Page 45 of Holding Hope

I snorted and lowered my hand. “Yeah. Please cover yourself. For my sake.”

“Shut it, Kid,” he muttered, flipping me off as he walked down the hall.

I took his spot on the couch and pulled the blanket over my knees. The house was cold despite the summer heat—Dad had paid a pretty penny for the AC units, and apparently, they worked.

Colton always stayed in the same homestead when he visited—the closest one to the Big House and the barn. “I just need to be close to my girls,” he always said.

He wasn’t an interior designer by any stretch, and despite my attempts to decorate the place or hire someone to do it, he insisted on adding his own “special touch.”

Fishing poles. Bull-riding paraphernalia. Photos of Demeter. An old guitar in the corner. A rocking chair. A tiny dining table. A small kitchen. A couch that had seen better days.

I tried to picture Delia living here. Would they still visit every summer? Would they crash in this same room after they were married? The place needed a woman’s touch—badly—but I couldn’t imagine my best friend being comfortable in a space like this.

His Nashville home was nicer—well-furnished, spacious, clean. Bigger than necessary for a bachelor. It suited him. And it suited Delia more than this cramped little homestead ever could.

Colton returned wearing old jeans and a plain green tee, still massaging his cheek as he sat in the rocking chair and turned it toward me.

“How’s your face?” I asked, snorting.

“I can’t remember the last time a woman hit me like that,” he said, sinking into the leather. The chair squeaked under his weight.

“Oh yeah? And here I thought all the women you’ve left behind would’ve done you in by now.”

I kept my voice light, trying to maintain some semblance of calm.

Colton ran a hand over his mustache, thoughtful. “I take it she was the one who told you? About last summer, I mean.”

I nodded, lowering my eyes to the old blanket across my thighs. Like everything else in this room, it came from Mama’s hope chest. She loved keeping things—tucking them away for future use. I couldn’t be too mad at Colton for decorating the way he did. This place was full of pieces from the Big House. Pieces of home.

“All summer, huh?”

His face darkened. He cleared his throat. “You weren’t around as much. Not like when we were kids. I guess I didn’t know how to handle the fact that my little sister was doing adult things and didn’t have time to tag along with me anymore.”

“So, you were bored,” I said slowly, “and fucked my best friend because you ‘had nothing to do’ and needed constant attention?”

Colton winced. “Well, when you put it like that, you make me sound like an asshole.”

“You are an asshole.”

I scoffed. “You knew how Delia felt about you. You haven’t wanted anything serious in years. And you still strung her along for the entire summer.”

His jaw flexed. Guilt flickered across his face—but not remorse. Never remorse.

“Why do you want to marry her, Colt?”

The question had been burning in my mind since Delia told me everything.

His voice dropped. “My contract is ending. People aren’t interested in the playboy bachelor anymore—it’s worn out.” He stared at the floor. “Kappernick and Murrow want to sign me. More money, better sponsors, better everything. But they’re a family brand. They want a family man.”

I let out a long whistle. Justin Kappernick and Alex Murrow were legends in the bull-riding world. Riders spent their entire careers trying to get signed by them. For them to offer Colton a spot meant they saw what we all did—his talent, his charm, his grit.

But they also saw his reputation.

“But why her?” I asked quietly. “Why Delia? There are a hundred girls who would marry you.”

He shrugged. “The whole small-town, childhood-sweetheart thing is more believable than me showing up with some random woman. And she likes me. So, I don’t know why she’d say no.”

“But you don’t like her. Not like that.”