Page 162 of Saltwater Cowboy

I followed him toward the barn, trying to convince myself that the coffee in my hands was just coffee. That last night still mattered, no matter how easy he made it feel to forget.

Because if I wasn’t careful, Wells Calloway was going to make me forgive him.

And I wasn’t ready for that.

The barn smelled like hay and cedar, warm and familiar despite the storm still brewing between us. Wells walked ahead, his boots scuffing against the dirt floor, the sound filling the quiet space between us. He grabbed a rope off the wall, looping it around his hand with an ease that told me he was thinking.

I leaned against the stall door, watching as he moved, the morning light filtering in through the slats, cutting across his broad shoulders. I hated that I noticed. Hated that, even after last night, some part of me still wanted to reach across the space between us.

“What do you need me to do?” I asked, my voice cool.

He glanced over, eyes sharp, assessing. “You haven’t saddled a horse here before, have you?”

“No.”

A hint of something flickered in his gaze—annoyance, amusement, maybe both. “Didn’t think so.”

I let out a slow breath. “You gonna teach me or just stand there feeling superior?”

That got a reaction. The corner of his mouth twitched, like he was fighting a smirk. “Thought you didn’t want to talk.”

“I don’t.” I folded my arms. “I want to work. You’re the one who asked me a question.”

He held my gaze a beat longer, then jerked his chin toward the tack room. “Saddle’s in there. Bring it over.”

I turned without another word, feeling his eyes on me as I moved.

The saddle was heavier than I expected, the leather worn but well cared for. I dragged it over, dropping it onto the wooden railing of the stall with a thud. Wells took it from there, moving with that quiet confidence that somehow made me want to strangle him and stare at him in equal measure.

“Pay attention,” he said, securing the cinch strap. “You’re doing it next time.”

I rolled my eyes but watched as he worked, forcing myself to focus.

A long silence stretched between us, filled only by the sounds of the horses shifting in their stalls and the distant crow of a rooster. I wanted to keep it that way. I wanted to stay mad, to hold onto the sharp edges of last night’s argument.

But Wells had a way of undoing things without even trying.

“You still mad?” His voice was low, rough like gravel.

I tightened my grip on the wooden stall and said, “Yes.”

We finished up in the barn and made our way back to the house.

“Are we still going to Blythe and Charlie’s this afternoon?” I asked, rinsing my hands under the cool stream of water in the kitchen sink.

Wells nodded. “Figured we’d leave in an hour or so.”

I didn’t respond, just turned and headed upstairs. A shower and fresh clothes—maybe that would help settle the restlessness stirring inside me.

When I caught my reflection in the mirror, I barely recognized the woman staring back. I wasn’t the same person who had arrived on this farm, full of sharp edges and walls I swore I’d never let down.

I laced up my sneakers, timing everything perfectly so I wouldn’t have to linger downstairs, wouldn’t have to make small talk with Wells.

But when I stepped into the living room, he was already by the door, eyes on his phone, thumbs moving over the screen. From where I stood, I could see Charlie’s name at the top of the text thread.

“Ready to go?” he asked, not looking up.

“Yeah.” I shrugged into my jacket, and without another word, we stepped outside.