A False Start: A Small Town Brother’s Best Friend Romance (Gold Rush Ranch Book 4)
A False Start: Chapter 19

I can feel the cool air descending over the mountain, the elevation chasing all the late summer warmth away as the sun falls over the Cascades.

I’m addicted to the view up here. The sweeping green valley, the little square properties below, all different colors, making the stretch of land appear like a pixelated image. Each square with a different shade of green. The way the roads wind through the perfect squares, the lights that are twinkling under the magenta sky.

It’s a visual I want to remember. I close my eyes and sigh deeply, as though I can imprint it into my mind by sheer will.

A single inhalation has the scent of pine and fresh mountain air swirling around me, and before I can even hear his approach, I can feel him.

Since that first night, it’s been this way. Some sort of invisible link between us. Like our connection is bigger than who we are, where we’re from, or how old we are. All of that is just background noise when he looks at me—touches me.

Anything that might be wrong melts away with the rightness of us.

A twig snaps beneath his gentle footfalls, and I shiver. A thrill races down the column of my spine just as the smell of cinnamon sluices through my senses.

The man has ruined an entire spice for me. I’ll never smell it or taste it without thinking of him.

I’m not sure I’ll ever stop thinking about him.

I pull the soft wool blanket tighter around my shoulders as though it might protect me from how flayed open and vulnerable I feel around him.

I’ve been far more exposed with other men in my life, but I’ve never felt more powerless than I do around Griffin. The way he looks at me and sees more than I want him to . . . sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ (ꜰind)ɴʘvel.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

I hate it.

“Hi.” A simple one syllable word and a chill blooms out across my chest.

I tug the blanket tighter. I’ll strangle myself with the damn thing if I have to.

“Hi.” My voice is barely a whisper as I focus even harder on the valley and sunset that stretches before me, trying so hard not to show my hand as he comes to stand beside me.

I’ve already said too much tonight, been all emotional and bitter when the man merely tried to make a joke with me about how he doesn’t talk much. My molars clamp down as I think about what I said to him before disappearing to this spot to chase a little privacy. A little room to breathe.

Could I have been a more precise embodiment of a whiny baby sister if I tried?

“Pretty good aim you’ve got, Wildflower.” He shoves his hands into his pockets, a suitably safe spot for them.

I sigh. “Yup. Once Stefan left for good, I realized I needed to be prepared to defend myself if things took a turn for the worse.”

A pained choking sound jumps from the thick column of his throat, and he goes entirely still.

“So that’s what I did. He turned his fists on me once. And I knew in that moment that I wasn’t going to become his punching bag for long. I knew I’d find a way out. I learned how to shoot a gun. I didn’t just get good, I got great. So that when he came to my room, I could pull it out from under my pillow and turn the situation around. And I did. I never pulled the trigger, but I aimed it at him and seriously considered it. I was just young and stupid enough to think it didn’t affect me. That I could spend long hours at a shooting range and feel safe again. That I could move across the world and feel safe again. That he could go down in a fiery crash, and I’d feel safe again. But I only stopped sleeping with a gun under my pillow a year ago.”

I shiver, even though I’m not cold, and his head snaps in my direction. This time, I can’t stop myself from taking him in. Messy, manly perfection, with his hair looking disheveled after putting our tents together, and a few locks flopped over his forehead. My stomach flips at the sight, a perfect contrast to the heavy aching in my chest.

“Hey, hey,” he says tenderly, stepping closer to me and instantly wrapping a comforting arm around my shoulders. His opposite hand comes up to cup my face as his calloused thumb brushes across my cheek, smearing wetness in its wake.

I’m crying.

“Do you have any idea how strong you are?” His cinnamon breath warms the air between us as he cranes his head down to capture my gaze. “How much you’ve overcome? How determined and inspiring you are?”

I press my lips together against the ache in my throat and tilt my head, more tears falling as I do. “I don’t feel strong.” My voice cracks.

A deep rumble takes root in his chest. It vibrates straight through my body as he pulls me into a crushing hug, wrapping his muscled arms around me and pressing a kiss to the crown of my head. My eyes hook on the spot where his black tattoo peeks up over the neckline of his white shirt in the most enticing way.

“I haven’t lived through half the shit you have. And I took off up here to hide from my life. The first sign of adversity, and I fucking crumbled. Partied so hard that I almost lost everything. And then locked myself away up in the mountains where I could wallow in my shame.”

“We all do the best we can with what we’ve got. Trauma is a tricky bitch,” I say as I clutch his white shirt in my fists and nuzzle into the warmth of his firm chest, allowing myself to soak up the safety in his arms—even if it won’t last for long.

“Living with shame is different from living with trauma. You? You come back stronger every time.” I glance up at him shyly, and he gently brushes my hair back, tucking it behind my ear. “Like a wildflower.” His smile is soft as he gazes down at me like he’s looking at something more precious than words. “Me?” The strands of my hair move through his fingers as he combs his hand down their length. “I’m weak.”

His words are a punch to the gut. I hate that he sees himself as weak. If he’s weak, then why do I feel so safe with him?

I pull the blanket loose from around my shoulders and wrap it around Griffin instead, tugging him against me as I reach up and push the loose locks of hair off his face. I trace the tips of my fingers over the lines in his forehead and trail them down over his temple until I hit the coarse hair of his beard.

The one I dream about between my thighs.

He doesn’t make a move to stop me. It’s like we’ve called some sort of truce between each other for the moment. One where we spill our hearts’ darkest secrets to each other and allow soul-warming touches to guide us back into the light.

The tips of our noses graze. This is dangerous territory, and we both know it.

“I don’t think that trauma and shame are so different, Griffin.” His dark eyes glow in the fading light as the crickets chirp around us. “One happens to a person, and the other is a choice, a feeling. The real difference between us is that I don’t pity you. You pity you.”

I’m pretty sure I’ve shocked him into silence. The look he’s giving me is so intense my knees threaten to give out and drop me right at his feet. An altar to worship at.

Instead, I press a gentle kiss just beside his mouth, the roughness of his beard against my lips the cruelest sort of tease. And then, before I can say or do anything else embarrassing, I drop my eyes, pull the blanket tighter around him, and make my way back down the path to my tent.

The first thing I do once I’ve zipped that flimsy divider shut is pull out my journal. Some people go to confession. Me? I spill that shit on the pages of this notebook.

I hear Griffin’s heavy footfalls as he approaches the tents, Tripod merrily hopping around with him. They pause outside. He set our tents up right beside each other, just around the side of the house near the fire that’s still burning low and throwing enough light to make my orange tent look like it’s glowing.

My heart jumps in my chest. He’s been standing still out there for way too long. I exhale loudly when I hear the zipper on the tent beside me hum.

The worst part? I wanted him to charge in here. To give the fuck up on depriving us of each other.

But I don’t know what I have to give. I’m not sure I can keep sex and feelings separate where he’s concerned. I’m not sure I want to. And that terrifies me.

I write that down, listening to the pen scratch across the paper, a sound that’s almost hypnotic for me. Therapeutic, really. I suppose that was the whole point of this exercise when my therapist suggested it to me.

I scribble down every thought and feeling until the day’s light is so far gone I can’t clearly see the strokes of my pen anymore. Then I set my notebook down beside me and slip into the simple leggings and oversized crewneck I brought as pajamas, aiming less for aesthetic than comfort, but I’m suddenly wishing I had something pretty to wear.

My body hums, knowing Griffin is in the tent a few feet away. The air between us always holds a charge, and the thin layers of nylon between us do nothing to negate that. It seems more like they might melt away under the heat of our connection rather than keep us apart.

The shields here are too flimsy, and I’m not strong enough to keep my own walls standing. Tonight, I’m tired.

Hidden between the layers of my sleeping bag, I let a shaky hand travel down, slipping underneath the wide elastic waistband of the black leggings. My finger trails through the wetness at the apex of my thighs.

Only someone as fucked up as me would go from crying on a man’s chest to getting wet at the mere knowledge he’s sleeping a few feet away.

I swipe again, circling my clit, feeling it swell as I imagine a hand that isn’t my own. I press one finger into myself and clamp down around it, wishing it were thicker, more calloused. And then pretending it is.

I pump in once. Twice. Add a second finger as I reach up under the sweatshirt and pinch one aching nipple.

My head tips back on the pillow that smells of laundry detergent and him. And I moan. Surrounded by his scent, an image forms of his disheveled hair between my thighs, and I play with my body until I’m panting, completely lost to the sensations and bunching of nerves under my skin.

If I was cold before, I’m certainly not now. I’m fucking burning.

And I’m so deep in my head that I only absently hear the zipper of my tent. My reaction time is slow, so by the time I drag open lust-heavy eyelids, I find the hulking silhouette of Griffin Sinclaire on his knees, taking up almost the entire entryway of the small tent, lit only by the dying embers behind us.

“Are you trying to make me lose it?” He looks downright primal—broad shoulders and heaving chest, hands shaking with how tightly he grasps the tent flaps.

I don’t know what I’m thinking. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m not thinking. All I know is that I’m tired. Tired of being scared, and tired of pretending that he isn’t the most real thing I’ve ever had.

My hands move again. I hold his gaze, cupping my heavy breast as I grind my hips up onto my fingers again.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Nadia.” He sounds out of breath. He’s eerily still, muscles bunched tight, like he’s ready to pounce. And I just don’t give a fuck about guarding myself against him right now.

I want him to take me and unmake me, fucking ruin me. If I’m as strong as he thinks, I’ll bounce back.

So, I keep going. Willing him to lose his precious control. Willing him to charge in here and use me the way I know he wants to.

The way I want him to.

I hear his signature rumble, and I sigh. My eyes fluttering shut when I hear him growl, “Fuck it.”

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