Almost Perfect: A Sweet Small Town Opposites Attract Romance (Back to Silver Ridge Book 1)

by Claire Cain

  He nodded like that was even remotely normal. “Huh, well, offer stands. And you can always text if you need stuff—might be a delay depending on when I’m back up here but always happy to grab what you need.”

  What a nice freaking guy. In another life, another world, I’d ask him out. I’d say, “Hey, cute cheery landlord giant, wanna grab a beer?” But aside from the complete lack of spark I felt for him, I had nothing to give. Darn.

  “I could actually use some more milk, and maybe a couple bananas, if you don’t mind?”

  I’d discovered a blender and had cobbled together a decent smoothie yesterday, which would help vary the cereal repertoire. If I ended up living off the protein powder Kristoffer had demanded I bring with me and cereal, it’d be fine.

  I mean, I’d have hell to pay when I got back to my trainer, but there was another thought I elbowed out of my mind and life for the moment.

  “Of course. Someone’ll swing it by tonight, and I’ll text you with the time for dinner. Again, no pressure there.”

  I smiled, genuinely appreciating his kindness. “Thanks.”

  It wasn’t until after I shut the door that I registered that “someone’ll swing it by” comment. That hit me about the same time I remembered the dinner would be at Wyatt’s house, with Wyatt, and I had no desire to see the man, much less be in his space.

  A text from Jenna pulled me from those thoughts. I snuggled down to chat with her, but she’d only sent a short “love note” as she called them, reminding me she was there. And just like I’d done every other day since arriving, that small show of concern caused me to dissolve into tears yet again. I should’ve funneled that sadness into a workout or something productive, but I’d done that for months. Years. And I just didn’t want to anymore.

  So I cried.

  Hours later, I woke to the sound of a knock on the door and blearily stumbled toward it. When I jerked it open, I blinked a tall, ridiculously handsome man into focus and immediately, my stomach flipped.

  “Sorry to—” Wyatt stopped when our gazes connected. “E-everything okay?”

  “What? Oh. Yes. Fine. Thanks.” I probably looked insane with puffy eyes, or maybe puffy entire face, and whatever madness my hair had nested itself into while I’d slept.

  His eyes swept down my body, then shifted to the doorframe, finding something absolutely fascinating there.

  Jeez, this guy could not handle a crying woman, could he? Even evidence of having cried seemed to short-circuit his little cowboy robot brain.

  “Warrick said you needed milk. And bananas. He wasn’t going to make it back up here tonight, so he asked me to bring them. I hope that’s okay. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” He held out a canvas bag.

  “Thank you. I appreciate you bringing it by.” I took the bag and noticed the All Saints Ranch logo on the front in a cheery kelly-green print.

  That was when he should’ve left—said good night or turned and walked away without a word. Really, either would’ve been about on par with what I’d come to expect. Instead, he set a hand on the frame of the door and ducked his head. We were still about four feet apart, me inside and him on the porch.

  “I apologize for being rude. I hope I haven’t upset you and ruined your stay.”

  Without his sunglasses and thanks to the porch light, I could see his eyes and the veracity there.

  Touched, I brought a hand to my chest. How often did someone apologize like that—without excuses and purely… wait. Did he think I’d been crying like this after our little exchange about the snow?

  “Thank you. But just to be clear, you’re not the reason I was crying. I have—I’m crying about other stuff.”

  Cringe. Way to express yourself and sound like a completely stable person.

  He raised both hands as if to say he was innocent of any and all things having to do with my crying. “I’m just making clear I realize I was rude, and that’s uncalled for. I’m sorry.”

  I nodded, accepting the apology before I even got the words out. “You’re forgiven.”

  The cold quiet blanketing the little house, the yard and pathway beyond, and even my porch, rushed in and shrouded us. His breath swirled out in a chilly wisp from his lips, and he squinted ever so slightly like he was trying to see me better. Like something I’d said had surprised him.

  “Thank you. And I hope you’ll come to dinner tomorrow. It’ll be good. We won’t bother you about your, uh, life. We can just feed you a home-cooked meal. Or we can package up a dish and bring it over if you’d rather.” He shifted foot to foot again and slipped his hands into his coat pockets.

  I couldn’t tell if I made him uncomfortable or if he was shy, but whatever the case, he was trying. The whole tenor of this exchange, now that he’d apologized, was different than every other interaction except our very first—than any I’d had before, really.

  I had to appreciate that, and I was glad he couldn’t feel the way my stomach clenched at the thought of a real home-cooked meal. I hadn’t had one of those in a decade.

  “Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow, Wyatt.”

  As I hung my jacket and rushed to my bedroom, anticipation pumped through my veins. No longer exhausted from shoveling after the tears-induced nap, the oddly honest and raw interaction with Wyatt had me feeling something I hadn’t in ages.

  It didn’t make sense that his apology would press this gold from stone, but it did. For the first time in so long. In years and years. I welcomed it with sweatpants on my legs and a blanket on my lap, staring into the fire. I greeted it like a friend I hadn’t seen in a decade, but who I’d longed for on a soul-deep level.

  Inspiration arrived tonight, and I’d do nothing to scare it away. Pen in hand and notebook at the ready, I embraced it.

  Welcome home.

  EIGHT

  Wyatt

  Warrick eyed me from his post at the bar overlooking the kitchen counter, where I stood placing the finishing touches on a pot roast. Chopped parsley and chives, of course, because I no longer shied away from garnish. Real men garnish.

  “You’re an idiot.” He pinched his eyes closed and rubbed them. “I’m so tired. I can’t even talk to you about this. I need to eat and then hibernate. I’m going to rally and enjoy this dinner because it was my idea, but if I can do that, you need to keep your crap together tonight and not be all judgey and rude.”

  My glare said everything for me since I’d already explained the situation. I’d admitted earlier today that I was concerned Ms. Rice might not show because I was fairly certain I’d made her uncomfortable or even upset. When he demanded to know why, I’d told him.

  But it wasn’t simple. Because my rudeness was out of character to say the least, and perplexing to me at best. He’d simply said, “You better make it right.”

  That was exactly what I’d tried to do last night. She’d nearly bit my head off for suggesting she’d been crying because of me, but in the end, she’d forgiven me. And sure, maybe bit my head off wasn’t quite accurate, but she’d been irritated enough by my apology because of what it insinuated, and she’d let slip something personal. Vulnerable, even. That paired with her forgiveness, so quick and genuine… I never expected that from someone like her, so famous and privileged and larger than life. Though she hadn’t been like that any of the times I’d spoken with her, I couldn’t really forget that she was who she was.

  But my judgment and suspicion of her? Probably unfounded. Maybe. I wasn’t going to hand over the deed to the ranch or anything, but War had made the point that we couldn’t believe everything we read, and I’d felt no small amount of shame when I realized that was exactly what I’d done. We’d been exposed to some of that nonsense when he’d gotten injured and his fiancée left him. The news surrounding the event had been insane and completely unfounded.

  So I knew better than to believe the headlines. And yet, I’d gulped it down like an ignoramus.

  Then the shoveling. She’d outright told me I’d been rude, and if I’d ever been mo
re humiliated by my own actions, I couldn’t think of a time. Not even close.

  What had she ever done to me? Nothing. Aside from being intriguing and beautiful and the antithesis to what I needed in my life, absolutely nothing.

  Normally, I prided myself on being polite and gentlemanly. That was the way I did things, just like my dad had done. Mom had told us the stories of how they’d dated, and she’d always admired his insistence on being upright, honorable, and well mannered. Those things were innate, but I chose them too. Like a calling and a callback to my father at once.

  Her words had been the slap upside the head I’d needed. I hadn’t realized my internal stewing had bled out and coated my words and behavior. Damn, it was shameful. I’d covered my horror with a quick and genuine apology, and she’d accepted. I hoped she meant it and hadn’t just wanted me gone.

  I couldn’t have blamed her if that was the case.

  “I hope she’ll come,” I said quietly, worry niggling at me.

  She’d looked awful when she opened the door last night. Swollen face, that long hair a tangled mess around her, and somehow shrunken. The woman was tall and typically stood with confidence, but her whole presence felt small. That concerned me, and even though it was partly maddening, partly humorous that she’d said she was crying about other stuff, the reality had sunk in as I trudged the path back to the main house. Eventually, I’d seen past the humiliation at my own bad manners and rude words and zeroed in on what she’d admitted in those short minutes together.

  She had to have been crying for hours.

  She was completely isolated, had no transportation, and Warrick had mentioned she didn’t drive, which meant she couldn’t just rent a car.

  I’d Googled her name—yes, I did the bad thing. And the headlines slipped by as I’d scrolled, each one worse than the next. She’d been through hell in the last few years. Even if none of them were true, her life had been upended—her mother had died.

  By the time I went to bed, I couldn’t get it out of my head. Was she okay over there? Not just in a superficial way, but… was her mental health okay? Did she need help—something beyond fetching milk from town?

  By midnight, I’d resolved that if she came to dinner, I’d pull her aside and apologize again for insinuating she’d been crying over me, but also see if she needed help. Make sure she knew she wasn’t alone, even if we hadn’t gotten along well so far.

  I could help her. We might not be meant for each other like I’d stupidly thought before I’d realized who she was, but I could make her time here better, even if just by being someone on standby if she really got into trouble. It was what a gentleman would do.

  And if she didn’t come, I’d just have to knock on her door. Because I couldn’t live with myself if I ignored someone who was clearly hurting.

  “Hello, my babies!” Mom swept in with two bags full of what had to be baked goods and ingredients for a salad. “Is our guest coming?”

  I pinned Warrick with a look. He was supposed to talk to her about not being too excited in case Ms. Rice didn’t come and also make sure Mom knew I’d promised our guest we wouldn’t ask her about her life.

  “She remembers,” he said to me. Then he spoke to Mom, his voice raised just slightly to reach her over the rustling of bags. “You remember you’re not getting too excited, right?”

  She narrowed her eyes at us.

  “Boo and hiss to you and your insistence on pretending this isn’t a huge deal. I’ll be excited if I want. I can’t believe we’re going to have—” The doorbell’s chime cut her off, then she squealed quietly into her hand. “I’m calm. I’m calm.”

  Warrick and I shared a look before he went to get the door. Anticipation and a twist of nerves bounced around in my empty stomach. I focused on prepping the winter salad—pears, pomegranate seeds, and orange supremes over field greens with red onions, blue cheese, and candied pecans. It was decadent but so good, though I’d kept the cheese and pecans on the side in case she had allergies or didn’t eat such things.

  Because I wasn’t blind. And I had seen photos. So I knew she took care of herself.

  Very, very well.

  You better get your mind back on this salad, genius.

  “Really glad you decided to come,” Warrick said, taking her jacket.

  I saw this from the corner of my eye. For some reason, having her in my home had me on alert like she was a threat to me. Didn’t make a lick of sense. I slipped the rolls into the oven for a warm-up—Warrick had brought them from Rise and Shine earlier so they’d be perfect. I appreciated his willingness to swing by there, though last I recalled, he didn’t eat bread.

  “So nice to see you again,” Mom said, sounding entirely normal.

  Way to go, Mom.

  “And you remember my brother, Wyatt,” Warrick said, completely unnecessarily because he knew damn well she remembered me.

  We all knew she remembered me because I’d been a grade A jackass to her thus far.

  I turned from the oven and set eyes on her. When our gazes locked, my stomach dropped to my ankles. Whoa, she was beautiful.

  In fairness, I hadn’t really seen her yet. The first night, she’d had her hat pulled low over her eyes, but I knew she was gorgeous even before I found out she was Miss Mayhem. Then the encounter heading into town—she’d been so bundled, and I’d been actively trying not to look at her closely. Same with shoveling, though I’d had a harder time not noticing the curve of her lips or her dark eyes.

  And yesterday, the crying… Of course I’d been more focused on the shame of having been such a jerk and concern about her distress—at least my head had been in the right place then.

  But now? Standing in my home only a few feet from me in the soft light of the living room, I could confirm it. There was no longer any doubt about it and no point denying the truth that hit me squarely in the eyes at the sight of her.

  Callaway Rice—Miss Mayhem, whatever—was perfection. She was, bar none, the most aggressively stunning person I’d ever seen in my life. And I knew some beautiful people.

  Tonight, her hair was down around her face in waves. She wore a creamy, soft-looking sweater and jeans. I’d bet she had on those same boots from the first few times I’d seen her. If she wore makeup, it was starkly different than whatever she wore in photoshoots and on magazine covers—but that made sense, didn’t it? That was a persona, or maybe character was a better word. Here, maybe this was too, but I liked this one.

  Now there’s an understatement.

  “Yes. Hello, Wyatt.”

  Her voice shook me from my dazed cataloging of her and shoved me back into the moment. “Hello, Ms. Rice.”

  She winced. “Just Calla.”

  A foreign little star shot across the night sky cavity of my chest and burst. “Okay. Hello, Calla.”

  She had dark brows but not quite as dark as her hair. Her lashes were—

  “Well, great. Wyatt, is dinner ready?”

  Warrick’s overly cheery voice snagged my attention and I looked up to see him giving me a wide-eyed look that he must’ve thought I could read. Mostly, I realized I’d been staring at Calla. But she’d been staring back.

  How long had we been standing there?

  “Uh, just another two minutes to warm the rolls. Can you watch them while I speak to Calla for just a minute?” My eyes shifted to find hers, pointedly ignoring my mom’s beaming smile. “That okay?”

  Her brow wrinkled but she nodded. “Sure.”

  I stepped out of the kitchen and down the hallway toward the guest bathroom. I couldn’t figure out where else to go—if not in the living room, which had a built-in audience, then all that was left was the home gym Warrick had set up for me years ago, my office, and bedrooms.

  Definitely not a bedroom.

  I turned to find her looking at the framed photos lining each wall. Photos from our growing-up years, and some from even farther back—our parents’ childhoods, and in some cases, their parents’. We even had a few s
uper old photos from the turn of the twentieth century, but those were at the other end of the hallway.

  When I spoke, my voice emerged low and oddly gruff. “Are you okay?”

  A pained look crossed her face, but before she could speak, I did again. “Sorry. I don’t mean to sound like—I don’t know. I just couldn’t stop thinking about you. It’s lonely out here, and I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

  She blinked, obviously surprised, and her voice came out in a rough wisp.

  “I am.” She cleared her throat. “I am. I’m just… I’m in weird place. And I’m sorry you caught me after I’d obviously been crying.”

  “I get it. People cry, and especially when they’re in weird places.” Oh great, I sounded like an idiot. “I cried like a starving newborn when my dog died.”

  Concern covered her face. “Oh no! When did that happen? I’m so sorry.”

  And just like that, she touched me—her hand on my arm like a consolation, and I could admit, not a bad one. Even still, my throat tightened at the thought of him. “Uh, it’s been six months. He was fifteen.”

  Just behind her, I pointed to a photo—sure enough, there he was.

  “Oh, wow.” Her voice sounded breathy as she studied the photo of me standing next to Sheridan, my horse, and Charlie the year after I’d gotten the puppy. I was twenty-one and smiling like a fool to be home for the summer for a few weeks before I started one of many apprenticeships.

  “Anyway, I just want you to know I’m here. I mean, not in a weird way, but just, you aren’t alone out here, okay? If you need anything, I want you to reach out. I should give you my number since Warrick’s in town so much right now, and then you choose whether to use it. No pressure. This isn’t me making a move or anything—”

  She chuckled and held up a hand. “I know that, Wyatt. Thank you. And sure, give me your number.”

  She typed it in as I gave her the digits, and I kept my eyes on a photo of me, Wilder, and Warrick, all of us gangly and dirty, hanging on to our mom and beaming at the camera. Grandma Tilda had snapped that photo after exclaiming about how messy boys were.