Luck was on her side for a change. Two doors down from the clothing shop was a shoe store. She picked up a pair of hiking boots, some tennis shoes, and riding boots that might possibly make the idiot cowboy sneer at her less.
Not that it mattered what he thought of her.
Except the sight of him this morning, in his milieu at the stables, had churned her up inside. She didn’t like the lout. He was rude and uncouth. And yet, his frustrating behavior mattered very little to her hormones. Those pesky bastards took one look at his coarse exterior in plaid and denim, covered with dust, and batted their damn lashes his way.
This morning, when she’d used him as her mounting block and touched him, laid her palms on those wide, muscled shoulders, heat had deluged her system. It had overwhelmed her, made her tongue tied, and long to touch him without his shirt on. Would the burn flay the skin from her hands?
His rangy, powerfully built body was potent and wickedly sinful, all while his mocking gaze called her ten times a fool for choosing the ranch as the place to hide herself away.
Secretly, Bianca had hoped that if she visited a location where no one knew her, she wouldn’t stand out, and would fit in. Although everyone she had met—with Maverick being the exception—had been nice. Perhaps, at the heart of it, she needed to quit caring what other people thought of her, and focus instead on the way she felt about herself.
Because, truthfully, she abhorred what she had become. That was at the root of all her disquiet and malaise, the panic and dread at following through with the wedding. In the years since she’d graduated university, she had become almost Stepford like in thought and deed, always catering to others, especially her mum, and changing herself to accommodate them, instead of being who she was at her core.
Most days, she didn’t recognize the woman in the mirror. But that would change. It had to; she had to remove all the fake layers she had assumed and piled on to survive, and burn them to the fucking ground.
Because that last little sliver of her true being was gasping for oxygen, clinging to life. And it terrified Bianca to think what would happen if she allowed that sliver to be snuffed out.
She didn’t like herself all that much. She hated her life—which made her feel like the worst person ever. Moaning and bitching about the state of her existence when she had never wanted for a thing. Except, she was miserable. If she had to attend one more tea where all the ladies present gossiped like a bunch of hens, and pretended the little sandwiches and micro salads were enough food to satisfy them, when she knew they would subsequently head into the bathroom and throw it all up in their efforts to remain thin, she would lose the last vestiges of her sanity.
“Bloody hell.”
“Sorry, is everything all right?” the young clerk asked as she rang up Bianca’s purchases. The girl couldn’t be older than eighteen. She still had that sweet baby face, with no hint of crow’s feet on her freckled skin.
“It’s nothing. I’ve needed this holiday for a long time,” Bianca explained with a forced smile.
“Well, we’re glad you chose our tiny little town for your destination. Say, are you from England?” the girl asked, her inky ponytail shifting as she tilted her head and stared with interest.
“I am.” Bianca nodded, feeling the eyes of the other shoppers look her way. Being in the spotlight and the center of attention made her want to melt into the carpet just to get away.
“That’s so cool! Do you know Prince William and the royal family?”
“We’re cousins, but I don’t know him well,” Bianca blurted out, then felt her face flame at the clerk’s loud gasp.
“You’re related to them? How awesome!” she exclaimed with curious excitement bubbling out of her.
“It’s really not all that interesting, I can assure you.” Bianca took her credit card back from the clerk and collected her bags. She guessed that, from the outside looking in, the archaic institutions of the aristocracy and royal family seemed fascinating. While she did like how far back her family could be traced, and knowing who some of her ancestors were, she hated all the pomp and circumstance surrounding it.
Wildly aware of all the eyes staring at her over her admission, she hightailed it from the shop.
Bollocks!
Bianca had come to Colorado to hide. Why the hell had she admitted the relationship? They were distant cousins—like a five times removed sort of thing.
Nice one. She’d stuck her foot in her mouth once more. What was one more embarrassment to add to the list and make her entire escape go to pot? This was a prime example of why she had such a hard time fitting in. She always spoke her mind, and didn’t filter her words enough. There seemed to be a disconnect between her brain and her mouth.
Beyond embarrassed, Bianca prayed no one from the shoe store was following her to snap a picture that they would post on social media. She could imagine the sodding caption: Prince William’s cousin spotted in America.
Walking quickly, her hands loaded with bags, she darted inside a store when she thought one of the shoppers was following her—and stopped dead in her tracks. Her gaze roved over the shelves and displays.
It was fantastic. A dream, really, that she had stumbled upon this place. That the shop existed amidst the tee shirt and tourist junk shops. This was her nirvana. A fully equipped art store. Bianca felt a door inside her rattle. Her fingers flexed, holding the bags. The need to pick up brush and pencil. The urgent desire to run her fingers over canvas almost brought her to her knees.
“Welcome. Can I help you find anything?” the older gentleman asked as he cleaned his spectacles on his shirt.
“Your shop is wonderful,” Bianca replied, taking it all in. Shopping here was going to be better than a sale at Harrods.
“Thank you kindly, miss. Do you like art?” He settled his glasses back on his face.
“I love it.” Standing in there, the smell of the art supplies brought a multitude of memories swarming back into her psyche—of the time in her life when she had rebelled, and fed the demands of her soul. She wanted to open a tube of oil paint and breathe the aroma in.
“Well, we have all the supplies you might want or need, to create. What do you like to do?”
“Paint. But it’s been a while. Could I leave my bags with you while I look around?”
“Certainly. I can put them right behind the counter here for you. And let me know if you need any help.”
She smiled at him—what she was sure was her first, real genuine smile in months—and handed the gentlemen her shopping haul. “Thank you.”
Bianca started in the aisle with the sketch books and loaded her arms up with multiple sizes. This way, she could stuff one in the hiking sack she’d picked up and it wouldn’t take up too much space. In the next row, she grabbed packages of pencils, charcoal, sharpening tools, and colored pencils. When her arms were full, she headed to the counter with her load.
“Is that all for you today?” the kind gentleman asked.
“No. This is just the first stack.” She watched dollar signs appear in the man’s blue eyes.
He took the pile from her. “No problem at all, miss. I’ll set these right back here on the shelf for you.”
And then she was off again. She spent time in the aisle with the paint brushes, selecting all the different brushes she used to like to work with. There were color palettes to hold paint colors on an endcap, and she grabbed two. This way, if the mood struck right after she’d finished one painting, she could move on to the next seamlessly. There were packages of drop cloths she added to protect the cabin’s hardwood floor. Then an adjustable wooden H frame studio easel. It would work best if she wanted to shift sizes on the different canvases. Struggling with her second load, she carried it to the front.