Swift and Saddled (Rebel Blue Ranch, #2)

by Lyla Sage

Warning: Dimples may appear and cause panty-dropping.

Everyone’s hot and badass until there’s an ice cube down their shirt.

Some days I wasn’t very proud to be me, but I was always proud to be my dad’s son.

It was deep-rooted insecurity that came from having a brain that I sometimes felt like wasn’t my own.

But depression wasn’t a logical disease. It was an unexpected cold front in the middle of July. It was impossible to predict, which meant that I spent much of my time worrying about when the other shoe was going to drop. Not if, but when I would sink into another dark hole and have to decide to claw my way out of it.

Even when I was happy, I was thinking about when I wouldn’t be.

I liked that about kids—they would just tell you things. No secrets, no filter, just vibes.

I was best in small doses.

Derail my day? I’d drive my truck off a cliff if it meant that I got a few moments alone with her, but she didn’t need to know that.

I was open about it, and I wanted her to know me. Whether I liked it or not, this was part of who I was. Stupid sad brain.

But I guess depression wasn’t really about what you looked like or how you appeared but more about what you felt like.

“I see you, Ada. I always see you, even when you won’t look at me.”

When they all complimented my idea, I started to feel…shy, like I had done something wrong somehow or like I didn’t deserve their praise.

When you’re treated a certain way for so long, you start to believe that’s how you should be treated. It left me feeling like there wasn’t anything about me that someone could love.

“I would never insult you by calling you something as generic as nice.”

Honestly, I thought there were a lot of things that no one else knew because I didn’t know if anyone actually knew me, or if anyone ever actually wanted to.

softness was a strength too—one

“The little things are the big things, Ada. They’re the things all the big things are made of.

“You say you’re not nice, or warm, or bright, or any of these other stupid fucking words that people use to describe the sun, but I never asked you to be the sun.” I rolled my eyes, trying to move them in a way that would stop the tears from falling. “I would rather have the moon anyway.”

“You’re the moon,” he said. “And I’m the tides. You pull me in without even trying, and I come to you willingly. I always will.”