Page 47 of Heartstrings & Horseshoes

A weird fucking bobblehead bounces around on the dash of his truck as he drives us back to the main house.

“What’s with the anteater?” I ask, unable to hold in my curiosity.

Reid chuckles. It catches me off guard because he rarely laughs.

“It’s an armadillo,” he says, a fondness softening his harsh features. “Did your sister ever tell you about Sam’s weird obsession with armadillos?”

I shake my head no. Quincy and I have a good relationship, but we’ve never shared much about our personal lives. Chalk it up to the age difference or her moving away, but I don’t know much about her time in Wyoming, aside from the basics of meeting and marrying Sam.

“A school project on the stupid creatures turned into a lifelong, hilarious obsession.” He sobers, because what a short life it was. “Now it’s all we have left of him, other than memories.”

We bump along in choked silence, contemplating the harsh loss of his little brother—my sister’s young husband—hell, my brother-in-law. I didn’t just lose Sam that day. I lost my big sister too. She’s a shell of who she used to be.

It hits me how alone I’ve been feeling. My dad isn’t all there anymore. Alzheimer’s is a real cunt. Mom lives for him and barely takes care of herself. Quincy’s buried in grief. Delilah and I are falling apart—and I fear our pieces will never fit together the same again.

“The land we just cleared was his, you know. Our parents gave us each a plot of land to build a home on and Sam never got the chance. Isabelle and I are building these cabins not only for our dreams, but for him. Someday soon, loved-up couples and happy families will make their own memories on Sam’s land. My hope is his memory will live on forever in the memories made by our guests.” Reid’s love for his brother shines through his emotion-clogged throat.

I don’t know how to respond. I wasn’t prepared for a deep heart-to-heart with Reid Andersen this morning.

As lush greenery passes outside the window, I wade through the dreams Delilah’s shared with me over the years. It makes me wish I could give her a home like this.

Breakfast turns into brunch, and we eat way too much. Mrs. Andersen is a fucking Michelin star chef, I swear. I’m thrilled to see Delilah poking in bite after bite without the anxiety that often plagues her during meals.

“Do you want the last croissant Mrs. Andersen sent home?” I ask back in our kitchen.

“No thank you, go ahead. If it was one of the mini quiches, you might have to fight me for it.” Her smile guts me.

I’d do anything, give anything, be anything for her to always smile at me like that.

“I’m sorr—” we say at the same time, the apology hanging between us.

“You go first,” I say.

“No, you go first,” Delilah insists, and it’s well known I can’t deny her a damn thing.

I drag in her sweet scent faintly hanging in the air, holding it in my lungs while I gather my courage.

“I’m sorry things between us are so fucked up. I didn’t mean to scare you these past few days. There was a rockslide that blocked us from coming home. My phone died, with no way to charge it.” I study her face for any hint of what she’s thinking.

“I was safe, but we were stranded until the emergency crew could dig us out. I drove straight home as soon as we could pass. All I wanted was to get back to…home.” I nearly said to get back to her, but I don’t know how she’s feeling about me.

We stand on opposite sides of the kitchen island, but there might as well be an ocean between us. I fear her diamond eyes see right through me.

“It’s okay. There’s no reason to apologize. Of course I was worried sick, but as long as you’re safe, none of that matters. I’m the one who should be apologizing,” Delilah says as a bashful blush colors the apples of her cheeks.

“Doll, you have nothing to apologize for,” I insist, but she continues.

“I’m sorry I…kissed you.” My heart cracks, the brittle string connecting us ready to snap. She’s sorry she kissed me. Does she regret it?

“I was so scared something happened to you, and I was so relieved you were home safe. I just…reacted. Can we pretend it never happened?” That heartstring is held together by my last shred of hope she doesn’t regret kissing me.

She looks down, a silken curtain of hair obscuring her beautiful face from me. I reach across the narrow island and tuck her hair behind her ear, allowing my fingertips to graze her pulse point and down her neck.

What’s there to say in this moment? We’re both concealing truths and veiling lies about our feelings.

“Sure doll, consider it forgotten.” My mouth turns sour at the lie.

Because I’ll remember that kiss until my dying breath.