’t. Instead, it hurt to hear that he had suffered for that long, holding out for me to come back when I had only ever imagined that he would never take me back.

“What are we doing?” I asked, wishing this would end and I could return to New York, pretending he no longer thought of me and picturing him with a beautiful wife and kids.

“Venting,” he replied. “I’ve got over a decade of it bottled up.”

“Great. Add this weekend to my list of worst experiences.”

“Gladly. You’re at the top of mine.”

The energy depleted from my body, and I sagged against him.

“It wasn’t all bad,” I whispered.

His body tensed, his hand sliding from my thigh where I hadn’t noticed it falling and encasing my hip again. I closed my eyes, remembering what his touch felt like.

“No, it wasn’t. Not until that day.”

I didn’t dare look back, too stunned by his words to move.

He shifted his hands, our bodies swaying in rhythm just as they had always fit perfectly together. Silence encompassed the rest of the ride until the barn came into sight, standing tall against the backdrop of mountains and clouds that loomed in the distance.

“Go inside and wash up while I take Honey in and get her settled.”

Another command. They’d been nonstop since he set eyes on me, his voice rougher and deeper than it had been when we were young. More authoritative.

I scooted down, his rough hand reaching to help me. It didn’t stop my dress from riding up, but he didn’t make a single remark. As he rode into the stall, the name of the horse hit me. Honey.

I took a step back, remembering the first time that word took on meaning.

You taste sweet as honey, so that’s what I’m going to call you, Olivia. Honey. And every time you hear me say it, you’re gonna know I’m thinking of sinking my tongue into this sweetness.

A shiver slithered up my body, reminiscent of his touch as I remembered his words. Had he named the horse with intent, or had he forgotten how that nickname had made my pulse race? How the only time he ever called me that was when he was ready to devour me.

I watched as he rode away, his back muscles straining against his shirt, his hat tipped against the sun. Warmth gathered in my core, and I turned quickly, rushing to the house. Once inside, I steadied myself on the door, hating my brother for forcing this on me and wanting desperately to be home, to drown the memories and emotions in a glass of wine like I always had. Like Gabe had for years in his scotch.

I wondered if it had really worked for him or if the memories had continued to push behind the numbness, too strong to subdue.

After removing Hudson’s coat and trying to ignore how his scent clung to it, I pulled the boots off, throwing them in the corner and hating that they belonged to another woman. A woman Hudson had touched and loved like he once had me. Pressure built in my chest, and I squeezed my eyes tight. I would not let this break me.