At Whit's End (Wells Ranch, #4)(40)

As I clean, while also following her like a lost puppy dog, I pretend not to notice how far she’s going out of her way to keep distance between us. Eventually, she’s skillfully herded me right to the front door. Betty could stand to take notes.

“Whit…I, uh…” I, uh, lose all train of thought.

She pulls the door open, fingers clenched around the handle, letting Betty run outside into the warm summer air.

“Thanks for tonight,” she says in a bizarrely professional, monotone voice, like she’s escorting me out of a job interview. Her green eyes look nearly black in the dim light, and they’re boring into my soul. “It was really fun.”

I want to tell her this was the best night I’ve had in a long time. And I want to ask her on a date. And I’d really love it if she’d let me kiss her goodnight.

“Tonight was—I mean, uh, I had a good…fun time. A good, fun time was had.” Okay, now form words into a sentence that doesn’t sound so fucking weird. “If you—no pressure—wanted a fun night…m-maybe we have another night?”

Oh, God. Am I having a stroke?

“I’m sure Jonas would love another fun night with you.”

“Would you?”

“Yeah, I would.” Her mouth twitches side to side. “Thanks for being a good friend. I don’t think you understand how much your friendship has done for me…and Jonas. It’s…thank you.”

“Always.”

Tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, she leans in, fills the thick air between us with a sugary aroma. Hope inflates my sunken chest. And her soft, plump lips brush a barely-there kiss against my cheek.

I think being Whit’s friend might just kill me.





Whit


Stealing a glance at the microwave clock mid-sip of coffee, I wave my free hand through the air, indicating it’s time for Jonas to get ready to leave.

Once I’ve finished swallowing, I say as much aloud. “Colt’s going to be here any minute. It’s rude to make him wait.”

With a groan, Jonas flops forward, sweeping his empty cereal bowl and cup halfway across the table with one forearm and creating a makeshift pillow with the other. When he told me Colt wanted to head out fishing early—before the temperatures got too high—I expected a rough morning. Jonas is slow to start on a good day, but before seven a.m.? It’s a miracle his eyes are open. In fact, I think he was sleep-eating his cereal a few minutes ago.

“He’s going really out of his way to pick you up.” I lean my back against the counter and fidget with the hem of my running shorts.

I’m not a morning person, either. But there’s no way in hell I’m letting Colt see me in my usual early-morning state, so I woke up a full hour ago to brush my hair, meticulously give myself a no-makeup makeup look, and put on a bra.

I repeat Jonas’s name again, annoyed inflection in my tone.

“In a minute,” he mumbles into his arm.

The unmistakable rumble of Colt’s truck in the driveway has me clunking my mug against the countertop, barely hanging on to the thin edges of my patience as I grit out, “Now.”

“For somebody who hates repeating herself, you never stop.” His head lifts, moody eyes staring at me through his eyebrows. “God, you’re so annoying.”

My jaw tightens. “Want to try responding again?”

“You’re always nagging.”

“You could try doing things the first time I ask. Then I wouldn’t need to nag.” The engine sounds cease, indicating Colt will be walking up to the front door any second. “Let’s go, or you’re not playing video games for the rest of the weekend.”

He shoves his chair back, grabbing the dirty dishes and trudging toward the kitchen sink. “I don’t give a shit about playing video games anyway.”

Since when?

I raise a silent eyebrow, taking him in. With hunched shoulders and a scowl across his face, Jonas slams the dishes down—they don’t shatter, impressively. He turns to me, crossing his arms tight against his chest.

“What’s going on with you?”

He huffs. “Nothing.”

“Is something going on with your friends? Is that why you didn’t want to invite them over the other night?”

His expression twists, frustration giving way to something heavier. “No!”

“You can talk to—”

“You always want me to talk, talk, talk.” His voice gets louder with each word, and he pulls his hand through his hair, leaving it standing in every direction. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

I take a step toward him, and he practically leaps away. Despite his harsh tone and petulant attitude, I’m far more troubled by the utter dejection in his eyes. There’s no fire. And I’d take a full-on screaming match with an impassioned preteen over this beaten-down version.

“Jonas—”

“God, I hate you. Why won’t you leave me the hell alone?” he yells, voice cracking on the final syllable.

The words hit like a slap, sharp and dismissive.

Before I can respond, another voice cuts through the room. “Jonas.”

We both turn to find Colt standing in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, a frown etched across his face. Shit. He must’ve heard the commotion and decided to let himself in. Betty’s sitting on guard at his feet, and she gives us a wary look.