Total pages in book: 14
Estimated words: 13485 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 67(@200wpm)___ 54(@250wpm)___ 45(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 13485 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 67(@200wpm)___ 54(@250wpm)___ 45(@300wpm)
My brother presses a can into my hand. I tip back my head and take a long, hard gulp. I don’t drink a ton on tour, and when I do, it’s usually a tequila soda. Fine, but flavorless.
Shiner? Ice-cold Shiner, knocked back on a hot day?
It. Is. Heaven. Earthy and just the tiniest bit bitter, it satisfies like nothing else.
“Somebody’s thirsty,” Grady says with a laugh.
Dropping the can, I let out a satisfied sigh. That’s when I see him.
Him.
His head appears over the edge of the cliff—we’d climb it after jumping into the river when we were feeling especially adventurous or stupid instead of taking the gently sloping path up the side of a hill—and then his naked torso.
Because of course he’s shirtless, water slicking over his tanned skin.
Wes’s dark hair is plastered to his head. Like his heavy scruff, it’s overgrown, curling out at the edges. His massive shoulders and arms ripple with muscle as he pulls himself up over the ledge. He gracefully rises to his feet, revealing all six feet, three inches of his enormous body.
My mouth goes dry.
Goddamn you, Weston Jessup.
The man got absolutely ripped. Being a cowboy, he was always in great shape. But age has filled him out in all the right ways—made him thicker, broader.
His wide chest, covered in whorls of thick black hair, barrels out on a sharp inhale. My eyes follow a small rivulet of water that drips down his flat stomach and disappears into the waistband of his—
Wait, Weston wears a bathing suit now?
Wes never did when we were younger, preferring to swim in athletic shorts or even jeans, on occasion. I used to tease him, saying he didn’t need to spend that money on more Stetsons. He had quite a collection of his favorite cowboy hats. And barn boots. And Wranglers.
Wes and I shared a love of country music and poetry and cold beer and morning sex. We fell hard while writing songs together, him on the guitar, me singing. We loved harder. He always encouraged my songwriting. Hell, the reason he learned to play guitar in the first place was so that he could accompany me as I sang. He never had any interest in playing for anyone else—in fact, he outright refused. Said he wanted me to be the star, but I know he was embarrassed to play in front of his family and friends.
He didn’t want them to see that side of him. But me? I loved it—loved him—with all my heart.
We dreamed of running away to Nashville together. But when the time came, he bailed on me. He said his dad needed him to stay on his family’s ranch and help out, even though Weston’s two older brothers also worked their family’s cattle.
So he gave me one last hug, and I never heard from him again.
He never apologized for hurting me.
Never apologized for leading me on.
Then again, I was an idiot to hope that the side of him he showed me—the tender, artsy, ardent one—would be the side that won out. But just like he was embarrassed to play music in public, he was embarrassed to show his friends and family anything other than the man they knew him to be. Cowboys didn’t talk about their feelings or relationships. They definitely didn’t follow their girlfriends halfway across the country to chase down dreams of a career in music.
I can’t help but feel like Wes is still leading me on as he raises an arm to spear a hand through his hair. His bicep tenses into a bulge that’s approximately the size of a baby’s head. Laughing at something a friend nearby says, he flashes a white, wide smile.
And then his gaze lands on me.
Chapter 2: Major Cardiac Event
Weston
So this is how it ends.
Me having a legit heart attack while locking eyes with the girl I never should’ve let go.
Josie Reid’s grown up. She was always beautiful, but now—
Now she’s an absolute knockout. Long pale hair. Full lips. Big blue eyes framed by long lashes. Soft skin. Soft curves that I remember tracing over and over again with my fingertips, convinced that heaven really is a place on earth.
Bikinis that tiny should be illegal. Hers is deceptively simple, just a black top and bottoms I glimpse through a transparent piece of “fabric” she’s tied around her waist. But the bikini is all strings, her perfect tits swelling out the sides of the teeny tops. I glimpse the curve of an ass cheek.
A bare ass cheek.
Okay, I changed my mind. Bikinis like this should be celebrated and worn every day of the week.
But Josie should only wear them for me. Jealousy, vicious and sudden, grips my windpipe when I catch several pairs of eyes shamelessly checking her out.
When her gaze meets mine, my heart takes a swan dive into my stomach. We hold eye contact for one frantic heartbeat, then another. Another.