Meant To Be Different

by Amelia Foster

  She popped up from the couch just a little too fast, and the glass of wine her friend had filled to the brim hit her hard, making her sway slightly. Only a few bites of the salad and a quarter of the chicken had managed to make it in her rolling stomach during the uncomfortable lunch. “I can cook.”

  After a momentary look of shock, Paige doubled over with laughter. She filled a stainless steel pot with water and set it on the stove. “That’s a good one, Georgie girl.”

  Georgia fixed her hands on her hips and opened her mouth to argue. Until she remembered the birthday dinner she attempted to make Paige that ended with smoke alarms blaring and a tear-filled call for pizza delivery. “Fine.”

  She walked into the bathroom, stripped off her clothes, and stepped beneath the nearly scalding spray. As she skimmed the soapy loofah over her skin, her thoughts involuntarily went back to Wyatt. Prickles of heat that had nothing to do with the water cascading against her body raced across her flesh. She hated the way that man could affect her after so many years. And after shattering her eighteen-year-old heart.

  But she wasn’t that girl anymore. She’d pieced herself back together after he left and somehow managed to build a life she was proud of and one she rabidly protected.

  From almost everyone except the only other man she’d allowed as close as Wyatt.

  She turned the knobs, the shiver that passed through her as she stepped out of the shower had less to do with the cool air in the room and more with the onslaught of memories she’d battled all afternoon. Georgia grabbed the giant blue towel from the rack and dried off before slipping on yoga pants and an oversized USF sweatshirt.

  Georgia was led to the kitchen by her nose like in the old cartoons. Paige was plating some creamy pasta dish with mushrooms, spinach, and tomatoes.

  She sat in one of the oak chairs and moaned at the first bite. “Marry me, Paige.”

  The other woman placed a refilled glass of wine in front of her and took the seat on the other side of the table. “I think Jonah might fight you over that.”

  Georgia dismissed her concern with a wave of her fork. “You can still have sex with him. I just want you to cook for me.”

  They ate in silence, but Georgia could practically see the concern rolling off her best friend in waves. “Go ahead. Say it.”

  Paige quirked an eyebrow. “You’re handing this off to the minions, right? Georgia, you can’t do this.”

  She pushed the empty plate away and downed a mouthful of wine. “I have to be hands on with all the designs and make sure Wyatt is happy. This is a bigger deal than I thought. He’s going to have a training camp for basically every rodeo event imaginable, but he’s also putting on his own competition.”

  Leafing through his business plan this afternoon had impressed Georgia. She had no idea Wyatt could be such a visionary and turn a few hundred acres of nothing into a massive complex that would undoubtedly be a draw. And that served to annoy her even further. Why couldn’t he just be a stupid cowboy?

  The infuriating corner of her heart that still loved Wyatt, the one she’d spent so many years trying to exorcise, chose that particular moment to speak up. To remind her Wyatt had always been so much more than a stupid cowboy. He’d been her first ally in North Carolina and her single strongest source of comfort when she needed it most.

  Paige gathered the dishes and began to load Georgia’s dishwasher. “Just because you need to micromanage all the planning doesn’t mean you have to meet with him. Make one of your underlings deal with big bad Wyatt Carlisle one-on-one.”

  Georgia drained her second glass of wine, carried it into the kitchen, and added it to the rest of the load in the dishwasher. She wrapped her arms around her best friend’s waist and rested her head on her shoulder blade. “Thanks for being my best friend.”

  Closing the dishwasher door, Paige turned and squeezed Georgia. “Nowhere else I’d rather be. I’ll just buy Vinho by the case to get us through this project.”

  Chapter Four

  Wyatt

  Thirteen Years Earlier

  “Oof.” Wyatt’s backside hit the dusty ground once again with a resounding thud. This time he remembered to land in a way that didn’t end with a crack on the back of his skull. Only took doing that three times before he finally learned his lesson.

  He shook his head and glanced around for his hat. He’d worn it practically every day for five years. More than once he’d done battle with teachers and school administration over wearing the cowboy hat to school, often resulting in phone calls home and some added chores for him.

  Wyatt slapped the hat back on his head and stood gingerly. The echoing laughter at his back forced him to make sure his gait was as natural as possible despite the screaming muscles from his neck to his knees.

  He leaned his forearm on the wooden railing with a wide grin. “All right, boys, which one of y’all is next?” All of the six men lined along the other side of the fence were a good decade or more older than Wyatt, but affecting obnoxious levels of confidence was something he did easily.

  Three hours and several more falls later, his dad pulled up in his enormous blue truck. Just in time to see Wyatt’s longest ride at six seconds. Followed by his most epic throw.

  His hat skidded across the ring, his head bounced off the ground, and every molecule of air disappeared from his lungs. He lay on the dirt for several long moments, blinking rapidly as the clouds doubled and began swirling in the sky above him. Wyatt forced himself to slowly breathe again, refusing to give in to the panic wanting to rise.

  “Wyatt!”

  Before he had a chance to command his aching back or shaking legs to hold him, his father had skidded to a halt beside him. Clouds of dust swirled around and clung to Wyatt’s clothes. Mike dropped to his knees next to Wyatt. He wanted to groan at the look of panic on his father’s face, but he was too afraid his dad would attribute it to pain rather than sheer embarrassment.

  Embarrassment and a tinge of fear his parents wouldn’t let him train anymore.

  Ignoring every screaming muscle, he offered his father a cocky grin and climbed to his feet. “It’s all right, Dad. That was nothing.”

  Mike put a hand on his son’s shoulder, and Wyatt clenched his teeth, refusing to allow his body to react to the stab radiating from the sure to be bruised flesh.

  “That didn’t look like nothing. That looked like my son got thrown six feet in the air from an eight hundred pound animal and landed on the ground with a force that could have broken his back or given him a concussion.”

  Wyatt climbed in the cab of the truck as gingerly as possible without giving away how much it hurt. Which it did. It hurt like a bitch.

  They drove in silence for several miles. Just as Wyatt started to relax, Mike cleared his throat. “Are you sure about this, son? Are you sure this is what you want to do with the rest of your life?”

  He rubbed some of the residual dirt from his eyes. “Not a doubt in my mind, Dad.”

  “All right then.” Mike propped his elbow on the window ledge. “We…are gonna need to ease your mom into this.”

  ***

  Georgia

  Georgia grabbed the kohl eyeliner from her dresser top and swiped another thick line across her lid, already heavily coated, for good measure. She raked a hand through her choppy shoulder length hair with a frown.

  When she started to wear dark, heavy makeup, her parents hadn’t said a word. When her entire back to school wardrobe consisted of varying shades of charcoal and gray, her mother smiled but remained silent. But when she came home with a bottle of black hair dye, they finally drew the line.

  She stuck her bottom lip out. She still thought it was ridiculous. It was just hair.

  Her pout turned into a full-fledged frown. First day at Podunk High. She missed her school. She missed her friends. She missed Tampa. She missed…

  She missed having a healthy mom who would watch movies and eat popcorn with her when her dad had to work late.

  Georgia
shook her head to dispel the thought. She buckled a wide leather belt over the black plaid skirt and adjusted the jagged horizontal slashes in the long sleeves of her tight ebony shirt. She liked this new look, and she couldn’t care less what Jethro and Billy Bob would think of her.

  Asheville was a temporary stop. Either her mom would get better and they could move back to Tampa or—

  No matter what the outcome, she was moving back to Tampa. She’d go to USF and have the life she planned for herself.

  She hated North Carolina, she hated the accent, and she hated the stupid fake smile she pasted on her face every day to make her mom think she was happy.

  Georgia hiked her backpack higher on her shoulder and walked down the hall. She poked her head in her mother’s room, not surprised to find her sleeping.

  Luckily she managed to escape the house without having to speak to her father. She loved him dearly, but seeing the deep sadness in his eyes day after day made her feel darker than the matte lipstick stain she wore.

  Georgia walked the half mile to the high school, staring at the sidewalk and counting the lines. The toes of her new knee boots pinched already. She’d be riding the bus if they still lived in Tampa. Walking was stupid.

  She turned to the left and followed the sidewalk up the slight incline. She lifted her gaze to figure out which door would lead her to her Southern fried fate when she stopped dead in her tracks and her jaw hit the concrete.

  A freaking cowboy.

  A pack of giggling girls surrounded the periphery of his small group, doe-eyed wonder radiating in their worshipful gazes. A couple of other guys dressed much more casually flanked him on each side but paid far more attention to the entourage of females twirling their hair and toeing the ground. Georgia closed her eyes slowly and then opened them again, but the sight in front of her didn’t disappear.

  Part of her—if she were honest a large part of her—wanted to erupt into a violent fit of laughter. He was the personification of the stereotypical good ole southern boy. He probably drove here in some beat-up pickup truck blaring country music.

  Instead of laughing, or mocking him anywhere but in her head, Georgia pushed her way through what she hoped was the right door. It’s like pulling off a bandage, get this day done quickly…and hopefully the other one hundred seventy-nine would follow suit.

  She forgot all about the freaking cowboy until she went to her locker after lunch to collect her books for the afternoon classes. Before she could finish, one of the girls clinging to him bumped her skintight jean-clad hip into Georgia’s back as they pushed through the hall. She snarled as she slammed the locker shut. “Who the hell do they think they are?”

  “You’re not from around here, are you?” the cynical voice from the locker to her right piped up.

  Georgia turned to face the strawberry blonde who didn’t look old enough to be in high school. She leaned her back against the cold metal. “Hell no, I’m not from around here.” A twinge of guilt churned her gut at the expletive. Her mother would correct her coarse language if she’d heard her. Or if she were feeling well enough to stay awake.

  The other girl tugged at the curls erupting around her head before pushing her cat-eye frame glasses up on her nose. “That’s Wyatt Carlisle. His family’s loaded, but he’s planning to walk away from it all and join the rodeo. He’s like a legend in the making.”

  Mirthless laughter bubbled up, cracking the pale makeup she’d applied to her cheeks that morning. “You’ve got to be kidding me with this. So some moron wants to hop on an animal big enough to kill him and ride it for a few seconds before said beast throws his sorry ass off and gives him a concussion…and this is what is legendary around here?”

  The bell rang just then, and the girl scurried off to her class. Georgia pushed off the row of lockers and trudged off as well. She made a mental note to once again search the web tonight for specialists in her mother’s type of cancer. Someone, somewhere had to be able to treat her—to cure her—so they could move home. “My time in Mayberry can’t be up soon enough.”

  Chapter Five

  Wyatt

  Present Day

  Clouds of dust swirled around the sleek, red Infiniti as it sped up his driveway. Who in the blue hell decided it was a good idea to use his property as a racetrack?

  Wyatt threw the saddle over the rack, tugged off his gloves, and marched out of the largest of the several barns dotting his land, determined to find out. Apparently no one respected “Private Property” signs anymore. As an afterthought, he grabbed his discarded faded green t-shirt off the railing on his way through the wide door.

  He didn’t know who he’d thought the occupant of the undeniably gorgeous luxury car was, but he certainly wasn’t expecting Gigi. Nothing on the face of this earth could have prepared him for the sight of two long legs exiting the vehicle first, balancing precariously in spindly heels on the rocky terrain surrounding the barn.

  Damn, he’d always loved her sexy legs, but they looked even more delectable than he remembered. He snorted to himself. Too many head traumas. He couldn’t stop himself from grinning when she slammed the door and folded her arms in front of her. Gigi mad was a thing of beauty.

  “There something I can do for ya there, Gigi?”

  Her hands fell to her sides for a brief moment before she stalked over to him, pointing an accusatory finger. “Why in the world do you have to be so difficult? I’ve sent three of my most qualified people out here to review some of the best designs we’ve created this year and you refuse to even speak to them.” She stopped a few feet in front of him. “For crying out loud, Wyatt, the last girl came back in tears.”

  He swiped the shirt he still held in his hand across his sweat-soaked face. “Did she tell you why she was crying?”

  Georgia crossed her arms again. “She said she tried to review the portfolio with you and you told her you didn’t want to see a damn thing.”

  Wyatt slung the cotton over his right shoulder. “Well, now, Gigi, that’s only about half right. Your meek little mousey ‘person’ wanted to show me a hell of a lot more than pictures in some portfolio.” He matched her stance, hoping if he kept his arms folded it would prevent him from doing air quotes again. How ridiculous. Who the hell was he turning into? “But she’s right, I did tell her I didn’t want to see a damn thing she thought I needed to look at.”

  “You.” Her shoulders slumped as she sighed out the word. “You manage to drive perfectly sane and reasonable people to madness.”

  His gaze had fixed on her full, red, glossy lips as she spoke, but now he raked his eyes over her body. From the creamy shoulders peeking out of the black sleeveless dress, to the crimson leather belt, all the way to her matching pointy shoes. “Well, now, looks like my Dark Angel has added a bit of color to her wardrobe.” He winked. “A little, at least.”

  He couldn’t resist poking the bear. Every move she made stole his breath, but the fiery passion that raged through her, whether it was in anger or excitement, was a work of art.

  But his Angel never played by anyone’s rules. As always she managed to turn the tables and offer the exact opposite of the reaction he had prepared for. Gigi doubled over with laughter, one hand on her chest, the other waving in his direction. The smug smile he wore when he had her good and irate turned into a frown.

  “There…there…” She swiped a tear from her eye, gasping to catch her breath. “There is so much wrong with that sentence.” She straightened her posture, a few light giggles still lingering. “First of all, I outgrew the goth phase about a decade ago. Second, black is sleek, slimming, and very professional.” Her gaze hardened a fraction. “And finally, I am not yours.”

  They stood locked in a silent standoff under the hot summer sun long enough a fresh trail of sweat rolled down Wyatt’s back. How she could possibly stand before him looking cool as a cucumber he had no idea.

  “Why can’t you just let my people do their jobs?”

  He ran the shirt over his chest and
the back of his neck. “This is a big deal, Gigi. This is going to be the biggest training facility in the area, and my competition is going to be a World Championship qualifier. You might not understand, hell, you might not care, but this entire thing deserves the marketing director’s attention. Not some little peon.”

  His temperature shot up a thousand degrees when her eyes fell on his chest and then trailed over to his bicep. “You got tattoos?”

  The corner of his mouth kicked up. “Yeah, a few.” The more her laser-sharp gaze focused in on his body, the more uncomfortable his jeans became. He shrugged his shoulders and tried to think of anything other than the flames he saw in her hazel depths. “The first time was after a long-ass night on some really tough broncs, more beers than I care to remember, and a stupid bet with the guy who beat me in that competition.”

  She took two hesitant steps toward him and tilted her head, glistening strands of auburn hair falling over her shoulder. “Which one was your first?”

  Damn. This wasn’t how he wanted to tell her. He tapped his smallest tattoo, the one on his left pec. “This one.”

  Gigi swallowed then ran her tongue over the crimson lips Wyatt hadn’t been able to look away from for more than a few seconds. The lips begging to be kissed. By him. “What…I-I mean, why? D-does it mean anything?”

  He chuckled lightly, closed the gap between them, and gently laced his fingers through hers where they dangled limply beside her hip. “It’s a pair of black wings. What could it possibly mean other than I was thinking of my Dark Angel?”

  Her entire being was completely still other than the infinitesimal tightening of her grip on his. She didn’t blink, move, hell, he wasn’t even sure if she was breathing. Wyatt dropped his voice to a whisper, the raucous noise from the machines finishing the work on the various outbuildings of his ranch fell away, and a cocoon of silence enveloped them. “I’m sorry I left the way I did, but I never stopped thinking about you.”