Chapter 19 - Chase Me, Cowboy

I glance over the clothing rack. The clerk passes him a coffee, and he has a sip, going still for a second.

His eyes glaze over. Then, he blinks and makes a hmm face, like he doesn’t mind the taste. The door swings open, and two older men, who look like farmers, come through. They nod to him, and he nods back. I leaf through the sweatshirts and wonder if Jamie ever gets recognized the way Coen does. He doesn’t have the same forward-facing presence. Behind the scenes, I’m sure anyone in the music industry can pick him out of a crowd, but on the street, he probably has the luxury of passing incognito.

From what I’ve learned from my sister, Coen was suffering from burnout and constant exposure. Always on tour, never taking a break from public appearances, always on demand. Unable to go to the grocery store or have dinner out without someone stopping him. It was obvious, even to me, when Coen showed up that he was struggling. At the time, it wasn’t obvious to me the same could be said for Jamie. But now that we’ve spent some time together, I think he’s got more going on below the surface than I initially thought.

He’s a bit jaded.

Maybe a lot jaded.

I wonder if it’s possible to get him to really open up. He’s gotten a little bit out of me, but I haven’t really asked him a lot about himself. I didn’t think about it through all my resentment over his year-long silence.

Is he having his Coen Taylor meltdown? Is his version of that just quieter, more lonely?

I blink, and he’s looking at me. Smiling, I lift a sweatshirt and raise my eyebrows. He nods, face stern, but I see a glimmer in his eyes. When he said he was going to take me out and pay for it, I noticed he lit up a little. Maybe he likes taking care of people. Or it’s a kink for him. Either way, if it makes him happy, it makes me feel lighter.

I motion him over. He pushes off the counter and joins me.

“You ever wear anything that isn’t pink?” he asks.

I shrug. “I don’t get a lot of chances to be feminine at the ranch. It’s a lot of dirty work.”

He studies me. “You like that?”

“Being feminine? Yeah, it’s nice.” I put the sweatshirt back, but he takes it from me and hangs it over his arm.

“You’re not a ranch girl, huh?”

I shrug. “No, I am. I think I always will be, but I never had the chance to do anything else.”

“You should stay with your mom. Try it out.”

I turn, eyeing him up. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to keep me closer.”

He shrugs, having some coffee.

“Maybe we should be fuck buddies,” he says gruffly. “Maybe, that’s all I’m thinking.”

My jaw drops. Anger returns, but this time it’s conflicted. I’m starting to wonder if comments like that are more made out of defensiveness than anything else.

“I am not your fuck buddy,” I say primly.

“Too bad.”

Swiveling on my heel, I walk to where the matching sweatpants hang. Without further ado, I take down a pair and sling them over his arm. He had his shot to be sweet, and he decided to be an asshole. I will be taking him up on that offer to pay. I grab a couple things that say New England across the boobs, some socks, more slides, and then move on to the jewelry. He follows silently, working his way through his coffee.

“You’re pissed,” he says finally.

“Nope,” I retort.

I pick up a gold bangle with a maple leaf and hook it around his finger. He raises his brows.

“Maybe don’t degrade me,” I say.

“Huh. You liked it before.”

“Not like that. You know that.”

“Alright. I won’t.”

I hook another bracelet around his finger. “Good boy.”

“Ah, I see how it is.”

Standing on my tiptoes, I remove a pink baseball cap and try it on. “Did your dick sit up and wag?”

He considers it, face sober. “Maybe a little.”

I can’t keep from smiling, so I turn my face away. “Good to know you’re into that.”

“Why?” His voice is forceful.

“Huh?” I hand him the hat.

“Why is it good to know that?” he asks. “I thought you didn’t want to keep fucking me.”

“I don’t. Figure of speech. Now, let’s go get me a latte.”

Not wanting to prolong the conversation, I cross the room and lean on the counter. He comes up behind me and dumps everything by the register.

“What did you get?” I ask.

“Black coffee.”

“Maple-roasted black coffee,” the clerk corrects.

“Hmm.” I tap my chin, studying the chalkboard. “I’ll have an almond milk latte with sugar-free vanilla. Iced, please.”

The clerk’s fingers tap the keyboard.

“Really?” Jamie’s brow rises.

I glance sideways, frowning. “Yeah, what’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. I thought you’d be a ‘something-something with a whole lot of something else and a bunch of whipped cream’ kind of person.”

I open my mouth to argue, then realize he has a point. Today is about living it up instead of sitting in a pool of self-pity because everything is changing and I’m getting left behind. And other things…mainly him. Since I showed up in New York, I’ve been letting myself be a new person.

Maybe the person I wanted to be all along.

My eyes snap over the board again.

“I’ll have the Canadian-maple cold brew with the cinnamon-bun cold foam, actually. A large, iced, with an extra shot.”

His eyes bore into me as the clerk punches everything in and rings up all my purchases. I can’t deny it feels good to have him pay for my things. It’s also a little bit sad because, soon enough, I’ll be gone, and these things will hang in my closet. When I pick them up, I’ll remember how hotshot music agent Jamie Iron had me for a few days before disappearing.

Disappearing into…what?

Will I see him in a tabloid in five years, crossing the street, holding the hand of a gorgeous, tall brunette with big blue eyes?

Will I sink into obscurity, wondering what I could have been?

Would that be more painful than not being with him?

Something shifts in the back of my brain. I can give up on him because he was never mine.

The rustic cabin fades away. I’m standing in the middle of nothingness.

I can’t give up my music.

It got me through everything to this point. My parents’ divorce and how I felt I had to stay on the ranch because that’s what Sabrina wanted. How many years I sat in my room with my fingers plucking at my guitar strings, the world in my head far brighter than the world outside. Every fight, every hard time, I shut my door and fitted on my headphones.

Music was always there.

He’s a brand-new fixture.

“Serena.”

The world comes back and hits me in the face. Shocked, I blink and focus on him. He’s holding his coffee in one hand, the paper bag in the other.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

His brows knit. “You need anything else?”

The clerk’s eyes bounce between us. I shake my head.

“No, I’m ready to go,” I manage.

We step outside, and he goes to hold open the car door. I hesitate, studying him. If I take all my emotions, squeeze them into a ball, wrap them up tight, and throw them into a deep, dark hole inside, I could be professional with him. I just have to convince him not to let what happened with Coen affect his consideration of me.

I swallow hard.

It might break my heart. But either way, it’s getting broken.