Change of Hart (Wells Ranch, #3)(55)

Then Dad and I clean the kitchen in silence, the weight of the evening hanging over us, but neither feeling comfortable broaching hard topics with each other. He and I are the same that way; no sense panicking about the shitstorm when we can board up the windows and weather it alone. It’s not that we aren’t close, per se. My family’s simply never been the type to circle up for a group hug, or talk about hard things, or ask anyone for help.

Retreating to my bedroom, I’m overcome by the need to have the same comforting feeling Denver gave me on the mountaintop.


Blair: Hey, are you busy?

Denver: Not too busy for you, why?

Blair: It was a shitty night with Mom….

Blair: Do you want to come over?

From the moment my finger taps the Send button, I begin to panic. And pacing around my room for the half hour it’ll take for Denver to drive to my house isn’t feasible. I’ll wear out the damn carpet. So I opt for an everything shower, letting water and tears run freely while I soap and scrub and shave nearly every inch of my body. By the time the water’s too cold to stand, I’m cried out and wishing I’d held off on inviting Denver over.

That’s solidified by a quick glance in the foggy mirror. I swipe my hand across the glass, clearing enough space to discover that my eyes are bloodshot, cheeks puffy, and chest blotchy.

Great, he’s going to take one look at me and run the other way.

Clasping the towel wrapped around my body, I trudge back to my bedroom, hoping I can grab my phone in time to tell Denver to stand down. Because all I really want to do is curl up in bed, watch a silly little rom-com, and fall asleep.

“About time. I was starting to think you were pranking me.” Denver’s leaning back on his elbows on top of my bed, and I momentarily freeze at the sight of him.

I shut the door and hold the towel tighter to my body, moving quickly to the closet.

“You’re here already? How?” I glance at the clock to find it’s been a full forty-five minutes since I sent the text. “Oh, shit. Sorry, I must’ve lost track of time. Can you, um, turn around so I can put clothes on?”

“Nothing I haven’t seen before, but fine.” Lifting his feet onto the bed, he spins to face the headboard. “Are you okay?”

Aside from cursing myself for not owning cuter pajamas?

“Yeah, I’m okay now.” I reach for the best available option—a shorts and tank set. Except you can see my nipples clear as day through the thin pink fabric, so I tug the closest available hoodie on over top.

“You don’t have to be okay,” he says. “Remember?”

I sink onto the soft mattress next to him, tucking my feet under my butt. Our knees briefly collide when he turns to face me, and the most simple of touches reignites the fire in my core that burned for the entire drive home earlier.

And I’m not lying when I say, “I am okay now. Truth.”

“Did you keep my hoodie for the last decade?”

I gulp, embarrassment creeping from my belly up to my chest and neck. Yes, I kept his hoodie—hoodies, technically, because I have a number of sweatshirts and Tshirts tucked away—but I wasn’t anticipating him noticing.

Denver flicks the wet ends of my hair over my shoulder to check the small logo printed on the front for confirmation, and the dimples in his cheeks pull me in. “Should I tear apart your closet and see how much of it technically belongs to me?”

He moves like he’s going to stand, and my fingers wrap around his thick bicep. “Stop. It’s a good hoodie. That’s the only reason I kept it.”

“God, you are the worst liar I’ve ever met. I remember lending you this sweatshirt, and you said it was a complete waste of pocket space because you couldn’t fit your hands in the pocket with your mittens on. You complained about it all winter, yet kept wearing the damn hoodie anyway.” He toys with the pocket’s edge, and the way I feel his hardened hands through the tattered cotton makes me wish I hadn’t worn it—or anything—to bed at all. I’m tempted to stretch my arms above my head, test him to see if he’d touch my bare skin.

“You got me. It truly is a terrible hoodie. The hood is abnormally small, too.” I reach up, blissfully aware of his eyes cutting to the sliver of exposed skin on my lower stomach, and pull the hood over my damp hair.

“Maybe you have a big head.” He tugs the hoodie strings, staring into my eyes with a crooked smile as the hood bunches around my face. “Confirmed. Big head. You look like you’re starring in The Shining.”

I playfully slap him on the leg. “You can have it back then, if you’re so sure it’s a problem with my head.”

Hands on the bottom of the hoodie, I pull it over my head in one swift motion.

“I doubt it’ll still fit—” His sentence is cut short when his eyes fall to my chest, Adam’s apple bobbing with a swallow.

Oh right, I was wearing the sweater for a reason.

“Blair, are tho—did—uh,” he stammers, tripping over himself while practically drooling like a dog. It would be a lie to say I’m not flattered. A throaty fuck is the only word he eventually manages to get out before I step in to save him from himself.

“Yes, they’re pierced. And it’s generally bad form to stare.”

“I feel like they’re staring at me. It’s a dominance thing—I can’t look away now.”