Love Me Again, Cowboy

The last thing I need is to play damsel to Jax’s hero. “I’ve got it,” I snap.

He puts his hands up in surrender. “Okay, you’ve got it. But maybe I’ll just wait a few minutes.” He winks, and I hate that it’s a gesture I’ve missed so much. “Just in case.” He folds his arms over his chest and raises his brows at me as if to say go on.

Oh, great. A Jaxon Wyle audience. Can this day get any worse? I return to my task and pick up the wrench, momentarily contemplating throwing it at him. I crouch down and work on the bolt, but no matter how much I strain at it, the stubborn thing won’t budge—kind of like Jax. I glance at him standing to the side, looking like he just stepped out of a magazine ad for Stetson cologne. I work harder to get the bolt free, fueled by my anger.

“I know you don’t want my help,” Jax says after a moment. “But I don’t think that bolt is coming loose.”

I turn to look up at him. “Let me guess. I need a man with big strong muscles to get it off for me?”

“Actually, I was thinking the WD-40 I have in my truck might do the trick, but thanks for the compliment.”

“It wasn’t a—” I let out an exasperated sigh. “Never mind. Just get the WD-40.”

He smiles, lifting one corner of his mouth higher than the other, showing off his dimple. And darn it if it isn’t sexy as hell, and the jerk knows it too. “I’ll be right back,” he says.

I give him a glare. “Huh. Yeah, I’ve heard that one before. Forgive me if I don’t hold my breath.”

The smile drops and hurt crosses his features. I feel both justified and ashamed at the same time. As he leaves to his truck, a part of me wishes I hadn’t said that, then another part of me argues that I shouldn’t feel bad for making him feel bad for what he did to me. I should feel justified, but in reality, I feel like a foolish ranting child.

What happened between us was eight years ago. Perhaps it isn’t fair of me to hold on to a grudge from so long ago. I watch him search for the WD-40 and wonder what kind of person Jaxon Wyle is now. He’s obviously not too bad if he stopped to help what he thought was a stranger. I sigh and decide I’ll make a better effort to be nice, or at least not cruel. Besides, I don’t want to get into details of our breakup right now, not when I need to get to the hospital to see how Ala is doing. But I do need to cross that road at some point. I need my closure, just not today.

Chapter Eight

JAXON

I’m rummaging in the back of my truck looking for the WD-40, wondering if I’m dreaming or if this is actually happening. I honestly thought I’d never see Malia again. She wasn’t one to make idle threats, and as the years passed without her returning to visit her sister, or even come back when her parents moved here, I really believed that she was gone for good. Not that I blamed her. She had every right to hate me. And it seems like that hate hasn’t lessened much over the years.

I think about the conversation I just had with my brothers and how Dillon told me to go to Hollywood to win Malia back. I thought that was an impossible fantasy, but now, with Malia here, perhaps it isn’t so far-fetched after all. I just have to get her to stop hating me first.

I find the tin canister and make my way back to Malia’s car. She’s still crouched down, working on the begrudging bolt. Her tenacity hasn’t lessoned throughout the years either it would seem.

She’s somehow even more beautiful than I remembered. The television screen doesn’t capture everything. It’s like a photo: I can see her, but I can’

t experience all there is to Malia Kalama. Perhaps it’s because in her role, she’s someone else. But here and now her fire shines through, even if that heat is directed as a burning flame at me. I would take any burns over the years of cold without her.

I close the distance, not knowing what to say. It seems as if anything I say might trigger her anger, so instead I just crouch down beside her. Her body stiffens, as if even without looking at me, her body can feel mine next to hers. Sweet heavens, does she smell good. I almost forgot that scent. The tropical flower smell stirs up a handful of memories that brings a painful ache to my gut. I want nothing more than to take her in my arms, tell her I’m sorry for all of it, and never let her go. I push the thought away and spray some of the WD-40 on the bolt. The sharp scent chases away her floral one—a small tender mercy.

“Thank you,” she says.

I turn my head to face her. It must be hard for her to say those words to me, and I appreciate the effort. There was no bite behind them this time. I realize that I’m staring and look away with a shrug. “No thanks needed. I bet you’d have gotten it eventually.” I gesture to the bolt. “Why don’t you give it a try now?”

She does, and the bolt finally gives. She faces me, smiling triumphantly, and my heart feels like it might burst. I stay to help her with the rest of the tire change. She lets me without protest, although every time I get close to her, she stiffens like my very presence is painful. I hate myself for what I did to us, even while knowing it was necessary. We don’t say much, only what needs to be said to get the job done. To be honest, I’m scared to say more, scared that if I say the wrong thing she’ll bolt and I’ll really never see her again. Ten minutes too soon, the tire is changed. I go grab an old towel and bottles of water from my truck.

When I walk back, Malia is pacing in a small circle. I know that means she’s working out something in her head. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but what I do know is that we need to talk. I have to explain to her everything that happened eight years ago. I want her to understand why I stood her up on the day we were supposed to leave together for our new life in California. She needs to know the truth; she deserves it. She stops her pacing when I approach.

I open one of the water bottles and, knowing the procedure, she holds out her hands. I pour the water slowly over her hands while she rubs them clean. When she’s done, I give her the rag to dry off. I use the rest of the water bottle on my own hands, and she gives me the rag back. After I dry off my hands, I notice a black smudge on her nose.

“You missed a spot,” I say. She looks at her hands. “Not there. On your nose.”

Her eyes widen and she quickly rubs at her nose, but she only smears the mark.

I chuckle. “Here, let me.” I use the wet rag and wipe the black off her face. She’s stiff and staring at me. I stop, lost in her gaze—she always was a master at the smolder. I don’t think she’s even trying, and yet she has me completely entranced. I can still feel the connection between us as a palpable thing, tempting me to explore it like I had before, but I step away instead. I lost the right to that sort of familiarity a long time ago.

I drop my gaze and gesture to the tire. “This is just a spare. You’re gonna have to go get a new one in Sierra Vista.”

She just nods.

“Are you planning on being in town long?”