At Whit's End (Wells Ranch, #4)(29)

Sitting on the cool ground, bare shoulders scrubbing the bark, I shuffle to make sure nobody can see up my dress. Dutch oven next to me, T-shirt neatly placed on top, I grab my phone to kill time on social media.


Alex: I have tomorrow off work. I’ll pick Jonas up at nine.

I huff. “Not even a fucking apology for yesterday.”


Whit: He has plans tomorrow.

Alex: I thought he wanted to hang out with me.

Whit: Yesterday. He wanted to spend time with you YESTERDAY.

Whit: He’s at the ranch with Colt tomorrow.

“Three, two, one…”

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

My phone vibrates in my hand with an incoming call from Alex. Knew that was coming the moment I mentioned another man’s name.

“Who’s Colt?” he asks while I’m still trying to force a greeting to leave my lips.

“One of the ranch hands at Wells Ranch. Blair’s boyfriend set Jonas up with some work there for the summer. Colt’s sort of his supervisor.”

“He’s ten, Whit.” At least he remembers his kid’s age. “He’s too young to spend his summer working.”

“I couldn’t have him doing nothing but playing video games all the time. Anyway, he’s really enjoying it.”

“Are you dating this guy? Because I think we should have a discussion before you bring random guys around Jonas.”

Is he serious right now? I pull my phone away from my face to glare at it. The fucking gall to question my parenting when he couldn’t be bothered to show up for Jonas yesterday. My jaw clenches so hard there’s a sharp twinge of pain.

“I’m not,” I grit out. And so what if I was? “But it’s actually not your place to tell me who I can or can’t have in my life.”

He scoffs.

“It’s been good for Jonas to be at the ranch. Plus, Colt’s a nice guy, and Jonas loves him.” Admittedly, I throw in that last bit hoping to strike a nerve.

“Jonas isn’t old enough to know what’s good for him, and clearly you’re looking for any way to get him out of the house.”

“What the fuck?”

“Am I wrong, Whit?” The smirk rings clear as a bell through the phone.

Mindful of the people meandering around the front lawn, ears likely perked after my last remark, I lower my voice and pull out my HR-approved voice. “Are you implying that you, of all people, know what’s best for Jonas?”

“I’m his father.”

“Whoa, pump the brakes. The involvement of your sperm doesn’t actually mean fuck all when it comes to making decisions about his well-being. Not when this isn’t the first time you’ve feigned interest.”

“That’s going to change.”

I snort. “Okay.”

He raises his voice again. “Did I, or did I not, start this conversation off by saying I’d take him tomorrow?”

“I’m not going to ask him to cancel his plans in the hopes that you don’t bail on him again.” Colt’s shirt is clenched so tight in my fist my knuckles have lost all color. I didn’t realize I’d grabbed it, but I can’t bring myself to let go—I’ll iron the wrinkles out before I give it to him. Right now it’s a decent channel for my rage, allowing me to keep a fake smile and pleasant-sounding voice in front of so many strangers.

“Where is this suddenly coming from?” I ask.

Deep down, there’s always been some hope that Alex would call me out of the blue like this, demanding he be involved in Jonas’s life. He’d finally wake up and realize how much he’s missing out on by not knowing the most incredible kid I’ve ever met. I have no delusions of grandeur—we’ll never be a perfect family with a white picket fence, two-point-five kids, and a golden retriever. Despite the way I cave whenever Alex wants to crawl into my bed, I don’t fantasize about us being together again. That all went out the window ages ago.

I just want Jonas to have another person in his corner, loving him unconditionally. He deserves a dad, so time and time again I fight the urge to block Alex’s number and remove him from our lives completely. Arguably, I let him get away with too much. Never setting boundaries or sticking up for myself—hell, the only reason I’m feeling emboldened enough to scoff at his comments today is because I’m on top of the goddamn world with this perfect Le Creuset.

“Well, Fern and I were thinking…”

He continues talking, I think, but my brain’s entirely fixated on Fern. Has he gone off the deep end and started talking to a plant?

I interrupt. “Sorry, what is a Fern?”

“My girlfriend.”

“You have a girlfriend…named Fern?”

Please. I have a migraine named Snake Plant now.

“She suggested I reach out to you about spending more time with Jonas.”

I half-laugh.

Oh, Fern. Sweet summer child.

Of course she suggested Alex reach out, because I’m sure he told her I’m the monstrous baby mama keeping his precious son from him. Bet he changed his lock screen image to a photo of Jonas stolen from my social media. And she’ll be the doting girlfriend for a few months until she realizes everything he’s told her is a lie.

After a decade of this, I know every crest, valley, and loop in our roller-coaster relationship. I’ve played every imaginary role—from evil ex to best pal—in Alex’s book of lies he uses to convince women he’s not a deadbeat.