Page 46 of Saltwater Cowboy

Wells lifted a shoulder, nonchalant, like I wasn’t shoving every wall I had up between us. “I know that you were basically engaged and he decided he didn’t want to move here with you.”

Hearing those words sliced through me like a fresh wound. It was too much. Still too raw.

He didn’t stop. “I know you didn’t really have a job when you lived out in Seattle. I also know that your favorite color is blue.”

I froze, my breath catching in my throat. My eyes shot up at him. “How did you—?”

Wells smirked, the smug jerk. “Wren can’t keep a secret to save her life; you know that.”

I pushed the awful emotions threatening to resurface back down deep where they belonged. Swallowing hard against the lump in my throat, I forced myself to speak, my voice cold. “So what? You think you know me?”

Wells didn’t flinch. There was a flash of something across his face, but it disappeared too quickly for me to place.

“Hell no,” he said, his tone firm. “I do have a proposition for you, but I need you to let me talk and not bite my head off. You can say no when I’m done.”

I didn’t respond, I just stared at him, my gaze hard. I wasn’t ready for whatever he was about to offer, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that.

I remained silent, waiting.

“Let me start out with the fact that it’s mutually beneficial,” Wells said, his voice calm and measured.

I didn’t even hesitate. “Are you looking for a friends-with-benefits situation? Because I am not that type of girl.”

He shot me a look, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk. “What did I say about letting me talk?”

I narrowed my eyes, but didn’t respond.

“Anyways,” he continued, “I know you’re in need of a place to live and work. I have a spare bedroom you can live in for free, but I need help around the farm. I also need help at the Sunday farmer’s markets. If you could run the flower stand, I’ll take care of the produce. You can keep all the money you make.”

I couldn’t help it. I literally laughed out loud. “I have a place to live and a job. I’d rather chew on broken glass than be around you.”

Wells leaned back, his gaze never wavering. “You mean the same room that Blythe and Charlie are going to be turning into the baby’s room?”

That hit me like a punch to the gut. I froze, every bit of blood in my body draining away. I hadn’t even considered that they would need that room for Silas. Not for a second had I thought about what that would mean for me—what it would mean for the space I had come to call my own.

The world shifted beneath me as I felt that crushing pang of what could’ve been. The family. The husband. The life I thought I was building. I had imagined it all—vacations, children, that stupid white picket fence. Everything I thought I’d have within the next few years had slipped through my fingers a month ago, leaving nothing but an empty, aching void.

I could feel my chest tightening, that familiar sting creeping back into my eyes, but I fought it down.

“You should leave now,” I said, my voice sharp, the words like daggers. I stood from behind the counter, hands clenched into fists at my sides. The cold fury in my eyes matched the heat bubbling under my skin.

Wells turned on his heel, his boots scraping against the floor as he started to walk away. “Can’t say I didn’t offer you an option,” he called over his shoulder, his voice just a bit too casual, like he didn’t have a care in the world.

I didn’t watch him leave. Instead, I kept my eyes fixed on the counter, my fists still clenched at my sides, fighting the urge to throw something, anything, to shatter the tension in the room. His words hung in the air like a weight, the sting of them leaving an almost physical bruise on my chest.

CHAMPAGNE PROBLEMS

Blythe never brought up the conversation she had undoubtedly overheard between Wells and I at the coffee shop earlier this week. It was one of the things I appreciated most about her—she knew when to give me space.

A soft knock on my bedroom door pulled me from my thoughts.

“Come in,” I called, barely shifting from my well-worn spot in bed.

The door cracked open, and Blythe’s head peeked through. “Can I come in?” Before I could answer, her eyes flicked to the TV. “Oh. Bethany goes home.”

I gasped. “You said you wouldn’t watch without me.”

She slid onto the bed beside me, stealing a handful of popcorn from my bowl. “It was on in the waiting room this morning. Not my fault. Total accident.”