She threw him her truck keys. “Remember how to get around?”
His face pinched. “This old town ain’t that big. I think I can remember where the Poe place is.” He got into the driver’s seat and revved the old truck to life.
Christina laughed as she slid onto the truck’s bench seat—far too close to the man who was starting to make her heart do strange things. “You got that right.” Sometimes, just like this truck, the town was entirely too small for comfort.
“Why did you come here?” he asked as he steered the truck onto the road. “I mean, no offense or anything, but there’s so many amazing places in the world—places where anything you want is at your fingertips. Why would you, a woman in her late-twenties who could have anything—and anyone she wanted—come to a place like this and stay?”
Did he really think she could have anyone she wanted? She almost laughed at the thought.
The only men who had ever seemed to be attracted to her were emotional nitwits. They were just too much like her father—wanting her when it was convenient for them, and then forgetting about her when it wasn’t.
She refused to chase another man. She wasn’t the kind of woman who pursued men and made things fit when they truly didn’t. She wanted the elusive unicorn—the kind of guy who actually made the effort, the kind who wanted her for her and not what she had between her legs, and the kind who fit into her life naturally instead of feeling like a fish out of water.
She glanced over at Waylon as he drove. He would fit right in. It was his family’s ranch. He knew everyone. It was neutral ground and a commonality that she would have with only a few, but his passions didn’t seem to lie within the boundary lines of the guest ranch. Rather, they seemed to be following his heart all around the world—living for adventure. He seemed like the kind of guy who was far more at home jumping out of an airplane than sweeping a floor.
He lived for his dreams.
She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the window. If only she had the same freedoms.
There had been a brief period of time, right after she had moved out of her mother’s house after her parents’ divorce, when she could have escaped. She could have gone anywhere in the world. At the time, she’d barely had two dimes to her name, but if she had truly wanted to get out, she could have. There was nothing holding her back—except her own fears and feelings of inadequacy. She hadn’t wanted to travel the world alone. Adventures alone were nothing compared to adventures with someone you loved—and that feeling had led her straight to her sister, and the gates of Dunrovin.
Until now, she hadn’t looked back. Yet, sitting next to Waylon—a man who was living his dreams—Christina couldn’t help but feel like she had missed a chance of a lifetime. Now she couldn’t go—she had to think of Winnie. She had to think of her life at the ranch. Family, and the ability to support them, came first.
The truck slowed down, and they bumped up the driveway leading to the Poes’—or rather William Poe’s—house. She still hadn’t gotten over her friend’s death. Every time she thought of Monica, she had to remind herself that she was gone. It was surreal. So many times over the last few days, she had lifted her phone to text her friend, only to remember that she was gone.
Though everything had changed in her world, the Poes’ house hadn’t. The siding was the same gray it had been a few months ago, and the garage stood apart from the house, filled with William’s collection of cars, its walls adorned with Sports Illustrated posters of scantily clad women.
She’d never liked stepping foot in the garage, and she had liked William even less—especially after Monica had told her about his private habits, which mostly centered on getting himself between the legs of as many women as humanly possible. How Monica had put up with it was still a mystery to her, but she’d always supported her friend. It wasn’t her place to judge her, but only to stand by her side.
Monica’s car was parked outside, like now that she was dead, there wasn’t a place in William’s home for any of his wife’s leftovers.
“You okay?” Waylon asked as she noticed him glancing over at her.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I’ve just made it a habit over the years not to hang out here. Monica was good about it—she normally let me meet her somewhere else.”
“You were friends with Monica? The lady your sister...” He stopped, like he was afraid that the words your sister killed would break her once again.
She couldn’t deny the fact he might have been right in his assumption. Even the thought of what her sister had done to her friend, and her reasons behind it, made a feeling of sickness rise up from her belly.
“Yeah. Monica is a cool—I mean, was a cool chick. She loved to ride horses. We’d spend hours riding the trails around the ranch. Honestly, looking back, I think it was just an excuse for her not to be around her husband.”
Waylon chuckled. “It’s funny how hindsight is always twenty-twenty.”
“Is that how you feel when you look back at your marriage with my sister?”
His face pinched slightly at the question, like he wished she hadn’t gone there. Lucky for him, as they pulled to a stop in front of William’s house, the man in question came out the door. William grimaced as he caught sight of them, and Christina would have sworn she could see him mouth a long line of curse words.
Instead of answering her question, Waylon jumped out of the truck like he would rather face the cussing county tax appraiser than talk any more about his failed marriage.
She couldn’t blame him. Relationships, and what came of them, were a tricky thing—especially in their case. Even as she thought about their confusing circumstances, she couldn’t help but watch as Waylon strode toward William.
His jeans had to have been made especially for him. There was no way something that fit that well around the curves of his ass could have simply come off a rack.
She giggled as she thought about the many web articles she had read about men who didn’t wash their jeans so they could get them to fit that way. Was Waylon among the no-wash crew? It was a random thought, but in a way it made her like him even more. It was almost as if the thought of him standing over his jeans at night and deciding whether or not they should be cleaned made him more human and less the imposing MP who had literally landed on her doorstep. More than anything, it made him real. Human. Attainable. But was he someone she really wanted to be with?
Waylon turned around and waved for her to come out of the truck.
She’d much rather have stayed—she had nothing to say to William Poe that she hadn’t already said. They’d had their moment together at Monica’s funeral. He had barely spoken to her or looked at her as they had stood at the cemetery, watching as people threw handfuls of dirt onto his wife’s casket. Yet, afterward, when everyone was saying their goodbyes, he’d made his position clear when he’d leaned in and said a few simple but inflammatory words: “This is all your fault.”
At the time, she hadn’t understood his thought process. How could he have possibly thought she had anything to do with his wife’s death? Sure, she had ties to all involved, but that didn’t mean she had taken a role in anything. On the other hand, she wasn’t completely innocent—there had been the night in the office when she had been talking about William and his actions with Monica. Alli had been just outside the door, listening to their conversation. No doubt that night she had drawn her sister’s crosshairs onto Monica’s back, but William couldn’t have known.
He was just angry, and she had been his easiest and closest target. Maybe because he couldn’t go after her sister, he had simply decided to come after her. Regardless, she hated him and how his choices had been an atomic bomb in all of their lives. If he had just kept himself in his pants, lives could have been saved and Alli would have never disappeared. He was like this town’s Helen of Troy, but instead