The thing nobody tells you about missing your husband is that it is not always romantic.

Sometimes it is romantic. Sometimes you stand in the kitchen pretending not to listen for the car door, wearing the black leggings he likes because you are a grown woman with dignity and also absolutely no dignity at all. Sometimes you light a candle and wipe the counter twice and check your breath like you are seventeen and about to be picked up for homecoming.

But sometimes missing your husband is also petty.

Like being annoyed that he has been gone four days and somehow still managed to leave one sock under the bed.

Not two socks. One.

A single gray athletic sock, curled like a dead mouse beside the storage bin.

I found it twenty minutes before Elliot got home from his work retreat in Nashville, and I stood there holding it between two fingers, thinking, This man wants to be desired by me. This man wants a woman to throw herself into his arms. This man cannot move a sock six inches to the laundry basket.

Marriage is sacred, obviously.

I threw the sock into the hamper and went back to trying to look effortless.

Effortless took me forty minutes.

I put on a soft cream sweater that slipped off one shoulder if I moved the right way. I did my hair in that loose, not-trying style that requires three products and personal delusion. I made pasta because it could sit on the stove without becoming a crime scene. I shaved my legs even though it was February and nobody in Oregon had seen a bare leg since Thanksgiving.

Then, because the universe loves humbling women, I got a text from Sienna.

SIENNA:
Do not be boring. Call me when he gets home. I have gossip that may legally qualify as weather.

I smiled before I meant to.

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That was Sienna. Everything was either nothing or a federal event. She was my best friend, my emergency contact, and the woman most likely to make a bad decision sound like a wellness retreat.

I typed back:

ME:
He’s almost home. Can it wait?

Three dots appeared immediately.

SIENNA:
It can wait. I cannot. But fine. Be a wife. Gross.

Then:

SIENNA:
Also wear the jeans.

I looked down at my leggings.

Sienna had never respected comfort.

The garage door rumbled open at 7:18.

My whole body reacted before I did. That was the embarrassing part. My chest tightened. My stomach went fizzy. My hands suddenly forgot what hands were supposed to do.

I heard his car door shut. Then the muffled thunk of his suitcase. Then his key in the mudroom door even though the door was unlocked, because Elliot had never trusted an unlocked door in his life.

“Laur?” he called.

“In the kitchen.”

He came in wearing his navy travel jacket, hair flattened on one side from the plane, cheeks cold from outside. He had that tired, slightly stunned airport look, like he had spent the day being processed by machines and business travelers with rolling luggage.

And still, when he saw me, his face changed.

Not dramatically. Elliot was not dramatic. He was a quiet man. He did not enter rooms like he owned them. He entered rooms like he did not want to disturb the room.

But his eyes softened.

That did it to me.

Four days of being normal, capable, perfectly fine, and then his eyes softened and I wanted to crawl directly into his skin like a raccoon looking for winter shelter.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.”

We stood there for one ridiculous second, smiling at each other like polite neighbors.

Then he dropped his suitcase handle and I crossed the kitchen, and he caught me so hard I laughed into his neck.

He smelled like airplane, wool coat, winter air, and Elliot. There was a very specific smell to someone you love. You could never bottle it. Nobody would buy a candle called Husband After Airport Security, but I would have burned it down to the glass.

His arms went around me. Mine went under his jacket. He was warm beneath all those cold layers.

“I missed you,” he said into my hair.

“I missed you too.”

“No, I really missed you.”

I leaned back enough to look at him. “That sounded suspiciously competitive.”

“I’m just saying I won.”

“You won missing me?”

“Yes.”

“Congratulations. Your prize is pasta and a wife who has been alone with her thoughts for four days.”

He kissed me then, smiling against my mouth.

It was not a movie kiss. We bumped noses. He still had his laptop bag over one shoulder. The pasta water chose that exact moment to start hissing on the stove like it had moral objections. But the second kiss was better. Slower. His hand came up to my jaw, thumb brushing just under my ear, and something warm moved through me with surprising force.

There was nothing new about kissing my husband in our kitchen.

That was the dangerous thing, I think.

It was familiar enough to feel safe, but not safe enough to feel dull.

He pulled back first and looked at me.

“What?” I asked.

“You look good.”

I looked down at myself because women are apparently required by law to reject compliments. “I look like I folded laundry and then panicked.”

“You look like you missed me.”

“That is very arrogant.”

“Is it wrong?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it.

He smiled.

I hate when a quiet man smiles like that. It makes you feel like he knows your private files.

“No,” I said.

His smile changed. A little darker, maybe. Or maybe I invented that later because of what happened after.

Dinner lasted about twelve minutes.

Not because the pasta was bad. The pasta was fine. It had lemon and garlic and too much parmesan, which is not a flaw but a philosophy. We sat across from each other at the small table by the window, the one we had bought secondhand when we first moved in and were still pretending we enjoyed “projects.” We talked about his flight, the hotel, the one guy from accounting who had apparently referred to hot chicken as “Nashville’s apology for itself.”

I laughed in the right places. I asked questions. He answered.

But there was a charge in the room.

It sat between us like a third plate.

Every time his knee brushed mine under the table, I lost half a sentence. Every time he watched my mouth while I talked, I forgot what I had planned to say next. I was thirty-four years old, married seven years, and somehow still capable of acting like a woman whose crush had touched her elbow at a bar.

After dinner, I tried to clear the plates.

Elliot took one from my hand and set it back down.

“Leave it.”

“Future Laurel would like a word.”

“Future Laurel can yell at me tomorrow.”

“Future Laurel is very tired of being the only adult in this house.”

He stepped closer. “I’ll do them.”

“No, you’ll soak them, which is what men call doing dishes when they want praise for placing objects in water.”

He laughed and kissed me again.

This time it did not stay cute.

This time his hand slid to my waist. This time I felt the table against the back of my thigh. This time the whole room seemed to narrow around his mouth and his hands and the low sound he made when I pulled him closer by his shirt.

For a while there was no talking.

There was the kitchen light above us. The smell of garlic. His suitcase abandoned by the door. His hands under the loose edge of my sweater, warm against my back. My breath doing stupid little things I would have denied in court.

He kissed my neck, and I made a noise that was not elegant.

He paused.

I felt him smile.

“Don’t,” I said.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You smiled.”

“I’m not allowed to smile?”

“Not like you discovered evidence.”

His mouth brushed my ear. “I did discover evidence.”

I should say something here that makes me sound poised.

I was not poised.

I was married and touched-starved and wearing the wrong underwear for this level of inspection.

Somehow we made it upstairs. I do not remember making a decision. One second we were in the kitchen, and the next we were in the hallway, laughing because he nearly tripped over his own suitcase, which felt deeply symbolic and also completely on brand.

In the bedroom, things slowed.

Not stopped. Slowed.

That was Elliot too. He could be hungry, but he was never careless. He touched me like he was checking whether I was really there. Like the four days had been longer for him than he wanted to admit.

I loved that about him.

I also wanted him to hurry up and stop being poetic with my collarbone, but love contains multitudes.

The lamp on my side of the bed was on, giving everything that amber evening softness that makes a normal room look almost flattering. His jacket was on the floor. My sweater was somewhere near the dresser. My hair had given up all pretense of intention.

He was above me, his forearm braced by my shoulder, looking down at me with that focused expression he got sometimes. Not serious exactly. More like he was listening to something.

“What?” I asked again.

He touched my cheek.

“Nothing.”

“That is the face of a man with a thought.”

“I have thoughts.”

“Rare, but yes.”

He laughed quietly, then dipped his head and kissed me. Slower this time. Too slow for it to be only a kiss. His mouth moved from mine to my jaw, then lower, and I closed my eyes because there are moments when looking feels like too much information.

His voice came against my skin.

“Can I ask you something?”

I almost made a joke. I was ready. Something about tax documents or whether he had remembered to cancel the hotel Wi-Fi charge.

But his tone stopped me.

It was casual on purpose.

I knew him too well.

“Okay,” I said.

He lifted his head. His eyes met mine, and there was something in them I could not immediately name.

Nervousness, maybe.

That was what made my stomach tighten.

Elliot did not get nervous with me. Not anymore. We had seen each other through food poisoning, credit card debt, family funerals, one terrifying mammogram scare, and the time I cried because the grocery store stopped carrying the yogurt I liked and apparently that was the load-bearing yogurt of my mental health.

But now he looked nervous.

“Do you ever think about other men?” he asked.

The room went still.

It was such a small sentence. Almost polite.

Do you ever think about other men?

Like he had asked if we were out of coffee filters.

I stared at him.

“What?”

He did not look away. “Other men. Do you ever think about them?”

My first reaction was not guilt.

That came later.

My first reaction was irritation, because my body had been having a lovely evening and now my brain had arrived with a clipboard.

“What kind of question is that?”

“A real one.”

I pushed myself up a little on my elbows. The sheet slipped, and I grabbed it because suddenly I felt absurdly exposed. Which, considering the situation, was not exactly a plot twist.

“Why are you asking me that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

He exhaled through his nose. He looked toward the window, then back at me.

“I think I do.”

My pulse had started doing something dramatic.

“Elliot.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything.”

“Well, good, because I was planning to continue not being accused in my own bedroom.”

That made him smile, but only for a second.

“I mean it,” he said. “I’m not asking if you’ve done anything.”

“I haven’t.”

“I know.”

“You say that very confidently for a man asking insane questions after pasta.”

“I know you haven’t.”

There was warmth in it. Trust. Which somehow made the question worse.

I looked down at the sheet twisted in my fingers.

Had I thought about other men?

Of course I had.

Not in a grand tragic way. Not like I was secretly walking around with a list of candidates. I was not emotionally texting a personal trainer named Brock. I did not even know a Brock, which felt like a personal achievement.

But had I noticed men? Yes.

Had I imagined things for half a second and then folded the thought away like a receipt I did not want anyone to find? Also yes.

There was the man at the farmer’s market last summer with the tattooed forearms who had helped me reach the peaches. There was the dad at the school fundraiser, not even my school, I do not have children, who had laughed at something I said while Sienna and I were buying raffle tickets for reasons still unclear to me. There was the bartender in Bend who had called me “darlin’” in a voice that probably came with a warning label.

Small thoughts. Human thoughts.

A flash. A heat. A little private weather.

Nothing that meant I loved my husband less.

Maybe that was why I had never said it out loud.

Because marriage makes you afraid that honesty will sound like betrayal, even when it is only honesty.

“No,” I said.

It came out too quickly.

Elliot’s face changed almost imperceptibly.

He knew.

Of course he knew.

I hated that too. Not really. But a little.

“No?” he asked.

“No.”

He nodded once.

Then he leaned down and kissed my shoulder, very gently, like he was giving me time to take it back.

My throat tightened.

“Why?” I asked.

“Why what?”

“Why do you want to know?”

He stayed quiet.

His thumb moved slowly over my hip, back and forth, back and forth. Not trying to start anything. Not stopping anything either.

“When we were in Nashville,” he said, “one of the guys told a story.”

“What guys?”

“From the retreat.”

“The hot chicken philosophers?”

He smiled faintly. “Them.”

“What kind of story?”

He hesitated.

And that was when I felt it. A small, sharp spark low in my stomach.

Not because I knew what he was going to say.

Because I did not.

Elliot was steady. Predictable in the way good men are predictable. He paid bills early. He brought reusable bags to the grocery store. He made coffee before I got downstairs. He had opinions about windshield wiper fluid.

He did not come home from work retreats with stories that made him nervous in bed.

“One of them has an arrangement with his wife,” he said.

I waited.

He watched my face carefully.

“What kind of arrangement?” I asked.

“He lets her see other men sometimes.”

I blinked.

The sentence landed in the room and stayed there.

He lets her see other men sometimes.

My first thought was, That sounds like something Sienna would know about before I did.

My second thought was, His hand is still on my hip.

My third thought was not a sentence.

It was a physical reaction so immediate I had to look away.

Elliot noticed.

I knew he noticed because his hand stilled.

“Like cheating?” I asked.

“No.”

“Then like what?”

“Like permission.”

That word.

Permission.

It did not sound dirty by itself. It sounded like a school form. A parking pass. A little box you checked before an app stole your data.

But in his mouth, in our bed, with his hand on me and his voice careful, it changed shape completely.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“It means she tells him. Before. After. Sometimes during, I guess.”

“During?”

My voice betrayed me.

Elliot’s eyes flicked over my face.

“Sometimes she texts him.”

I laughed once, but it came out breathless.

“Sorry, she texts him? Like, ‘Having a nice time, wish you were here’?”

The corner of his mouth moved. “Something like that.”

“That is insane.”

“I thought so too.”

“Past tense?”

He looked down.

Oh.

Oh, that was dangerous.

I felt my face heat.

“Elliot.”

“I’m not saying I want that.”

“You literally brought it up while touching me in bed.”

“I know.”

“That is not the behavior of a man discussing urban planning.”

He laughed under his breath, then rubbed a hand over his face. He looked so embarrassed and so turned on and so afraid of both that my chest softened before my brain could object.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” he said.

“For how long?”

“Since Nashville.”

“That was four days ago.”

“I know.”

“You’ve had four days to become weird?”

“I may have shown early symptoms before the trip.”

Despite myself, I laughed.

He smiled, relieved for half a second.

Then the room got quiet again.

I pulled the sheet higher, which was ridiculous. He had seen every part of me. He had seen me with a stomach virus. He had once held my hair while I threw up tequila after Sienna’s birthday and still married me six months later. There was no modesty left between us.

But there are different kinds of naked.

“What exactly have you been thinking?” I asked.

He swallowed.

“That I liked the idea of you being wanted.”

I did not breathe.

He said it softly, almost like a confession.

“By someone else?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“And that doesn’t make you angry?”

“It does.”

My eyes lifted to his.

He did not look away this time.

“It does,” he repeated. “That’s the part I don’t understand.”

A strange tenderness moved through me. Tenderness, and something hotter underneath it.

“You like being angry?”

“No. I like…” He stopped, searching for words. “I like knowing someone else would want you and that you’d still come home to me.”

I should have said something sensible.

I should have asked if he was drunk in Nashville. I should have suggested couples therapy, or sleep, or at minimum a snack.

Instead, I said nothing.

Because something in me had gone very still, listening.

He looked at my mouth.

“And I wondered if you ever thought about it.”

I looked away again.

There it was.

The real question.

Not whether other men existed. Not whether men looked. Not whether I had noticed.

Whether I had imagined myself allowing it.

There is a moment in some marriages, I think, where a door appears where you were sure there was only wall.

You can ignore it.

You can make a joke.

You can say no and turn off the lamp and both pretend the wall is still a wall.

Or you can touch the handle.

I hated how badly I wanted to touch the handle.

“No,” I said again.

He nodded.

I lasted maybe three seconds.

“That was a lie,” I said.

His eyes came back to mine so fast it almost hurt.

The air changed.

I felt it in him. In me. Around us.

“I haven’t done anything,” I said quickly.

“I know.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“I know.”

“I mean, not without…” I stopped.

Not without what?

Not without asking?

Not without permission?

Not without my husband looking at me the way he was looking at me now, like my honesty had become its own kind of touch?

Elliot waited.

I hated him a little for being patient.

“Yes,” I said finally.

His hand tightened slightly on my hip.

My heart kicked.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I’ve thought about other men.”

His eyes closed for half a second.

That reaction did something to me.

Not because it was smooth. It was not. It was raw and involuntary, and I had never felt more powerful in my life.

“Who?” he asked.

I laughed, nervous. “Oh, absolutely not.”

“You can’t say yes and then turn into the Pentagon.”

“I can, actually. I contain multitudes and classified information.”

“Laurel.”

The way he said my name made my stomach dip.

Not commanding. Not angry.

Hungry.

I looked down at his hand on me. His wedding ring caught the lamplight.

That almost undid me.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“You do.”

“They’re not real things. They’re little thoughts.”

“Tell me one.”

“No.”

“Tell me one little thought.”

I covered my face with one hand.

He laughed softly, but he did not move away.

“Fine,” I said into my palm. “The guy at the farmer’s market.”

“What guy?”

“Oh my God.”

“What guy?”

“The peach guy.”

“The peach guy?”

“He was not selling peaches. He helped me reach them.”

“The peach guy helped you reach peaches.”

“I regret giving you language.”

“What did you think about him?”

“I thought he had nice forearms.”

Elliot was silent.

I lowered my hand and looked at him.

His expression had shifted again.

It was the smallest thing. His jaw tight. His eyes darker. His hand still on my hip like he was making himself keep it there.

“Forearms,” he said.

“Don’t make it sound clinical.”

“What else?”

“That is all.”

“Laurel.”

“I imagined him touching my waist.”

Elliot inhaled slowly.

There was my guilt.

It came up hard and fast. The reality of saying it. The ridiculous peach man, who probably had a girlfriend and seasonal allergies and no idea he had just been dragged into my marriage.

“I’m sorry,” I said immediately.

Elliot shook his head. “Don’t be.”

“That sounds like something people say right before they are very much being.”

“I’m not.”

“You got quiet.”

“I got jealous.”

My whole body warmed.

He saw it.

Of course he saw it.

His thumb started moving again.

“And?” I asked.

His voice lowered. “And I liked hearing it.”

I pressed my lips together.

Neither of us spoke for a moment.

Outside, a car passed on the wet street. The house creaked in that ordinary way houses do at night. Somewhere downstairs my phone buzzed again, probably Sienna committing crimes against patience.

But upstairs, the world had shrunk to the bed, the lamplight, my husband’s hand, and the strange new truth sitting between us.

“What did the man in Nashville call it?” I asked.

Elliot watched me carefully. “A hotwife thing.”

The word was blunt enough to make me laugh.

“A what?”

“A hotwife.”

“I hate that I know what that means.”

“You do?”

“I have the internet, Elliot. I’m married, not Amish.”

He smiled, then his face went serious.

“He said some couples call it wife-sharing. Some call it cuckold. Some don’t like that word.”

“Do you?”

“Like it?”

“Yes.”

He took a long breath.

“I don’t know.”

“Liar.”

That surprised him.

It surprised me too.

He looked at me.

I felt bold for exactly one second, then immediately wanted to hide under the duvet and start a new life as a decorative pillow.

“You like it a little,” I said.

His eyes stayed on mine.

“Yes.”

The word was almost silent.

But I heard it everywhere.

I had known Elliot for nine years. Married seven. I knew the way he took his coffee, the exact face he made when pretending to enjoy my mother’s green bean casserole, the way he folded towels wrong despite repeated training. I knew the man.

And yet here he was, telling me a secret I had never seen.

Not a betrayal.

A secret.

There is a difference.

A betrayal takes something from you.

A secret, when given carefully, can feel like being trusted with a lit match.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” I asked.

“Because I thought you’d think I was broken.”

That took the heat out of me for one second.

Not all of it. But enough.

I touched his face.

“Oh, El.”

He looked embarrassed then, truly embarrassed, and tried to turn his head like he could get away from my kindness. Men will confess a fantasy involving their wife and another man, but tenderness? Terrifying. Lock the doors.

“You’re not broken,” I said.

“You don’t know that.”

“I know enough.”

“You’re not weirded out?”

“I am extremely weirded out.”

He winced.

“But not in the way you think,” I said.

He looked at me.

“I’m weirded out because part of me is scared,” I admitted. “And part of me is curious. And part of me is already trying to act morally superior while being very interested, which is honestly rude of me.”

That made him laugh. A real laugh this time.

I smiled, but my pulse was still racing.

“What are you curious about?” he asked.

I regretted my honesty instantly.

“That is not how curiosity works. You don’t interrogate it under a lamp.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m a little sorry.”

“You are academically sorry.”

He leaned down and kissed my cheek. Then my jaw. Then the corner of my mouth.

“Tell me,” he murmured.

I closed my eyes.

The truth was there, waiting.

Not clean. Not simple.

I was curious about being wanted in front of my husband.

That was the worst of it. The hottest of it.

Not leaving him. Not sneaking. Not lying. I had no secret fantasy of hotel rooms with fake names and deleted texts. The thought of real cheating made my stomach hurt.

But being allowed?

Being watched, even from far away?

Telling him what another man said. Feeling his jealousy. Feeling him want me more because someone else wanted me too.

That was the thought that scared me.

Because it did not feel like running away from my marriage.

It felt like lighting something inside it.

“I’m curious what it would feel like,” I said.

His mouth paused near mine.

“What would feel like?”

“To be looked at that way and know you knew.”

His breathing changed.

I could feel it.

I kept my eyes closed because I was braver in darkness, even lamp darkness.

“To flirt,” I said. “Maybe. To know I could come home and tell you. To not have to pretend I never notice anyone.”

His forehead rested against mine.

“And more?” he asked.

The question was barely there.

More.

Such a small word for such a big cliff.

I opened my eyes.

“I don’t know.”

It was the most honest answer I had.

He nodded.

“I don’t need you to know tonight.”

That made me love him so much I almost cried.

Which would have ruined the mood, probably, though in marriage you learn that crying and desire are not always as far apart as magazines suggest.

He kissed me again, and this time the kiss felt different.

Not because of technique. Technique is overrated and often discussed by people who own too many throw pillows.

It felt different because something had been said.

A little door in the wall had opened, and now air was coming through.

His hand moved over me with more certainty. Mine slid into his hair. There was hunger in it now, but also questions. Too many questions. Questions turning into heat. Heat turning into courage.

At some point, he whispered, “Next weekend.”

I went still.

“What?”

“Your trip with Sienna.”

I opened my eyes.

I had almost forgotten.

Almost.

Sienna and I were leaving the following Friday for three nights on the coast. Not a wild trip. Not originally. It was supposed to be a late-winter reset in Seabrook, which meant wine, seafood, a spa we could not afford but had booked anyway, and Sienna saying “we should get up for sunrise” before sleeping until ten.

“What about it?” I asked.

Elliot’s eyes searched mine.

“If someone notices you,” he said slowly, “I want you to tell me.”

My stomach dropped in a clean, terrifying line.

“That’s all?”

“For now.”

“For now,” I repeated.

He nodded.

I should have made a joke.

I had several available.

For now? Sir, this is a marriage, not a software update.

But I could not quite get the words out.

Because I pictured it.

The coast. The hotel bar. Sienna laughing too loud beside me. Me wearing the green dress I had almost returned because it was a little too fitted, a little too confident, a little too someone might look twice.

Then someone looking twice.

Then my phone in my hand.

Then Elliot at home, reading what I wrote.

I felt heat move through me so suddenly I had to turn my face away.

He touched my chin and brought me back.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he said.

“I know.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

“If it feels bad, we stop talking about it.”

“Okay.”

“If it feels good…”

He stopped.

I waited.

The room seemed to hold its breath with me.

“If it feels good,” he said, “you tell me the truth.”

I stared at him.

Not permission to do anything.

Not really.

Not yet.

Permission to tell the truth.

That should not have felt as erotic as it did.

But it did.

Maybe because truth is the first undressing.

Maybe because I had spent years assuming desire had to be edited before it could enter a marriage. Trimmed, softened, made polite. Like you could love someone completely only if you arrived without shadows.

Elliot was looking at one of my shadows now.

And instead of backing away, he was touching it.

Downstairs, my phone buzzed again.

Then again.

Then again.

“Sienna,” I muttered.

Elliot laughed softly. “Persistent.”

“She has the patience of a raccoon in a locked pantry.”

“Are you going to answer?”

“No.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“What?” I said. “I’m busy having my marriage professionally destabilized.”

He laughed into my neck.

And because we were still us, because the world had not ended, because my husband had said something impossible and I had not run from it, I laughed too.

Later, much later, after the lamp was off and the dishes were still absolutely not done, we lay tangled under the covers while rain tapped against the bedroom window.

Elliot was half asleep. I could tell by the weight of his breathing.

I was wide awake.

My body felt warm and heavy, but my mind would not stop moving.

Hotwife.

Cuckold.

Permission.

Wife-sharing.

They sounded like words from another couple’s life. People with better lighting and worse judgment. People who said things like “the lifestyle” without making a face. People who owned robes that matched.

Not us.

We were ordinary. Painfully ordinary, sometimes.

We bought chicken breasts in family packs. We argued about thermostat settings. I had a dentist appointment Monday. Elliot used spreadsheets for vacation planning. Our most scandalous recent event was that I had eaten shredded cheese straight from the bag at midnight and denied it despite being the only other human in the house.

And yet.

His hand rested on my stomach beneath the blanket.

His wedding ring pressed lightly against my skin.

I thought about the peach guy’s forearms.

Then I thought about Elliot asking, Who?

Then I thought about the green dress hanging in my closet for next weekend, still with the tag on because I had not committed to being that woman.

My phone lit up on the nightstand.

Sienna again.

I carefully reached for it without waking Elliot.

There were four messages.

SIENNA:
Are you alive?

SIENNA:
If he came home hot, just say that.

SIENNA:
Actually don’t say that. I’m lonely and eating crackers for dinner.

SIENNA:
Also I need to tell you something before the coast. It’s about Elliot. Not bad. Weird. Possibly hot. Don’t make that face.

I stared at the screen.

My heart picked up again.

Beside me, Elliot shifted in his sleep and pulled me closer.

I typed with one thumb.

ME:
What do you mean it’s about Elliot?

The dots appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Then Sienna’s reply came through.

SIENNA:
Call me tomorrow. And Laurel?

I waited.

SIENNA:
If your husband asked you anything strange tonight, don’t panic. He wasn’t joking.

I stopped breathing for a second.

The rain kept tapping the window.

Elliot slept against my shoulder, warm and familiar and suddenly not entirely familiar at all.

I looked across the dark room toward the closet.

Toward the green dress.

And for the first time, I wondered if I had bought it for the trip.

Or if I had bought it for the confession afterward.

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CHAPTER ONE

The first thing Wes Dalton said when I climbed out of my father’s truck was “You still drive like somebody insulted your mother.”

I slammed the door with my hip and looked across the yard at him.

Ten years had been rude to absolutely everyone except Wes.

He stood beside the open hood of an old Ford with a wrench in one hand, his dark hair shorter than I remembered and his shoulders broader beneath a faded work shirt.

At thirty-eight, he looked less like the reckless rodeo cowboy who had occupied most of my teenage imagination and more like the man who had somehow survived being him.

The eyes were the same, though.

Quiet.

Watchful.

Irritatingly certain.

Wes had always looked at me as if he knew what I was about to do before I did and had already decided whether it was a terrible idea.

“I was doing thirty-five.”

“You took the cattle guard at forty.”

“You clocked me?”

“I have eyes.”

“Nice to see those survived.”

One corner of his mouth moved.

There it was.

I’d spent several years between sixteen and nineteen trying to earn that almost-smile.

Wes had been my brother Ben’s best friend, the man who showed up at our house in dusty boots, stole fries from my plate and called me Short Stack while I attempted increasingly stupid things in the hope that he’d finally see me as something other than his friend’s little sister.

Then I’d left.

College.

Raleigh.

Graphic design.

Daniel.

An engagement ring.

Five years of slowly becoming the woman a very organized man had designed for himself.

Now I was twenty-nine, newly single, temporarily homeless in the technical sense and standing in the same yard where I’d grown up while Wes Dalton looked at me in a way he never had when I was nineteen.

His gaze dropped once, taking in the tank top, cutoffs and boots, then returned to my face.

Something warm and dangerous turned over low in my stomach.

Apparently Short Stack had been discontinued.

“Your dad said tomorrow,” he said.

“I changed my mind.”

“Imagine that.”

“You say spontaneity like it’s a communicable disease.”

“With you it usually requires repairs.”

I walked over and peered beneath the hood.

“What happened?”

“Radiator hose.”

“Can you fix it?”

Wes looked down at the wrench in his hand.

I nodded.

“Right. Decorative wrench. My mistake.”

“College did wonders for you.”

“Design school.”

“Explains the judgment.”

He closed the hood and I watched the muscles in his forearm shift beneath tanned skin.

This was unfortunate.

I had not driven twelve hours to rediscover a problem I’d outgrown.

“Dad around?”

“North pasture.”

“Mom?”

“Town.”

“And you?”

“Working.”

“For Dad?”

“I run the place now.”

That stopped me.

“What?”

“His knees got worse last winter.”

“He didn’t tell me.”

“He probably assumed you’d notice eventually.”

Guilt arrived quickly.

Home was efficient that way.

I looked toward the farmhouse.

The white paint around the porch rail was peeling in the same places.

My mother’s wind chimes still hung by the kitchen window, because apparently metal birds from Santa Fe had become family heirlooms.

The gutter still carried the dent from the year Ben tried to reach the roof with a rope and a skateboard.

Nothing had changed, which made me feel as though everything had.

“You okay?” Wes asked.

“Fine.”

He nodded and left it there.

No softened voice.

No tilted head.

No careful question about Daniel.

I liked him immensely for it.

Everybody else had become fascinated by how I was doing since I’d ended an engagement three months before the wedding.

The answer was complicated.

Daniel hadn’t been cruel.

That would have made leaving easier.

He’d simply had a plan.

A house in Raleigh.

Two children.

Private school.

Dinner with his parents every Sunday.

A kitchen in a color called Oatmeal.

My freelance work, according to him, would be perfect while the children were small because I could fit it around everything else.

One morning I’d looked at the ring on my finger while he explained my own future and realized I had somehow been hired to play myself.

So I quit.

The relationship, at least.

The rest was still under review.

“You staying long?” Wes asked.

“A few weeks.”

“Your father said summer.”

“Dad exaggerates.”

“He said you put everything in storage.”

“Temporary storage.”

“He said you let your apartment go.”

“My lease ended.”

“He said you told your clients you could work remotely.”

I folded my arms.

“You two gossip now?”

“We talk.”

“About me?”

“Sometimes.”

“That’s deeply unsettling.”

“You were always easily unsettled.”

I pointed at him.

“I once watched you get on a bull named Funeral Notice.”

“He had good balance.”

“He tried to murder you.”

“Occupational disagreement.”

I laughed.

His expression changed when I did.

Not much.

Enough.

“You missed me.”

“No.”

“You absolutely did.”

“Your parents did.”

“You?”

He bent to pick up his toolbox.

“Wes.”

He stopped.

Then finally looked at me.

“Yeah,” he said. “I did.”

Then he walked toward the barn as if he hadn’t just rearranged the temperature of the entire county.

I watched him go.

The summer became a problem eleven minutes after I arrived.

It got worse at dinner.

Dad waited until I’d eaten half a steak before saying, “Wes needs another rider tomorrow.”

I looked up.

“Does Wes know?”

“He will.”

“You volunteered me?”

“You used to be useful.”

“I remain useful.”

Dad made a noise.

I put down my fork.

“What was that?”

“What?”

“That sound.”

“I swallowed.”

“You swallowed sarcastically.”

Mom closed her eyes.

“Please don’t start.”

Dad grinned.

“You haven’t ridden properly in years.”

“I ride.”

“Beach horses don’t count.”

I stared at him, then toward the kitchen window.

Wes’s truck was still parked near the barn.

“Has everyone been monitoring my Instagram?”

Mom examined her potatoes with sudden concentration.

I pointed at her.

“You.”

“I send people photographs.”

“Why is Wes people?”

“Because he asks how you’re doing.”

Silence settled over the table.

Dad became intensely interested in his steak.

I looked from one parent to the other.

“Interesting.”

Mom smiled the dangerous smile of a woman who had survived thirty-four years of marriage and knew exactly when to say nothing.

I stood and carried my plate to the sink.

“Seven tomorrow?”

Dad nodded.

“Six-thirty.”

“Why?”

“So Wes can give you the slow horse.”

I smiled.

Now I knew exactly what I was doing tomorrow.

CHAPTER TWO

At six twenty-five the next morning, Wes was saddling Ruby.

Ruby had been old when I left.

Now she looked capable of remembering electricity being invented.

“No.”

Wes glanced over his shoulder.

“Morning to you too.”

I pointed at the mare.

“Absolutely not.”

“Reliable horse.”

“She’s a historical landmark.”

Ruby sighed as though I’d hurt her feelings, so I scratched her nose in apology.

“No offense.”

Wes tightened the cinch.

“You haven’t ridden regularly in ten years.”

“I’m aware of my own résumé.”

“You were reckless when you rode every day.”

“I was talented.”

“You jumped the south fence backward.”

“It was impressive.”

“You were facing backward.”

“Exactly.”

He gave me the flat look I remembered too well.

I gave it right back.

He wore a faded work shirt with the sleeves rolled over his forearms and a hat low over his eyes.

Nothing about him seemed designed to be attractive, which made the entire situation significantly worse.

“I’ll take June.”

“No.”

June was the young bay mare in the next stall, quick, smart and visibly offended by authority.

We had a lot in common.

“Why not?”

“Because she tests people.”

“So do I.”

“I know.”

“Worried?”

“No.”

“Then give me the horse.”

His jaw shifted.

There.

I remembered that tell.

Wes didn’t get louder when he was annoyed.

He became quieter.

“You’re not nineteen anymore.”

“Excellent observation.”

“Stop acting like I said you were.”

“Then stop treating me like I am.”

For a moment there was no humor in his face.

Then he walked into June’s stall.

Ten minutes later, I was in the saddle.

“Was that so difficult?”

“Ask me after you stay on.”

“You’re adorable when supportive.”

“I’m serious, Sadie.”

“So am I.”

His hand closed around my ankle while he checked the stirrup.

It was ordinary, something he’d probably done for hundreds of riders over the years, but his palm was warm through the leather of my boot and his thumb rested just above it.

When he looked up, neither of us moved.

Then Wes released me.

“Keep your heels down.”

“I know how to ride.”

“I remember.”

The words landed lower than expected.

“Do you?”

He mounted his black gelding.

“Move.”

Interesting.

We spent the morning pushing cattle from the north field toward fresh pasture.

June tested me twice.

I won twice.

By the third hour, Wes had stopped checking my position every thirty seconds.

By the fourth, he’d stopped checking altogether.

I shouldn’t have cared.

I cared enormously.

Near the creek, a steer broke from the herd and headed for the tree line.

Wes turned Bishop, but I was closer and didn’t wait.

June went after the steer the moment I asked her, fast enough to pull a laugh out of me.

We cut across the slope, got ahead of him, turned him neatly and pushed him back toward the others.

When I slowed, Wes was twenty yards away.

Watching.

I lifted my hat.

“Still worried?”

“No.”

“That sounded painful.”

He rode closer and glanced at June before looking at me.

“Nice turn.”

My stomach did something embarrassing.

“Thank you.”

“Still reckless.”

“Still watching.”

His gaze settled on my face.

“Yeah.”

There was no joke in it.

Nothing for either of us to hide behind.

We rode side by side toward the creek.

“You ever miss it?” I asked.

“What?”

“Rodeo.”

He thought about the question.

“Parts.”

“Which parts?”

“Right before.”

“Before what?”

“Gate opens.”

I remembered him then at twenty-five, wrapping his hand into the rope, face suddenly still while everything around him was noise.

“You looked terrifying.”

“I was terrified.”

I turned toward him.

“No, you weren’t.”

“Every time.”

“You never looked it.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

Something about the answer stayed with me.

We stopped near the creek and let the horses drink.

I rested my wrists against the saddle horn.

“You know, I had a terrible crush on you.”

Wes stared at the water.

“I know.”

My mouth fell open.

“You knew?”

“Everybody knew.”

“I was subtle.”

“You carved my initials into your boot.”

“That could have meant anything.”

“It said W.D.”

“World domination.”

He laughed.

A real laugh this time.

God, that was unfair.

I nudged June closer to Bishop.

“Did you ever think about it?”

The laugh disappeared.

“When?”

“You know when.”

“When you were nineteen?”

I lifted one shoulder.

His answer came immediately.

“No.”

Something in me tightened even though I knew perfectly well it was the right answer.

Then he continued.

“I thought you were beautiful. But you were Ben’s little sister. And nineteen. And completely out of your mind.”

“I was fun.”

“You stole a road sign.”

“It said SLOW.”

“It was giving useful advice.”

“I found it judgmental.”

His mouth moved, but he looked away toward the herd.

“You want the truth?”

“Always.”

“I spent a lot of time making sure I didn’t think about you.”

That was better.

Much better.

I settled deeper into the saddle.

“And now?”

Wes touched the brim of his hat.

“Now you’re twenty-nine.”

I kept looking at him.

“And Ben?”

His jaw shifted.

“Still my best friend.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

“I know.”

“Does he still get a vote?”

Wes looked across the creek toward the cattle.

“He never got a vote. When you were nineteen, I did.”

“And now?”

His eyes came back to me.

“Now I’m trying to remember that.”

That evening, I wore black.

Not because Wes might be at Miller’s.

That would have been pathetic.

I wore black because it happened to be clean.

The fact that the tank top stopped precisely where my cutoffs began was a manufacturing coincidence.

Ellie Barnes disagreed.

“You look like trouble.”

“I look like a woman having a beer.”

“You’ve been home forty-eight hours.”

“Exactly. I’m pacing myself.”

Then Wes walked in.

Black T-shirt.

Jeans.

No hat.

An administrative error by God.

Ellie followed my gaze.

“Oh no.”

“Don’t.”

“You still have it.”

“Have what?”

“Whatever disease made you carve his initials into footwear.”

“World domination.”

“Sure.”

Wes saw us.

His eyes went to Ellie, then me, then very briefly lower.

His jaw tightened.

Ellie inhaled.

“Oh, this is excellent.”

“Be normal.”

“I’ve never done that.”

She disappeared with suspicious efficiency when Wes reached the bar.

Traitor.

I turned toward him.

“Drink?”

“I’m driving.”

“You live four miles away.”

“Still driving.”

“Responsible.”

“One of us should try it.”

I smiled.

“You liked me better irresponsible.”

“No.”

“You’re lying.”

“No.”

“Poorly.”

A man touched my elbow.

Luke Harper.

Older than I remembered but recognizable enough.

We talked for a few minutes and then he asked me to dance.

I said yes.

Not because Wes was three yards away.

Because I enjoy dancing.

The fact that Luke’s hand landed at my waist while Wes could see us was simply an added public service.

Halfway through the song, I glanced toward the bar.

Wes wasn’t watching.

Which meant, obviously, he’d been watching.

When the song ended, I went back.

“You jealous?”

“No.”

“Fast answer.”

“Easy question.”

“Liar.”

He drank water.

I leaned closer.

“Are you always this boring now?”

“Are you always this desperate for a reaction?”

That landed closer than intended.

I smiled anyway.

“There he is.”

“Sadie.”

“What?”

“Don’t.”

The quiet voice.

I felt it immediately.

“Don’t what?”

“You know.”

“Maybe I don’t.”

His eyes dropped to my mouth.

“You’ve been home two days.”

“And?”

“Three months ago you were engaged.”

The heat disappeared.

“There it is.”

“What?”

“The part where you decide what’s good for me.”

“I’m not deciding anything.”

“You sound exactly like Daniel.”

That made him go still.

I regretted it the second it left my mouth.

Wes set down his bottle.

“No, I don’t.”

“Then don’t tell me I’m confused.”

“I’m telling you I won’t be somebody you use to prove you’re not.”

I stared at him.

It took me half a second to understand.

Then I did.

I grabbed my purse.

“Fuck you.”

“Not tonight.”

I stopped and slowly turned.

He was still leaning against the bar, calm and completely certain I’d come back.

Naturally, I did.

“Excuse me?”

Wes looked straight at me.

“I said not tonight.”

Every nerve ending in my body appeared for roll call.

“Very sure of yourself.”

“No.”

His voice went lower.

“I’m sure of you.”

I swallowed.

“What happens another night?”

His gaze moved to my mouth.

“Depends.”

“On?”

“How hard you want to push.”

I smiled.

“Maybe harder than you remember.”

For the first time that night, Wes smiled too.

“That’s what worries me.”

CHAPTER THREE

Wes ignored me for five days.

Not literally.

That would have been easier.

He spoke to me about cattle, fence posts, invoices, feed and an irrigation pump that appeared to have been assembled by a vindictive god.

He did not mention Miller’s.

He did not flirt.

He did not suffer visibly.

So I escalated.

White tank top on Thursday.

Nothing.

Friday, I leaned over him for the truck keys instead of walking around the table.

“Keys are on the hook.”

Saturday, I sat on the tailgate eating watermelon and finally caught him looking at my legs.

“You finished?” he asked.

“With?”

“Whatever campaign this is.”

I licked watermelon juice from my thumb.

“No.”

“Figured.”

He walked away.

I considered throwing fruit at him.

That afternoon, a storm built over the western ridge and Dad sent us to repair a broken section of fence before the rain hit.

Wes drove.

I put my boots on the dashboard.

He knocked them down.

“Hey.”

“No feet.”

“I thought you liked my boots.”

“I like my windshield without your teeth in it.”

“You planning to crash?”

“With you in the truck? Statistically more likely.”

I put my boots back.

He pushed them down again.

“Control freak.”

“Brat.”

Silence.

I turned my head.

Wes continued staring through the windshield.

“Repeat that.”

“No.”

“Scared?”

“No.”

“Careful.”

That word again.

We reached the broken fence ten minutes before the rain.

I grabbed the post driver from the truck and Wes took it from me.

“Give me that.”

“No.”

“It weighs forty pounds.”

“I know.”

“You’ll make six hits.”

“Bet?”

He glanced toward the clouds.

“Sadie.”

“Bet me.”

“What do you want?”

“If I set the post, you stop treating me like I’m fragile.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

He studied me for a moment.

“Fine.”

“And if I lose?”

That slight movement at his mouth appeared.

“You follow every instruction I give you for one hour.”

I laughed.

“That’s your fantasy?”

“My fantasy is sixty minutes without an argument.”

“Impossible.”

“Then don’t lose.”

We shook hands.

The first six hits were easy.

The next six were not.

By eighteen, my shoulders burned and sweat ran down my spine.

Wes leaned against the truck with his arms folded.

“You can stop.”

“Go to hell.”

“Excellent technique.”

I hit the post again.

“Need help?”

“No.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

“Good girl.”

The post driver nearly came out of my hands.

Wes smiled.

“You asshole.”

“I said two words.”

“You knew.”

“Hit the post.”

I did.

By the time the post was secure, rain had started spotting the dirt.

I dropped the driver.

“There.”

Wes checked the post, pulled on it, then looked at me.

“Crooked.”

My mouth fell open.

“You are lying.”

He pointed.

It was crooked.

Barely.

Still crooked.

“That doesn’t count.”

“You made the bet.”

“You’re inventing standards.”

“I work with standards.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Thunder rolled and Wes checked his watch.

“One hour.”

I folded my arms.

“What exactly are you planning to do with this enormous power?”

“First instruction.”

I waited.

“Get in the truck.”

I laughed.

“Terrifying.”

“Fifty-nine minutes.”

I got in.

Rain hit the windshield before we reached the machine shed.

I lasted four minutes.

“What’s next?”

“Nothing.”

“This is boring.”

“I know.”

“Was that the plan?”

“Part of it.”

“What part?”

Wes parked inside the open-sided shed and killed the engine.

Rain hammered the metal roof.

I reached for the door.

“Stay.”

My hand stopped.

I turned.

There was no teasing in his face.

“Why?”

“You agreed.”

“I can still ask.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you never wait long enough to find out what happens next.”

That silenced me for perhaps three seconds.

“Deep.”

“Second instruction.”

I shifted toward him.

“What?”

“Stop performing.”

My smile disappeared.

He continued before I could make another joke.

“No flirting just to make me crack. No smart mouth because silence makes you nervous. No trying to win.”

“That’s not an instruction. That’s therapy.”

“Free with the fence repair.”

“I don’t need therapy.”

“Everyone needs therapy.”

“You?”

“Especially me.”

I laughed.

He didn’t.

“See?”

“What?”

“You do that every time.”

“Do what?”

“Make a joke when something gets too close.”

The rain seemed louder.

I looked away.

Wes touched my chin, not forcefully, only enough to ask for my attention.

I gave it.

“Tell me what you want.”

“You.”

“No.”

I frowned.

“That’s rude.”

“I know you want me. I’m asking what you want from me.”

My first instinct was another joke.

I swallowed it.

“I want you to stop treating me like I’m still nineteen.”

“I don’t.”

“Sometimes you do.”

“No.”

His thumb moved once along my jaw.

“I treat you like somebody who spent five years letting a man make every decision for her and now wants to fight anyone who holds a door open.”

That hit.

Hard.

I pulled away.

“Fuck you.”

“No.”

My hand went to the door.

“Sadie.”

I stopped.

“Forty-two minutes.”

I looked at him.

“You’re using the bet to keep me here?”

“No.”

He unlocked the doors.

“You can go whenever you want.”

“Then why mention it?”

“Because you’re not leaving.”

I hated him.

Mostly because I wasn’t.

Wes leaned back.

“So stay.”

I stayed.

“I’m still angry.”

“Fine.”

“You’re smug.”

“A little.”

“I could hit you.”

“Please don’t.”

I looked at his mouth.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

“Third instruction.”

My pulse jumped.

“What?”

“Come here.”

This time I didn’t joke.

The bench seat suddenly felt very small.

I slid closer until our thighs touched.

His hand settled at my waist and stayed there.

Warm.

Still.

“Closer.”

I moved.

His eyes searched my face.

“Want me?”

“Yes.”

“Still?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

I stared at him.

He waited.

Because that was Wes.

He could wait longer than I could hide.

“Because you don’t want me easier.”

Something shifted in his face.

I kept going.

“Daniel always wanted less. Less loud. Less impulsive. Less work if it became inconvenient. Less everything. I don’t know who I am without somebody telling me I’m too much.”

His hand tightened at my waist.

“I do.”

I stopped breathing.

Wes leaned closer.

“You’re exactly as much as you are.”

My throat hurt unexpectedly.

“That’s a terrible line.”

“Wasn’t a line.”

“I know.”

“Good.”

That one word moved through me.

Wes saw it happen.

His eyes darkened.

“Oh.”

“Don’t.”

“You like that.”

“No.”

“Sadie.”

“Fine.”

His thumb traced my side.

“Say it.”

“I like it.”

“Good girl.”

I kissed him.

Not because he told me to.

Because if I waited another second I might have set fire to the truck.

Wes kissed me back like a man who had spent years learning exactly how much strength not to use.

Slow first.

Controlled enough to irritate me.

So I bit his lower lip.

He pulled back.

“Bad idea.”

“It worked.”

His hand slid into my hair and the next kiss was harder.

Not careless.

Certain enough to wipe the clever thoughts out of my head.

I grabbed his shirt.

He stopped immediately.

“Still yes?”

“Very yes.”

His mouth curved.

“Better.”

I put my palm against his chest.

His heartbeat was fast.

“There you are.”

“Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late.”

I touched the front of his shirt.

“You’re thinking about Ben.”

His eyes flicked to mine.

“Unfortunately.”

“He lives in Montana.”

“That isn’t why.”

“Then what?”

Wes was quiet for a second.

“He trusted me with you.”

I frowned.

“I am not a borrowed truck, Wes.”

“I know.”

“Good. Then stop returning me.”

His mouth moved despite himself.

His mouth brushed mine again.

“You’ve got twenty-eight minutes.”

I laughed.

“You’re still timing this?”

“Yes.”

“What happens when the hour ends?”

“You decide.”

“Decide what?”

“Whether you want another instruction.”

My smile disappeared.

“And if I say no?”

“I drive you home.”

“No sulking?”

“No.”

“No wounded cowboy pride?”

“Retired.”

“You own three hats.”

“Occupational.”

“And if I say yes?”

He leaned close enough that his mouth brushed my ear.

“Then you stop pretending you don’t know what you’re asking for.”

Outside, thunder rolled over the ranch.

“Yes.”

His hand tightened at my waist.

“Hour isn’t over.”

“Then consider me impatient.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“What now?”

Wes looked through the rain toward the old bunkhouse.

Then back at me.

“Run.”

I blinked.

“What?”

“First one there chooses what happens next.”

I stared at him.

Then I smiled.

Now this was a game I understood.

CHAPTER FOUR

I cheated.

Obviously.

Wes had longer legs, which constituted a structural advantage and was therefore morally equivalent to cheating.

I opened the passenger door and took off running before he was fully out of the truck.

Rain soaked me within ten yards.

I heard him behind me.

Then closer.

Then very close.

I reached the bunkhouse porch half a second before his hand closed around my waist.

“I won.”

“You started early.”

“Strategy.”

“Cheating.”

“Sounds like something a loser would say.”

He turned me toward him.

Rain ran from his hair into his face and he was smiling, not the stingy almost-smile but the real one.

Something in my chest shifted.

“You’re impossible.”

“Yet here you are.”

“Yeah.”

“Still worried?”

“Constantly.”

“About me?”

“About what I might do when you look at me like that.”

The heat under my skin had nothing to do with summer.

I stepped backward into the bunkhouse.

One room.

Narrow bed.

Leather chair.

Work clothes hanging neatly on the wall.

A shelf with coffee, batteries and three paperback westerns old enough to vote.

Wes closed the door behind us.

I stood dripping onto the floor.

“So.”

“So.”

“This where I finally discover your dark secret?”

“I alphabetize the spice rack.”

“Monster.”

His gaze moved over me slowly.

The wet tank top had become significantly less opaque than intended.

For once, I didn’t make a joke.

Wes noticed.

“You nervous?”

“Yes.”

“Bad?”

“No.”

“Want to stop?”

“No.”

“Want me?”

I looked at him.

“Very much.”

He came closer without hurrying.

That was what made Wes dangerous.

He never seemed to need the next second before it arrived.

His fingers touched the wet hair beside my face.

“You trust me?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me if that changes.”

“It won’t.”

“Sadie.”

“Fine. I will.”

“Good.”

I inhaled.

His mouth moved slightly.

“You really like that.”

“Don’t ruin it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

I kissed him first.

The kiss in the truck had felt like a fight.

This didn’t.

His arms came around me and, for once, I stopped trying to get somewhere before the moment I was in.

Rain beat against the roof.

His mouth moved along my jaw.

I closed my eyes.

“Wes.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t be gentle because you think I need gentle.”

He lifted his head.

“Careful and gentle aren’t the same thing.”

“I know.”

“And hard and careless aren’t either.”

“I know.”

“Then we’re fine.”

That certainty went straight through me.

I hooked my fingers into his shirt.

“You always this calm?”

“No.”

“You look calm.”

“Experience.”

“Old.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Careful.”

“There he is.”

Wes backed me one step toward the bed.

“Still want to push?”

“Always.”

“Then push.”

I did.

I caught his shirt and pulled him toward me.

Wes let me.

For exactly three seconds.

Then one hand settled at my waist and the other disappeared into my wet hair.

He kissed me harder.

The shift was immediate.

No hesitation now.

No question about whether either of us had imagined this.

My back touched the wall.

I laughed against his mouth.

“What?”

“You finally stopped pretending.”

“Pretending what?”

“That you’re patient.”

His eyes held mine.

“I am patient.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Sadie.”

The warning in my name made my stomach tighten.

I smiled.

“Still like brat?”

“I didn’t say I liked it.”

“Liar.”

He caught my chin gently between his fingers.

“Careful.”

Again.

That word.

I had spent days trying to get it.

Now I understood why.

Wes said careful like other men said please.

I looked at his mouth.

“Make me.”

His eyes changed.

There.

The thing I’d been pushing toward since Miller’s.

He stepped closer.

“Last chance to rethink that sentence.”

“Not interested.”

“Still trust me?”

“Yes.”

“Then hands on the wall.”

I blinked.

“That your big instruction?”

“Do you want to do it?”

The question mattered.

More because of how quietly he asked it.

I turned.

Put both palms against the wall.

My pulse jumped immediately.

Behind me, Wes went still.

I glanced over my shoulder.

His gaze moved down my back, over the wet denim of my shorts, then returned to my face.

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Then turn back around.”

I did.

My breathing had changed.

Nothing had happened.

That was insulting.

Wes stepped close enough that I could feel him behind me without being trapped by him.

His hand rested at my waist.

Warm.

Certain.

“Still like instructions?”

“Yes.”

“Louder.”

“Yes.”

“Good girl.”

My fingers curled against the wall.

Fuck.

Wes felt me react.

His mouth brushed just beneath my ear.

“There it is.”

“Don’t.”

“You wanted this.”

“I want you to stop enjoying yourself so much.”

“No.”

His hand moved slowly along my side.

Nothing rushed.

Every touch made worse by anticipation.

I turned my head.

“Can I move?”

“Do you want to?”

“I want to touch you.”

He was quiet for a second.

Then:

“Turn around.”

I did immediately.

Too immediately.

Wes noticed.

His mouth curved.

“Don’t.”

“Didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“You started it.”

I grabbed his shirt and pulled him closer.

This time he let me.

I pushed the wet fabric away from his shoulders.

His shirt landed on the floor.

The sight of him stopped me.

Scars.

Muscle earned through actual work rather than mirrors.

Years written plainly across his body.

Wes looked down at me.

“What?”

“You got older.”

“So did you.”

“I like yours better.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“It doesn’t have to.”

I touched the scar along his ribs.

He caught my wrist.

Not stopping me.

Holding me there.

“Bull?” I asked.

“That one.”

My fingers traced it.

His breath changed.

Tiny.

I smiled.

“Not so calm.”

“Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late.”

He kissed me again.

The rest of my confidence lasted maybe thirty seconds.

My wet tank top went first.

Then his hands found bare skin.

My breath caught.

Wes stopped instantly.

“Still good?”

“Yes.”

His thumb moved slowly against my side.

“Still?”

“Wes.”

“Yes or no.”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

That single word did ridiculous things to me.

I grabbed his face and kissed him.

He laughed softly against my mouth.

“You really do like it.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

I stared.

“Oh, you asshole.”

“Learning.”

I kissed him again.

Hard.

He gave me back exactly as much as I asked for.

That was the thing with Wes.

Every time I pushed, he didn’t simply push harder.

He waited.

Measured.

Made sure I was still pushing because I wanted him there.

Then met me.

By the time the backs of my knees touched the bed, the rain outside had become background noise.

Wes looked down at me.

“You won the race.”

“I know.”

“So choose.”

My heart kicked.

“What?”

“You won.”

His hand rested at my waist.

“What happens next?”

I could joke.

I almost did.

Then I remembered the truck.

Stop performing.

So I told him.

“I want you to take over.”

Something in his face went completely still.

“How much?”

“Enough that I don’t have to think.”

“You can still change your mind.”

“I know.”

“Say it.”

“I’ll tell you if I want something different.”

“Good.”

I waited.

The stillness became unbearable.

Then Wes nodded toward the bed.

“Sit.”

My stomach flipped.

Ridiculous.

I sat.

He stayed standing.

The angle alone did something unfair.

“You like this.”

“No.”

“Sadie.”

“Yes.”

One corner of his mouth lifted.

“Hands beside you.”

I put them against the mattress.

“Now what?”

“You wait.”

“I’m terrible at that.”

“I know.”

“Is this revenge?”

“Maybe.”

He stepped between my knees.

My hands automatically moved toward him.

Wes looked down.

I stopped.

“Oh.”

“Hands.”

I returned them to the mattress.

His eyes came back to mine.

“Good girl.”

Heat rolled through me.

“That is deeply manipulative.”

“Yes.”

“You admit it?”

“You told me you liked it.”

“I was emotionally compromised.”

“Still are.”

I laughed.

Then his hand moved into my hair and the laugh disappeared.

He kissed me.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

While my hands stayed exactly where he’d put them.

That changed everything.

Every touch felt louder because I wasn’t answering immediately with one of my own.

His mouth at my jaw.

His thumb against my cheek.

His other hand at my waist.

I had thought surrendering control would make me feel small.

It did the opposite.

I was choosing every second.

Choosing to wait.

Choosing to stay.

Choosing him.

I forgot myself and grabbed his waist.

Wes stopped.

“Hands.”

I froze.

“Right.”

He waited.

I put them back.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“But I forgot.”

“I know.”

His mouth curved.

“You lasted longer than I expected.”

“That sounds insulting.”

“It was praise.”

“Terrible delivery.”

“Want better?”

“Yes.”

“Then listen.”

My pulse jumped.

Wes leaned closer.

“Good girl.”

I closed my eyes.

“Fuck.”

“Eyes.”

They opened.

“That’s evil.”

“No.”

“It absolutely is.”

“You can stop whenever you want.”

I looked straight at him.

“I don’t want to stop.”

Something shifted behind his eyes.

“Then don’t.”

He kissed me.

From there the room became less organized.

My hands were eventually released.

I used them immediately.

His jeans joined the wet shirts on the floor.

My shorts followed.

We stumbled once because the bunkhouse bed had been designed by someone who hated adults.

I laughed.

Wes caught me around the waist.

“Problem?”

“This bed is twelve inches wide.”

“Cowboys were smaller.”

“You’re a historian now?”

“Get on the bed.”

That shut me up.

Mostly.

I lay back.

Wes stood there looking down at me.

I suddenly became aware of myself again.

My body.

The light.

How much he could see.

He noticed the shift immediately.

“Sadie.”

“What?”

“Where’d you go?”

“Nowhere.”

“Liar.”

I looked away.

His hand touched my knee.

“Hey.”

I looked back.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Leave because I’m looking at you.”

My chest tightened.

Daniel had looked at me too.

Often.

But usually as though I were something already selected.

Wes looked like he was still surprised I had chosen him.

“I’m here,” I whispered.

“I know.”

He leaned closer.

“Stay.”

One word.

I did.

The next kiss felt different.

Not like winning anymore.

Not like proving I could make the older man lose control.

Like being wanted without being rearranged.

His hand found mine.

Our fingers locked.

The practical part arrived with terrible timing.

Wes reached toward the narrow drawer beside the bed and knocked one of the old paperbacks onto the floor.

I looked at it.

“Smooth.”

“Be quiet.”

“I thought you liked me loud.”

His eyes met mine.

“Different category.”

That shut me up for almost two seconds.

He found a condom, fumbled with the packet on the first try and swore under his breath.

I started laughing.

“Do not.”

“I’m sorry. You looked so competent five minutes ago.”

“Still can stop.”

The joke left me.

There it was again. Not caution as distance. Caution as a door he kept leaving unlocked for me.

I took his face in both hands.

“I don’t want to stop.”

His forehead touched mine for a second.

“Okay.”

He tried the packet again.

This time it cooperated.

“There,” I said. “Very masculine.”

“You are making this difficult.”

“That has been established.”

He kissed me before I could say anything else.

And this time I refused to disappear inside my own head for any of it.

Wes leaned over me slowly enough that I could have interrupted him with a joke, a complaint or a change of mind.

I did none of those things.

His mouth found mine again.

One hand stayed wrapped around mine. The other moved from my waist to my hip, steadying me as I shifted closer.

The narrow bed complained beneath us.

I opened my eyes.

“Did the furniture just object?”

“Probably.”

“Good. I was worried it approved of you.”

“Sadie.”

There it was.

That voice.

My smile disappeared on its own.

Wes watched it happen.

“Look at me.”

I did.

He kissed the corner of my mouth, then my jaw, then the place beneath my ear that made my fingers tighten around his.

No rushing.

No trying to impress me with how quickly he could make the moment bigger.

He had been patient with everything else. Apparently he intended to be infuriatingly patient with this too.

I shifted beneath him.

“Wes.”

“Yeah?”

“You know the thing where you wait until I lose my mind?”

“Yeah.”

“I hate it.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No.”

His mouth curved against my skin.

I felt the smile and wanted to bite him for it.

Instead I pulled him closer.

That got a reaction.

Small.

A sharper breath. A brief tightening of his hand at my hip. The control was still there, but now I could feel the effort underneath it.

Much better.

“There you are.”

“Careful.”

I smiled.

“Make me.”

He lifted his head.

For one second neither of us moved.

Then he kissed me hard enough to erase the victory from my face.

My hand found the back of his neck. His found my thigh, drawing me closer until there was no room left for cleverness between us.

The first slow push of him into me stole the next sentence out of my mouth.

Wes stopped.

He didn’t pull away.

Stopped.

His eyes stayed on mine.

I understood the question without hearing it.

“Yes.”

His thumb moved once against my hip.

“Words.”

Of course.

I swallowed.

“I want you.”

“Still?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Heat rolled through me so fast it was humiliating.

I closed my eyes.

“Cheap shot.”

“Eyes.”

I opened them again.

“You are unbearable.”

“I know.”

Then he moved with me and the argument ended.

Not all at once.

That would have been easier.

Wes gave me enough time to feel every change in the room, in him, in myself. The rain beating above us. His breathing no longer quite as even. My fingers locked with his. The heat of his body. The way his composure kept slipping whenever I stopped waiting for him and met him halfway.

I had thought giving up control meant becoming passive.

It didn’t.

It meant I could stop managing the moment and actually be inside it.

So when I wanted him closer, I pulled him closer.

When I wanted more, I said it.

“More.”

Wes’s forehead touched mine.

“That a request or an order?”

“Does it matter?”

“To you?”

I considered this for approximately half a second.

“Order.”

He almost smiled.

“Thought so.”

I laughed, but the laugh broke apart when he answered me.

My free hand caught his shoulder.

“Oh.”

“Still want to be in charge?”

“Temporarily reconsidering.”

“Smart.”

“Do not get smug right now.”

“Bad timing?”

“Wes.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

He kissed me instead.

That worked.

For a while the room reduced itself to pieces.

Rain.

His mouth.

My name in that low voice.

The rough sheet beneath my palm.

His hand tightening around mine whenever I started to drift too far into sensation to remember where I was.

And every time I looked at him, he was still there.

Not performing.

Not congratulating himself.

Watching me as if my reaction mattered more than whatever he had planned next.

That was what finally undid me.

Not one particular touch.

Not the instruction.

The attention.

I had spent five years being looked at like a future already decided.

Wes looked at me like a choice I was making in real time.

My breathing turned uneven.

He noticed immediately.

“Sadie.”

“I know.”

“Look at me.”

“I am.”

“Stay.”

I tightened my hand around his.

“I’m here.”

His control slipped another inch.

That pleased me more than it should have.

I smiled.

He saw it.

“Don’t.”

I knew that look now.

“Sadie.”

“What?”

“You are about ten seconds from losing the ability to be annoying.”

I stared at him.

“That sounds like a challenge.”

“It wasn’t.”

It became one.

I made it perhaps six seconds.

Then the pleasure gathered too quickly for wit, thought or dignity. My fingers clenched around his. My eyes closed despite instructions. My whole body tightened and the rain vanished beneath the rush of it.

Wes said my name once.

Not loud.

He never needed loud.

I came back to myself with my face turned into his shoulder and one of my hands fisted in the sheet.

For several seconds I did absolutely nothing.

Then I managed, “I hate you.”

His breath hitched with a laugh.

“No, you don’t.”

“No.”

I opened my eyes.

He was watching me.

Not smug.

Not victorious.

Just wrecked enough around the edges to make me feel better about the situation.

I touched his face.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yes.”

A beat.

Then, because he was Wes:

“Sure?”

I laughed.

“Yes. Very.”

“Good.”

I groaned.

“You cannot keep doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“You know.”

“No idea.”

“Liar.”

I pulled him down and kissed him.

This time I felt the exact moment his patience finally ran out.

His breathing changed first.

Then the careful rhythm of everything else.

His forehead pressed to mine. His jaw tightened. The man who always seemed to own one more second suddenly didn’t.

I smiled against his mouth.

“There you are.”

His eyes opened.

“Do not start.”

“You’re not nearly as calm as you look.”

“Neither are you.”

“I never claimed to be.”

“That is absolutely true.”

Later, the rain had softened and I lay beneath a thin sheet with my head on Wes’s chest, tracing an old scar along his ribs.

“That one?”

“Bull.”

“This one?”

“Fence.”

“This?”

“Ben.”

I lifted my head.

“My brother stabbed you?”

“Fishing hook.”

“Disappointing.”

Wes looked toward the ceiling.

“Your father is going to kill me.”

I laughed.

“Dad likes you.”

“That’s the problem.”

“He’ll survive.”

“He told me to keep an eye on you.”

I froze and slowly raised my head.

“I’m sorry?”

Wes closed his eyes.

“Forget I said that.”

“Oh, absolutely not.”

“He knew you were having a bad time.”

“And?”

“He said not to let you do anything stupid.”

I stared at him.

Then laughed so hard I had to bury my face against his shoulder.

Wes frowned.

“What?”

“You failed spectacularly.”

“Depends on definition.”

“I’m naked in your bed.”

“I noticed.”

“My father assigned you to protect me.”

“I am deeply ashamed.”

“You should be.”

He rolled me gently onto my back.

“Want an apology?”

“No.”

“Good.”

I looked up at him.

“Actually…”

He waited.

“You can make it up to me.”

That look appeared.

The one I had been trying to provoke from the moment I drove through the gate.

“Sadie.”

“Yes?”

“You’re out of instructions.”

I hooked one leg around his.

“Who said you were in charge now?”

For half a second, Wes looked surprised.

Then pleased.

Very pleased.

“Ride’s not over?”

“Not even close.”

CHAPTER FIVE

The next morning, Wes woke me at six fifteen with coffee.

“Up.”

I opened one eye.

“No.”

“Cattle at seven.”

“Your cattle.”

“You volunteered.”

“Before circumstances changed.”

“What circumstances?”

I pointed vaguely toward the bed.

Wes glanced down.

“Contract remains valid.”

“There was no contract.”

“You shook on it.”

“That was a fence bet.”

“Binding in three states.”

I took the coffee because principles have limits.

“You’re terrible after sex.”

“Drink.”

“Bossy.”

“Coffee first. Complaints after.”

I sat up and caught him looking, so I pulled the sheet higher.

“Eyes, Dalton.”

“I know where they are.”

“Questionable.”

There was no awkwardness.

That was almost more alarming than awkwardness would have been.

His jeans were half under the chair. One of my socks had somehow reached the windowsill. The rain had stopped during the night, leaving the bunkhouse bright with that washed-clean morning light that makes every bad decision look extremely well documented.

I took a sip.

“So.”

“So?”

“What happens now?”

“We move cattle.”

I stared at him.

“Emotionally.”

“Oh.”

“Strong start.”

Wes sat on the edge of the bed.

“I’m not pretending last night didn’t happen.”

“Good.”

“I’m not asking you for anything you don’t want.”

“Also good.”

“And I’m not making decisions about where you live.”

I looked down at my coffee.

“My boxes are in storage.”

“I know.”

“My work is remote.”

“I know.”

“I have no idea where I’m going.”

“I know.”

I looked up.

“Do you know anything else?”

“You’re terrible before coffee.”

“I walked into that.”

“Yeah.”

He touched my knee beneath the sheet.

“You don’t have to figure it out today.”

Something in me loosened.

“Okay.”

“And if you leave, I’m not going to tell you not to.”

That tightened it again.

“Wow. Romantic.”

“I didn’t finish.”

“Please. Save yourself.”

“If you leave, I’ll hate it.”

I went quiet.

“But I won’t make you stay just so I don’t have to miss you.”

I looked at him.

That was the difference.

Daniel had loved me like a future he wanted to secure.

Wes wanted me without making my freedom the price.

“I might stay awhile.”

He nodded.

“Okay.”

“That’s all?”

“What do you want? Fireworks?”

“At least look pleased.”

His mouth curved.

“I’m very pleased.”

“Better.”

“But if you’re staying only because of me, I’ll personally put you on a plane.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“There he is. Ruining romance.”

“You’ll survive.”

“Maybe.”

“Coffee.”

I took another drink.

Then I noticed something.

“You put your shirt on wrong.”

Wes looked down.

The bottom button had missed its hole.

He fixed it without expression.

I smiled into my coffee.

“Interesting.”

“No.”

“You’re flustered.”

“No.”

“Wes Dalton.”

“Drink your coffee.”

“Oh, this is wonderful.”

He reached for the mug.

I moved it out of range.

“Absolutely not. I waited ten years for evidence that you occasionally malfunction.”

“I was tired.”

“From?”

His eyes met mine.

I smiled.

“Right.”

“Sadie.”

“There he is.”

He caught my ankle beneath the sheet and pulled me six inches toward him.

Coffee sloshed over my fingers.

“Hey.”

“Put it down.”

“You made me spill it.”

“You were talking.”

“I do that.”

“I’ve noticed.”

I set the cup on the floor.

Wes looked at the wet spot on my hand.

Then at me.

“Come here.”

I leaned closer.

“Instruction?”

That almost-smile appeared.

“Maybe.”

I kissed him before he could enjoy that answer too much.

For a few seconds I set the pace.

Then Wes slowed me.

Not stopped.

Slowed.

I tried to speed up again.

His hand settled at the back of my neck.

I pulled away.

“Excuse me.”

“What?”

“I was doing something.”

“I noticed.”

“And?”

“Too fast.”

“You critique kissing now?”

“Only yours.”

“Brave.”

“You asked me over here.”

“I also asked you to stop being annoying.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I implied it.”

“Poorly.”

I kissed him again.

He laughed against my mouth.

That annoyed me enough to climb partly into his lap, which stopped the laughing.

Better.

His hand settled at my waist.

I felt the moment he assumed I would follow him.

Normally I would have.

Instead I stopped.

Wes stopped too.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Sadie.”

I considered lying.

Then didn’t.

“Not like that.”

His expression changed immediately.

Not offended.

Attentive.

“Like what?”

“The hand.”

I moved it two inches.

“Here.”

Wes looked at where I had put him.

Then back at me.

“Here?”

“Yes.”

He tried again.

Slower this time.

My breath caught.

His mouth curved.

“Do not.”

“Didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking loudly.”

“I was thinking you were right.”

“That must hurt.”

“A little.”

I kissed him.

His hand moved again.

Wrong.

I pulled back.

“No.”

He stopped.

“Too much?”

“Just wrong.”

“Helpful.”

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder.”

I took his wrist and showed him.

Wes watched my face instead of his hand.

Something about that made me suddenly self-conscious.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“I’m learning.”

The answer went through me differently than an instruction did.

I swallowed.

“Oh.”

His thumb moved once.

Correctly this time.

I closed my eyes.

“There?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

I opened them again.

“Don’t get smug.”

“I’m not.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I got corrected twice in thirty seconds.”

“Character building.”

He kissed the corner of my mouth.

“I don’t know everything, Sadie.”

I looked at him.

There was no false modesty in it.

Just fact.

For some reason that hit harder than if he had pretended otherwise.

Last night had felt dangerous partly because Wes seemed to know exactly where every moment was going.

This morning, I realized something better.

He didn’t.

He was just willing to pay attention.

I touched his face.

“That might be the sexiest thing you’ve said.”

“That I don’t know something?”

“For a man, yes.”

He gave me the flat look.

I smiled.

Then he kissed me until I forgot what argument I had been preparing.

When we separated, I was breathing harder.

So was he.

I glanced toward the clock.

“Six forty-one.”

“I know.”

“Of course you do.”

“Nineteen minutes.”

“That sounds like a challenge.”

“It isn’t.”

I looked at him.

“Wes.”

“No.”

“I haven’t asked anything.”

“I know you.”

“Apparently not everything.”

That stopped him.

I smiled slowly.

“Oh, I am going to enjoy this.”

“Sadie.”

“Lie down.”

His eyebrows lifted.

I nearly lost my nerve.

Nearly.

“You heard me.”

Wes looked at me for a second longer.

Then did it.

Just like that.

Something hot moved through me.

He folded one arm behind his head.

I frowned.

“Do not look comfortable.”

“I am comfortable.”

“You’re ruining my authority.”

“That fragile?”

I put one hand on his chest.

“Careful.”

There.

The smallest change in his breathing.

I felt it under my palm.

“Interesting.”

“Don’t.”

“You like that.”

“No.”

“Wes.”

His eyes narrowed.

I grinned.

“Say it.”

“You are enjoying this far too much.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

He caught my wrist.

Instinctively.

Then stopped himself.

His grip loosened.

I looked at his hand.

Then at him.

“You can keep it.”

His gaze changed.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

He held my wrist again.

Not hard.

Enough.

My stomach flipped.

Something in his expression shifted too.

I saw it.

That mattered.

I leaned down.

“Good boy.”

Wes went completely still.

I lasted one second.

Then I burst out laughing.

His hand released me.

“No.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No.”

“I had to try it.”

“You did not.”

“I absolutely did.”

He sat up.

I was still laughing when he kissed me.

Whatever experiment I had been conducting collapsed immediately.

This kiss was different from last night.

Less careful around the edges.

Not because trust mattered less.

Because we had some now.

I knew I could correct him.

He knew I would.

He knew I liked losing control.

I knew he liked when I made him lose some too.

That felt much more dangerous than one of us simply winning.

His hand moved and I caught it.

“Wait.”

He waited.

“Slower.”

He went slower.

I exhaled.

“There.”

Wes’s forehead touched mine.

“There?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

No joke.

No instruction.

Just okay.

I kissed him again.

After that, conversation became less reliable.

At some point my coffee went cold on the floor.

At some point the sheet disappeared completely.

At some point Wes bumped his knee hard enough against the bed frame to swear.

I started laughing.

He looked offended.

“That hurt.”

“I know. I’m trying to be sympathetic.”

“You’re doing badly.”

“You’re very brave.”

“Sadie.”

I kissed him to make up for it.

Mostly.

When the clock finally showed six fifty-eight, Wes was sitting on the edge of the mattress trying to find one boot.

I was wearing his shirt and nothing else useful.

“Where’s my other boot?”

“You threw it.”

“I did not.”

“You kicked it.”

“Different.”

He found it beneath the chair.

I looked at the clock.

“Two minutes.”

“One.”

“That is not how minutes work.”

“It is now six fifty-nine.”

I stared.

“We are not making it.”

“No.”

“Dad will know.”

“Your father always knows.”

“That sounded ominous.”

Wes pulled on his boot.

I picked up my coffee and discovered it was freezing.

I made a face.

He glanced over.

“Problem?”

“You ruined my coffee.”

“You abandoned your coffee.”

“For sex.”

“Poor prioritization.”

I threw a sock at him.

He caught it.

Naturally.

“Boots,” he said.

“You are deeply unromantic.”

“Cattle.”

“Bossy.”

“Yes.”

I smiled.

“Good.”

He stopped.

Slowly turned toward me.

I pointed.

“Don’t you dare.”

Wes laughed.

We reached the pasture at seven-oh-seven.

Dad looked at his watch.

Then at me.

Then at Wes.

Nobody said anything.

Mom would have called the silence meaningful.

I called it none of his business.

The first week after the bunkhouse, saying hello became unexpectedly complicated.

Three mornings later I was brushing June in the barn when Wes walked in carrying a halter and stopped two feet inside the door.

“Morning.”

I waited.

He hung the halter on a hook.

I kept waiting.

Wes looked at me.

“What?”

“That’s all I get?”

“You said good morning yesterday.”

“Yesterday we had not established precedent.”

“For?”

I stared at him.

“You are thirty-eight years old.”

“I know.”

“You have kissed women before.”

“Also true.”

“Then why are you standing over there like I might spook?”

His gaze went toward the open barn doors.

Dad was somewhere beyond them, arguing with a tractor.

I understood.

Then enjoyed understanding far too much.

“Oh.”

“Don’t.”

“You’re scared of my father.”

“No.”

“Fast answer.”

“He is thirty yards away.”

“Bad knees.”

“Still has ears.”

I put down the brush.

“Wes.”

He crossed the space between us, touched my waist and kissed me once.

It lasted perhaps two seconds.

I blinked when he stepped back.

“What was that?”

“Good morning.”

“That was administrative.”

His mouth twitched.

I caught the front of his shirt and kissed him properly.

For a moment he resisted only because he was laughing, which I found deeply disrespectful.

Then his hand settled at my back and the laugh disappeared.

Better.

A metal bucket clanged somewhere outside.

We separated at the speed of guilty teenagers.

I looked at Wes.

He looked at me.

That did it.

I covered my mouth to keep from laughing.

“Do not.”

“You ran rodeo bulls.”

“Quiet.”

Dad’s voice carried from outside.

“You two need something?”

Wes looked toward the door.

“No.”

I had to turn away.

Dad muttered something about useless people and the tractor started again.

The barn went quiet.

Wes picked a piece of hay out of my hair.

“This is weird,” I said.

He paused.

“Bad weird?”

I thought about it.

“No. New weird.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know what we’re doing?”

“No.”

That answer made something in me relax.

“Good.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“Good?”

“I don’t want you knowing everything first.”

Wes looked at me for a second, then held out his hand.

I took it.

No instruction.

No game.

Just his fingers closing around mine until Dad yelled that if we were done socializing, a gate still needed fixing.

I smiled.

“Romance.”

“Your family has a gift.”

We went to fix the gate.

By August, everybody knew.

Small towns don’t require announcements.

Mom figured it out when Wes stopped knocking before coming into the kitchen.

Dad figured it out when I arrived at breakfast wearing one of Wes’s shirts.

Ellie figured it out because Ellie had functional eyesight.

Ben figured it out during a video call from Montana when Wes walked through the background carrying a towel.

My brother stared at the screen.

“Is that Dalton?”

“No.”

Wes stopped.

Walked backward into view.

“Hey, Ben.”

Ben closed his eyes.

“I hate both of you.”

“Love you too.”

Wes disappeared toward the bathroom.

I waited.

Ben opened his eyes again.

“Seriously?”

“What?”

“My best friend?”

“You say that like I ordered him online.”

“I would have preferred that.”

“Shipping would’ve been expensive.”

“Sadie.”

“What?”

He rubbed both hands over his face.

“You know how long I spent making sure he never did anything stupid when you were nineteen?”

I stopped smiling.

“What?”

Ben looked toward wherever Wes had disappeared.

Then back at me.

“Oh, come on.”

“No. Go back.”

“Sadie.”

“Ben.”

He sighed.

“You were nineteen.”

“I am familiar with the timeline.”

“And you followed him around like he personally invented men.”

“That feels unnecessarily vivid.”

“You carved his initials into your boot.”

“World domination.”

“That was a terrible lie then too.”

I waited.

Ben leaned back.

“He knew.”

“I know everybody knew.”

“No. I mean he knew.”

Something in my stomach shifted.

“Knew what?”

“That you were pretty.”

I stared at him.

“That is devastatingly uninteresting information.”

“He also knew I would break every bone in his body if he touched you.”

“You’re very macho from Montana.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Ben was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, “He stopped coming around as much that last summer.”

I frowned.

“What?”

“You didn’t notice?”

Apparently I hadn’t.

“He said he was busy.”

“He was busy.”

“With what?”

“Avoiding the house.”

That rearranged something small and old inside me.

“Why?”

Ben looked at me like I was stupid.

Then remembered I was his sister and adjusted the expression only slightly.

“Because you were nineteen, Sadie.”

I sat back.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of us said anything.

Then Ben pointed at the screen.

“Do not make that face.”

“What face?”

“The one where this becomes romantic.”

“It is a little romantic.”

“It is not. It was deeply inconvenient. He missed poker.”

I laughed.

The bathroom door opened somewhere behind me.

Ben’s expression changed.

“Put him on.”

“No.”

“Sadie.”

“This is suddenly my favorite conversation.”

“Put Dalton on.”

Wes appeared behind me, rubbing a towel over his hair.

“What?”

Ben pointed directly at him through the screen.

“You.”

Wes looked at me.

“What did you do?”

“I learned history.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Ben.”

“You told her?”

“She asked.”

“You volunteered information?”

“Under pressure.”

“From my sister?”

“She’s exhausting.”

“I can still hear you.”

Both men ignored me.

Ben leaned toward the camera.

“You remember the rule?”

Wes became very still.

“What rule?” I asked.

“No.”

Ben looked delighted.

“Oh, he remembers.”

“Ben.”

“The one where if you ever hurt her, I get the truck.”

I blinked.

“That’s the rule?”

“It’s a good truck.”

Wes rubbed one hand over his jaw.

“You were twenty-two when you made that rule.”

“Still legally binding.”

“That seems to run in the family,” I said.

Ben ignored me again.

Then his face lost some of the joke.

“You good?”

He was asking Wes.

That surprised me.

Wes looked at me.

Not quickly.

Not performatively.

Just looked.

“Yeah.”

Ben watched him.

Then nodded.

“Okay.”

That was it.

No threat.

No speech.

Just two men who had known each other half their lives checking the ground beneath something new.

Then Ben looked at me.

“You?”

“Very.”

His expression softened.

“Okay.”

I swallowed.

“Are we done being emotionally competent?”

“Absolutely.”

“Thank God.”

Ben pointed at Wes again.

“Still want the truck.”

“No.”

“Worth a shot.”

Dad handled the news even more efficiently.

He and Wes stood on the porch one evening with beers.

Dad said, “You remember I own guns.”

Wes said, “You remember I know where you keep them.”

Dad considered this, then handed him another beer.

Men are astonishingly simple.

The surprise was me.

I stayed.

Not because Wes asked.

He didn’t.

At first I told myself that was noble.

By late August, it was irritating.

I stayed because I took three new design clients and discovered I worked better with the windows open.

Because Dad’s knees really did hurt.

Because Mom’s farm shop website had apparently last been updated during the Bush administration.

Because I liked waking up dirty from actual dirt.

And yes, because Wes was there.

One Saturday, I found him loading posts into his truck.

“I’m coming.”

“No.”

I stopped.

Two months together and he could still make one syllable sound like a dare.

“Excuse me?”

“Client call at ten.”

“I can move it.”

“You moved it twice.”

“So?”

“So you spent five years angry at a man who didn’t respect your work. Don’t become the next person who doesn’t.”

I stared at him.

“That was aggressively perceptive.”

“I know.”

“I dislike personal growth before noon.”

“I know.”

He lifted another post.

I leaned against the truck.

“You could ask me to stay.”

He looked over.

“You are staying.”

“I mean with you.”

Wes stopped.

Good.

For once, I had surprised him.

I continued before courage escaped.

“I know you’re trying not to choose anything for me.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re overdoing it.”

His face changed.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“I thought that was the point.”

“No. The point is that you don’t make my choices.”

“I don’t.”

“I know.”

“Then what are we arguing about?”

“We are not arguing yet.”

“Encouraging.”

I folded my arms.

“Sometimes I want to know what you want before I decide what I want to do about it.”

Wes looked at me.

“I tell you what I want.”

“You tell me what you want in bed.”

A smile threatened.

“Frequently.”

“Yes. Congratulations. Very advanced.”

“Sadie.”

“I mean the other things.”

He set the post down.

I immediately regretted starting this.

Naturally, that made me continue.

“When I said I might stay, you told me you’d put me on a plane if I stayed because of you.”

“You hated Daniel deciding your life.”

“Yes.”

“So I’m not doing that.”

“You are so terrified of becoming him that sometimes you act like not needing me is the only acceptable answer.”

Wes went still.

I hadn’t planned that sentence.

It came out anyway.

His expression tightened.

Except this time I didn’t enjoy winning.

“That isn’t what I meant,” he said.

“I know.”

“Then why say it like that?”

“Because that is what it feels like sometimes.”

Silence.

Real silence.

Not sexy silence.

Not the kind where Wes waits until I tell the truth.

The kind where two people discover that neither of them has the next line prepared.

He looked toward the fence posts.

I waited.

I hated waiting when it wasn’t erotic.

Finally he said, “I don’t know how to do that part yet.”

My anger disappeared so quickly it annoyed me.

“What part?”

“Want you here without making that your problem.”

I looked at him.

Wes rubbed his thumb along the edge of the truck bed.

“I know what not to do.”

“That’s not the same as knowing what to do.”

“No.”

Not a perfect answer.

Not an answer at all, really.

Just Wes, standing beside a stack of fence posts, admitting there was something he couldn’t fix by being careful enough.

I stepped closer.

“Try.”

He looked at me.

“I want you here.”

My heart kicked.

“How long?”

“As long as you want to be.”

I made a face.

He saw it.

“Wrong?”

“Not wrong.”

“Then what?”

“Still evasive.”

Wes exhaled through his nose.

I waited.

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Less than usual.”

“Liar.”

“A little.”

He stepped closer.

“I want you in my bed.”

“Better.”

“I want your boots by my door even though you leave them where I trip over them.”

“Interior design.”

“I want your coffee cup in my sink.”

“You have a dishwasher.”

“You distrust it.”

“Machines shouldn’t hide their work.”

His thumb moved beneath the edge of my shirt.

“And I want your clothes taking over half my closet.”

“Half?”

“Seventy percent.”

“Accurate.”

I looked at him.

Nothing funny remained in my chest.

“Wes.”

“But if you wake up six months from now and decide you want Paris or New York or fucking Alaska, you go.”

My throat tightened.

“And you?”

“I’ll miss you.”

“That’s all?”

“No.”

He looked at me.

“I’ll probably come with you.”

I smiled.

“Much better.”

He touched my face.

“Was that the answer?”

“For today.”

“You’re exhausting.”

“You knew that.”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

The tension in his face eased.

“I’m staying anyway.”

I kissed him.

My client call started three minutes late.

That one was my fault.

CHAPTER SIX

The September rodeo was Ellie’s idea.

Wes had retired years before, but apparently every cowboy within four counties still knew him.

Half the women did too.

I handled this with maturity.

“Who is she?”

Wes looked where I was looking.

A redhead had just hugged him.

“Megan.”

“Useful information.”

“Her husband is standing beside her.”

“Even more useful.”

His mouth twitched.

“You jealous?”

“No.”

“Fast answer.”

“Easy question.”

Wes laughed.

I hated him.

Then Luke Harper appeared carrying two beers.

“Sadie.”

“Luke.”

“You vanished on me at Miller’s.”

“I did.”

“I was devastated.”

“You recovered beautifully.”

He handed me a beer and nodded toward Wes.

“So that’s happening?”

“Apparently.”

“Serious?”

I looked over.

Wes was talking to a former rodeo friend.

He felt me watching and turned.

Our eyes met across the dirt.

No smile.

No wave.

Just that quiet look.

I felt it everywhere.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Very.”

Luke wandered away after three minutes of harmless conversation.

Wes joined me almost immediately.

I smiled.

“Hello.”

“Beer from Luke?”

“Yes.”

“He still trying?”

My smile widened.

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“You’re jealous.”

“No.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“This is incredible.”

Wes started walking toward the trucks.

I followed, delighted.

“I’ve waited months to find something that gets under your skin.”

“You think Luke gets under my skin?”

“You watched him.”

“I watch fires.”

“That’s a terrible excuse.”

“Still true.”

We stopped beside his truck.

I leaned against it.

“You know what?”

“What?”

“I like jealous.”

“Dangerous preference.”

“I have several.”

He stepped closer.

“You like testing things.”

“I like finding the edge.”

“And when you find it?”

I looked up at him.

“Push harder.”

His eyes changed.

There.

Still.

After months.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”

I hooked a finger into his belt loop.

“Complaining?”

“No.”

“Scared?”

“No.”

“Old?”

His eyes narrowed.

“Careful.”

I grinned.

“Make me.”

He didn’t kiss me.

Not immediately.

That surprised me enough to shut me up.

Wes looked past me toward the rodeo grounds.

Luke was talking to someone near the beer stand.

Then his attention came back to me.

“I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

My smile returned slowly.

“Oh.”

“Don’t.”

“This is incredible.”

“I know you can talk to whoever you want.”

“Very progressive.”

“Sadie.”

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No.”

His hand settled against the truck beside my hip.

“I know it doesn’t mean I get to decide anything for you.”

“Good.”

“I know you don’t need me deciding who you dance with.”

“Excellent.”

“I still don’t like it.”

That did more to me than it should have.

I looked at him.

“Say that again.”

“No.”

“Wes.”

“You heard me.”

I caught his belt loop.

“You’re jealous.”

“Yes.”

The admission hit harder than the denial ever had.

I smiled.

“Wow.”

“Happy?”

“Enormously.”

“That’s concerning.”

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this.”

“I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Ten years?”

I stopped.

He smiled, just barely.

“You knew?”

“Everybody knew.”

“That is becoming a very annoying phrase.”

“Still true.”

I leaned closer.

“So what are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing.”

I frowned.

“Nothing?”

“You want to talk to Luke, talk to Luke.”

“That is offensively healthy.”

“I warned you.”

“You could at least brood.”

“I did.”

“For three minutes?”

“Long three minutes.”

I laughed.

Then Wes stepped closer.

“But if you’re asking what I want…”

I stopped laughing.

“Yeah?”

His hand settled at my waist.

“I want you with me.”

That quieted everything.

The announcer.

Music.

People.

For one second, all of it disappeared.

I looked up at him.

“I am with you.”

“I know.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“No problem.”

His thumb moved against my side.

“Just telling you what I want.”

The exact thing I had asked him to learn.

Not deciding for me.

Not pretending he didn’t care.

Just saying it.

My chest tightened.

“Much better.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

Then I smiled.

“But I still like jealous.”

“Dangerous.”

“I have several dangerous preferences.”

“I’ve noticed.”

He stepped even closer.

“You really want to keep pushing?”

“Always.”

“Why?”

I thought about it.

Then told him the truth.

“Because you always push back.”

His expression changed.

Not harder.

Softer.

Which was worse.

“Sadie.”

“What?”

“You know I’m not going anywhere, right?”

That caught me off guard.

I looked away.

Wes touched my chin.

“Hey.”

I looked back.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

I exhaled.

Then because sincerity had lasted long enough:

“You could still look more threatened by Luke.”

“No.”

“Possessive?”

“No.”

“Violently overcome with cowboy jealousy?”

“No.”

“Terrible boyfriend.”

“Apparently.”

I kissed him against the side of the truck.

Not politely.

Not enough to get us arrested.

Enough.

When I stepped back, Wes looked at me for one long second.

Then:

“Truck.”

I blinked.

“That your entire argument?”

“Yes.”

“Compelling.”

He opened the passenger door.

I looked past him toward the rodeo grounds.

“People can see us.”

“That is why I opened the door.”

“Very moral of you.”

“Get in.”

I smiled.

“Bossy when jealous.”

“Sadie.”

I got in.

Wes walked around the hood, climbed behind the wheel and started the engine.

“Where are we going?”

“Home.”

“That is twenty minutes away.”

“I know.”

I studied his profile.

“You’re actually going to drive normally right now?”

“Yes.”

“That seems medically irresponsible.”

His hand settled on the gearshift.

I put mine over it.

Wes looked at my hand.

Then at me.

“Seat belt.”

I stared.

“You cannot possibly be serious.”

“Seat belt.”

I put it on.

“Happy?”

“No.”

That shut me up for almost a mile.

Almost.

At the first empty turnout beyond the fairgrounds, Wes turned off the highway onto a gravel access road used by stock trailers and ranch trucks.

The rodeo lights dropped behind us.

He stopped beneath a stand of cottonwoods and killed the engine.

I looked around.

“No audience.”

“That the complaint?”

“Observation.”

Wes turned toward me.

The calm was back on his face.

Mostly.

I knew him better now.

I could see the part underneath.

The part that had watched Luke hand me a beer and apparently spent three extremely long minutes pretending not to care.

I smiled.

“Still jealous?”

“Yes.”

The honesty hit me all over again.

“Say it.”

“I just did.”

“No. The other part.”

His eyes narrowed.

“What other part?”

“What you want.”

Wes went quiet.

Then his hand closed around the back of my neck and he kissed me.

Not rough.

Not angry.

Certain.

Enough to make every smart thing I had prepared leave immediately.

I caught the front of his shirt.

He pulled back an inch.

“You wanted words.”

“Yes.”

“I want you with me.”

“I am.”

“I want you thinking about me when somebody like Luke looks at you.”

My pulse jumped.

“That sounds suspiciously possessive.”

“It’s honest.”

“Better.”

“And I want you to stop smiling like you just won something.”

“Impossible.”

He kissed me again.

I ended up half turned toward him, one knee pressed against the seat, his hand at my waist keeping me steady when the truck suddenly seemed much smaller than Ford had intended.

The months between the bunkhouse and now had changed the way we touched.

No hesitation.

No uncertainty.

We already knew the game.

He knew I would push.

I knew he would wait until I meant it.

Then push back.

I tugged his lower lip between my teeth.

Wes made a quiet sound.

Tiny.

Still enough.

I smiled.

That sound pleased me.

Wes’s eyes narrowed.

I went completely still.

Then deliberately moved closer.

“Still want me to push?”

His eyes changed.

I had not gotten tired of that.

Not even slightly.

His hand moved from my waist to my jaw.

“Still want to find the edge?”

“Yes.”

“And when you find it?”

I looked straight at him.

“Push harder.”

This time when he kissed me, the jealousy was there.

Not as punishment.

Not as ownership.

As heat.

As the rare admission that I could get under his skin too.

That mattered more than I expected.

I wanted the evidence.

So I kept provoking him.

A kiss.

A smile.

My fingers slipping beneath the edge of his collar.

Luke’s name, once.

That did it.

Wes stopped.

Not dramatically.

His hand simply went still at my waist.

The air changed.

I felt it immediately.

“What?”

He looked at me.

“Don’t do that.”

For once, I had no joke ready.

“Do what?”

“Use him.”

I sat back slightly.

The heat between us didn’t disappear.

Something else arrived beside it.

“Okay.”

Wes exhaled.

I watched him.

“You’re actually angry.”

“A little.”

“Because I talked to him?”

“No.”

“Because he bought me a beer?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“Because you know this matters to me now and you just poked it to see what happened.”

That landed.

Mostly because it was true.

I looked down at the dashboard.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

Wes was quiet.

Then his thumb moved once against my side.

“I know.”

“No. I mean it.”

“I know.”

I looked at him again.

“I did want you to see him with me.”

He looked away for half a second.

The truth felt dangerous now.

Good dangerous.

The kind without a script.

“Why?”

I almost said because it was funny.

It had been.

That wasn’t all of it.

“Because I wanted to know if I could make you care enough to hate it.”

Wes stared at me.

I swallowed.

“That sounds worse out loud.”

“A little.”

“I know you care.”

“Do you?”

There was no accusation in it.

That made it worse.

“Yes.”

“Then why do you keep testing it?”

I looked toward the windshield.

The cottonwoods moved slightly in the dark.

Somewhere far behind us, the rodeo announcer was still talking.

“I don’t know.”

Wes waited.

I hated that he could do that.

I hated that it worked.

Finally I said, “Maybe because every time I get something good, I want to kick the tire.”

The corner of his mouth twitched.

“Romantic.”

“Shut up.”

“No.”

“I’m being vulnerable.”

“Poorly.”

“I learned from you.”

That got the smallest smile.

I leaned closer again.

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“I liked him looking at me.”

Wes went still.

There.

The dangerous truth.

I kept going before I could take it back.

“I liked that somebody else still could.”

His face gave me nothing.

I could hear my own pulse.

“And I liked knowing you saw it.”

“Sadie.”

“I’m not finished.”

He waited.

“But I didn’t want Luke.”

That sounded too easy.

Too neat.

I corrected myself.

“I mean, he’s attractive. I’m not blind.”

Wes’s eyebrows lifted.

“Excellent recovery.”

“You asked for honesty.”

“I did.”

“I liked the attention.”

He looked out through the windshield once.

Then back.

“Okay.”

I frowned.

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s all?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know. Brood harder.”

“I’m considering leaving you here.”

I laughed.

The tension cracked but didn’t disappear.

Wes touched my chin.

“I don’t need you to pretend nobody else exists.”

The humor left me again.

“Good.”

“But don’t make me compete with a man you don’t even want because you need proof I do.”

That went straight through me.

I nodded.

“Fair.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

A beat.

Then:

“You were still jealous.”

Wes closed his eyes.

I smiled.

“You are impossible.”

“You love it.”

His eyes opened.

“That isn’t what I said.”

“But?”

His hand slid into my hair.

“Careful.”

There it was.

Different now.

Not part of a script.

Earned.

My breath caught.

Wes saw it.

“Still want to push?”

I thought about it.

Actually thought.

Then nodded.

“Yes.”

“Me?”

The question surprised me.

“What?”

“You pushing me, or Luke pushing me?”

Oh.

I moved closer until my knee pressed against his thigh.

“You.”

His expression changed.

“Words.”

I looked straight at him.

“I want you.”

“Good.”

The reaction hit before pride could protect me.

Wes noticed.

Naturally.

I grabbed his shirt.

“Do not enjoy that.”

“Too late.”

I kissed him.

This time I didn’t use Luke.

I didn’t need to.

I had Wes’s jealousy already.

Real.

Messy.

His.

And somehow the fact that we had nearly stumbled over it made it hotter.

Because now I knew the edge wasn’t Luke.

It was honesty.

His hand settled at my waist.

I pulled him closer.

“Harder.”

He did.

I made a sound I would deny later.

Wes stopped.

“Too much?”

“No.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

“Then tell me.”

I stared at him.

He waited.

God, I hated him.

“I want more.”

His breathing changed.

Not mine.

His.

I smiled.

“There you are.”

“Don’t.”

“I finally found it.”

“Found what?”

“The thing that makes you stop pretending you’re fine.”

“I wasn’t pretending.”

“Your hand is shaking.”

Wes looked down.

Very slightly.

It was.

I hadn’t imagined it.

Something in my chest went warm and reckless.

I covered his hand with mine.

He looked at me.

“No joke?” he asked.

“Thinking about one.”

“Don’t.”

“Bossy.”

“Sadie.”

I kissed him before either of us could get comfortable again.

The truck became too small almost immediately.

My knee hit the console.

Wes swore when his elbow found the door handle.

I started laughing.

“Do not.”

“You’re very graceful.”

“You are halfway on the gearshift.”

“That sounds like poor planning.”

“You climbed over here.”

“Details.”

He moved me and I hit the horn.

The sound exploded beneath the cottonwoods.

We both froze.

Then I laughed so hard I buried my face against his shoulder.

Wes’s chest moved beneath me.

“You’re laughing.”

“No.”

“You are.”

“Get off the horn.”

“I am not on the horn.”

“Your ass is on the horn.”

That made it worse.

When I finally stopped, my eyes were wet.

Wes was smiling.

The real smile.

Not the controlled little corner.

The one that changed his whole face.

I touched his mouth.

“There.”

“What?”

“That.”

He kissed my fingers.

Then my palm.

Then looked at me.

No performance.

No perfect line.

Just him.

I leaned closer.

“Still jealous?”

“Yes.”

“Still mad?”

“A little.”

“Still want me?”

His hand moved to the back of my neck.

“Very.”

That word went through me.

I kissed him.

We stopped trying to make the front seat accommodate anything it clearly had not been designed for.

That helped.

A little.

We gave up on the front seat.

I climbed into the back and looked at him over the headrest.

Wes stayed where he was.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That face is not nothing.”

“I’m deciding whether this is a terrible idea.”

“You parked here.”

“Before you assaulted the horn.”

“The horn involved itself.”

He almost smiled.

“Come here.”

He got out, opened the back door and climbed in beside me.

The cab suddenly felt smaller again, but differently. Less comedy. More awareness.

His knee touched mine.

I put my hand on his chest.

“Don’t go careful on me because you feel guilty for being jealous.”

“I don’t feel guilty.”

I blinked.

“Good.”

“I feel stupid for pretending I wasn’t.”

“Also good.”

“You are enjoying this too much.”

“Probably.”

His hand closed around my waist.

“What do you want?”

The old answer would have been you.

True, but lazy.

I looked at him.

“I want you to stop pretending it didn’t get to you.”

The calm in his face thinned.

“I already stopped.”

“Then show me.”

That did it.

Wes kissed me hard enough that my shoulder hit the seat.

I made a startled sound against his mouth and he stopped immediately.

“Seat.”

“I noticed.”

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

“Sure?”

I grabbed his shirt and pulled him back.

“Very.”

The next kiss had less patience in it.

Not none.

Wes was still Wes.

But now I could feel the effort it cost him to slow down.

That was the part I wanted.

His hand moved along my side.

I caught his wrist.

He stopped.

“Wrong?”

“A little.”

I moved his hand lower and slightly back.

“Here.”

He tried again.

My breath caught.

“Better?”

“Yes.”

He watched my face.

No defensiveness. No performance of expertise.

Just attention.

That still got me.

I kissed him again, slower this time.

For several seconds we found an actual rhythm.

Then my boot caught beneath the front seat.

I pulled.

Nothing.

Wes looked down.

“Stuck?”

“No.”

I pulled harder.

The boot came free so suddenly my knee hit his thigh.

He grunted.

I froze.

“Sorry.”

“I’m fine.”

“Sure?”

His eyes narrowed.

I smiled.

“Now you know how it feels.”

“You are a terrible person.”

“And yet.”

He kissed me before I could finish.

The humor stayed between us this time instead of breaking the heat.

That was new too.

His fingers slid into my hair.

I felt the pull, light at first.

Wanted more.

“Harder.”

He did.

My eyes closed.

“Still?”

“Yes.”

“Look at me.”

I opened them.

There was jealousy in his face now.

Not ugly.

Not theatrical.

Just the uncomfortable fact that another man had looked at me and Wes had cared.

I touched his jaw.

“Tell me.”

“What?”

“The part you were trying not to say.”

He was quiet long enough that I thought he might refuse.

Then he said, “I hated watching him hand you that beer.”

Heat moved through me.

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“I want to hear it.”

Wes looked at me.

“Because I wanted your attention.”

Simple.

Embarrassingly effective.

I shifted closer.

“You had it.”

“Not all of it.”

“Greedy.”

“Apparently.”

I kissed him.

Then, because I was still me, I smiled against his mouth.

“Luke did look good tonight.”

Wes went still.

Not the good stillness.

I felt the line the second I crossed it.

I pulled back.

“No.”

His hand stayed at my waist.

“Don’t bring him in here.”

No anger in the words.

That made them land harder.

I nodded.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes.”

I took a breath.

“Just us.”

Something in his face loosened.

“Good.”

The reaction hit me before I could defend myself.

Wes saw it.

Of course he did.

“Do not.”

“Didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“Maybe.”

I kissed him again.

This time I did not need Luke, or the idea of Luke, or proof that Wes could be made jealous.

I already had the truth.

What I wanted now was him.

I moved into his lap.

His hands settled at my hips.

“Still want this?”

“Yes.”

“Words.”

I almost rolled my eyes.

Then didn’t.

“I want you.”

His grip tightened.

“More specific.”

My face heated.

“You are enjoying this.”

“A little.”

I leaned close to his ear.

Told him.

For once Wes had no answer ready.

His hand actually shook against my hip.

Tiny.

Enough.

I covered it with mine.

“There.”

He looked at me.

“No joke?”

“Not this time.”

He kissed me with his eyes open.

Wes stopped long enough to reach for his wallet.

I looked at him.

“Prepared.”

“You made fun of me last time.”

“Growth.”

He handled the packet better this time.

“Look at you.”

“Do not start.”

A few minutes later, when he finally pushed inside me, nothing about it was graceful.

The back seat was too narrow. My knee kept finding the door. Wes had to shift twice before either of us was comfortable.

The first angle was wrong.

I stopped him.

“Wait.”

He went still.

I adjusted beneath him.

“Now.”

“Better?”

He moved with me once.

I exhaled.

“Much.”

His forehead dropped to mine.

“You tell me.”

“I will.”

I did.

Slower once.

Then harder.

Then, when he tried to slow because my breathing changed, I said, “Don’t.”

Wes stopped anyway.

“Good change or bad change?”

I stared at him.

“Good.”

“Sure?”

“If you ask me that one more time, I’m going to bite you.”

His mouth curved.

“Good change.”

“Yes.”

He moved again.

The control in him held for another minute.

Maybe two.

Then I felt it go.

Not disappear.

Crack.

His breathing turned rough. His hand tightened at my hip. The quiet voice lost some of its quiet.

That mattered almost as much as anything he was doing to me.

I had spent months pushing on every locked door I could find.

This one opened because he trusted me enough not to keep it shut.

I touched his face.

“Wes.”

His eyes found mine.

“I’m here.”

The words came out before I thought about them.

His expression changed.

Then he kissed me, and for a while neither of us said anything useful.

When the pleasure finally took language away from me completely, I grabbed his shoulder and held on.

Wes said my name once, rougher than I had ever heard it.

That finished me.

Afterward, I stayed folded against him until the truck windows fogged and my breathing remembered how to behave.

His heart was still going too fast beneath my palm.

I smiled without lifting my head.

“You’re not nearly as calm as you look.”

“Do not start.”

“I’m simply collecting data.”

“Dangerous hobby.”

I sat up enough to look at him.

His hair was a disaster.

One button on his shirt had found the wrong hole.

I touched it.

“Evidence.”

Wes looked down.

Then back at me.

I smiled wider.

“Happy?”

“Enormously.”

“Brat.”

“You love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Love me?”

He went still.

I had meant it as a joke.

Mostly.

The rodeo continued somewhere behind us.

Announcer.

Music.

Horses.

Boots on gravel.

Wes looked at me.

“Yes.”

No speech.

No hesitation.

Just yes.

I stared at him.

“You cannot say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I asked if you wanted fries.”

“You asked a question.”

“I wasn’t ready.”

“You’re never ready.”

“I’m extremely prepared.”

“You came home early with your life in garbage bags.”

“They were premium garbage bags.”

A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.

I grabbed his shirt.

“You love me?”

“Yes.”

I searched his face.

Nothing performed.

Nothing dressed up because he thought I needed romance delivered correctly.

Just Wes.

Certain.

I kissed him.

Then pulled away.

“I love you too.”

Wes nodded.

I frowned.

“That reaction needs work.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Look overwhelmed.”

“I am.”

“You look exactly the same.”

“I’m thirty-eight.”

“That’s not an emotion.”

Then he smiled.

The rare one.

The one I had spent half my adolescence trying to earn before eventually learning the important part.

You could not make Wes Dalton do anything he didn’t mean.

Which was exactly why it mattered when he did.

I touched the wrong button on his shirt.

“This stays.”

“No.”

“Evidence.”

“Of?”

“That I won.”

Wes looked at me.

Then at the fogged windows.

Then at my hair.

“You think this is winning?”

I considered it.

“No.”

His eyebrows lifted.

I smiled.

“This is better.”

EPILOGUE

The following spring, Dad handed me back the keys to Wes’s blue Ford.

“Take those supplies to Dalton’s.”

“I live at Dalton’s.”

Dad pointed at me.

“Drive normal.”

“I always drive normal.”

He laughed so hard he had to sit down.

Mom came out of the farm shop carrying a cardboard box.

“And take these.”

“What is it?”

“Jam.”

“Why?”

“Because Wes likes it.”

I stared at her.

“I also live there.”

“You don’t eat breakfast.”

“I eat breakfast.”

“You drink coffee standing up.”

“That is a breakfast style.”

Mom put the box in the truck.

“There are biscuits too.”

“For Wes?”

She kissed my cheek.

“For whoever gets there first.”

I immediately started the engine.

Dad pointed after me.

“Normal!”

I took the cattle guard at a perfectly reasonable speed.

Mostly.

Wes was waiting by the gate when I arrived, sunglasses on, one boot hooked over the bottom rail.

I stopped.

He looked at the truck.

Then at me.

“You took that corner too fast.”

I climbed out.

“You still watching?”

“Always.”

That landed differently now.

My side of his closet was larger than his.

His house had six throw pillows he claimed to despise.

My desk occupied the room he’d once called an office.

There was a coffee ring on the kitchen table Wes had stopped trying to blame on me because we both knew it was his.

One of my bras had spent three days hanging from the bathroom doorknob before either of us admitted to seeing it.

My mother had given him a key to my parents’ house before asking me if I thought that was appropriate.

My father now called the ranch “Dalton’s” only when he wanted to annoy me.

Ben had visited at Christmas, eaten half our food and declared himself emotionally opposed to the entire arrangement while helping Wes repair the porch.

Ellie still claimed she deserved commission.

I still had no idea where I was going in five years.

That part had stopped frightening me.

Mostly.

Wes had more gray in his beard.

I had discovered I liked it.

Some things changed.

Some didn’t.

He looked into the truck bed.

“Supplies?”

“And apparently a dowry of jam.”

He walked over.

“Your mom make biscuits?”

I narrowed my eyes.

“You knew?”

“She texted.”

“My mother texts you?”

“Frequently.”

“This relationship has gone too far.”

Wes reached into the cab.

I blocked him.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting the box.”

“I can carry it.”

“I know.”

“Then?”

“I’m getting the box.”

I stepped aside suspiciously.

He picked it up.

Nothing happened.

I frowned.

Wes looked at me.

“What?”

“I thought that was going somewhere.”

“You’ve developed unreasonable expectations.”

“You trained me badly.”

“That seems unlikely.”

We carried everything inside.

The kitchen looked lived in now.

My laptop was open at one end of the table beside three color proofs for a brewery job.

Wes’s gloves sat beside them.

A grocery list was stuck to the fridge with a magnet shaped like Texas even though we did not live in Texas.

I had written:

coffee

milk

eggs

toothpaste

something green

Wes had added:

vegetables are something green

I had crossed it out.

He had written it again.

Marriage wasn’t involved.

War was.

Wes set the jam on the counter.

“You have a call at two.”

“I know.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“I still know.”

“You forgot yesterday.”

“I remembered eventually.”

“At two forty.”

“Time is a construct.”

“Your client disagreed.”

I took a biscuit from the box.

Wes held out his hand.

I took a bite.

His expression flattened.

“What?”

“That was mine.”

“There are six.”

“That one was mine.”

“How could you possibly know?”

“I chose it.”

“You looked at the box.”

“I chose carefully.”

I handed him the remaining half.

He looked at it.

Then at me.

“What?”

“You bit it.”

“Intimacy.”

He ate it anyway.

I smiled.

“I knew you loved me.”

“Don’t abuse it.”

“No promises.”

My phone buzzed on the table.

A message from a client.

I picked it up.

Wes opened the refrigerator.

“What do you want for dinner?”

“I don’t know.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“Did we survive?”

“Barely.”

“Steak?”

“Had steak.”

“Chicken?”

“Had chicken.”

I looked at him.

“Tacos.”

He stared into the refrigerator.

“We don’t have anything for tacos.”

“Town.”

“You just got back from town.”

“I came from my parents’ place.”

“Which is beside town.”

“Geographically irrelevant.”

Wes closed the refrigerator.

“Your ability to turn one errand into three is remarkable.”

“Thank you.”

“Wasn’t praise.”

I picked up the truck keys.

His eyes followed them.

Ah.

He held out a hand.

“Keys.”

I closed my fist around them.

“Say please.”

“No.”

“Then I’m keeping the truck.”

“It’s my truck.”

“Possession.”

“Sadie.”

I smiled.

He stepped closer and I backed toward the front door.

“Hand over the keys.”

I held them behind my back.

“No.”

“You really want to do this?”

“You never learn.”

“I learn plenty.”

“Name something.”

I opened the door.

“That you like chasing me.”

Wes smiled.

“I like catching you.”

“Same thing.”

“Not remotely.”

I stepped onto the porch.

Wes followed.

“Also,” I said, “that you’re terrible at admitting when I’m right.”

“You’re rarely right.”

“That jealousy makes you horny.”

He stopped.

I grinned.

“And that one still works.”

“Sadie.”

I laughed and ran for the truck.

He caught me before I reached the driver’s door.

Not because I was slow.

Because I was laughing too hard to defend myself properly.

Wes wrapped one arm around my waist.

“You’re stealing my truck.”

“We live together. It’s community property.”

“We are not married.”

“Details.”

“Important legal details.”

I twisted around in his arms.

“Scared?”

“No.”

“Old?”

His eyes narrowed.

“Careful.”

My stomach still did the thing.

Apparently some reflexes had excellent long-term survival rates.

I smiled.

“Make me.”

Wes kissed me.

Not long.

Just enough to completely derail the argument.

He pulled back.

“Client call at two.”

I looked at my watch.

“One fifteen.”

“Town is twenty minutes.”

“Then we’d better move.”

“We?”

I held out the keys.

Wes looked at them.

Then at me.

“You’re asking me to come?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I want tacos.”

“That does not answer the question.”

I sighed dramatically.

“Because I like you.”

“Suspicious.”

“And because if you stay here, you’ll eat all the biscuits.”

“More honest.”

I tossed him the keys.

He caught them.

Naturally.

Then tossed them back.

“You drive.”

I looked at him.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“Voluntarily?”

“Don’t make me regret it.”

I climbed inside.

Wes took the passenger seat and immediately reached for the belt.

I stared.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Sadie.”

“I just enjoy that after everything we’ve done, this is still where you draw the line.”

“Seat belt.”

“Yes, Dad.”

His head turned slowly.

“Don’t.”

I buckled it.

We made it almost to the gate before I remembered something.

“Oh, shit.”

Wes looked over.

“What?”

“The supplies.”

“We unloaded them.”

“No. The invoice.”

“Where?”

“Dad’s kitchen.”

Wes closed his eyes.

I waited.

He opened them.

“You want to turn around?”

I considered it.

“No.”

“Of course not.”

“He’ll text me a picture.”

“He won’t.”

“Mom will.”

“She will.”

“Problem solved.”

Wes looked out the window.

“I don’t know how you function.”

“Extremely well.”

“Debatable.”

At the gate, I slowed.

Then stopped.

Wes looked at me.

“What?”

I checked the mirror.

The ranch behind us.

His house.

My office window.

Our stupid Texas magnet on the fridge I couldn’t see from here but knew was there.

His boots beside mine.

My coffee cup probably still on the table.

I smiled.

“Nothing.”

“That’s never true.”

“Driveway appreciation.”

“You live here.”

“I know.”

The words came out before I thought about them.

And that was still strange sometimes.

I live here.

Not because somebody had planned the rest of my life and handed me the itinerary.

Because one day had become another.

One client became three.

One drawer became half a dresser.

Half a dresser became most of a closet.

A few weeks became summer.

Summer became fall.

Fall became winter.

Winter became spring.

And somehow none of it felt like being trapped.

Wes watched me.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure?”

I looked at him.

That question.

Still.

Always.

I smiled.

“Very.”

Then I put the truck in reverse.

Wes grabbed the door handle.

“What are you doing?”

“Changed my mind.”

“About town?”

“No.”

I backed away from the gate.

Wes looked over his shoulder.

“You know there are easier ways to turn around.”

“Boring ways.”

I stopped beside the fence.

Rolled down the window.

Wes stared at me.

“Now what?”

I leaned toward him.

“Good girls ride harder.”

His hand settled on my thigh.

“Good girls know when to quit.”

I kissed him.

Then smiled against his mouth.

“Wrong girl.”

Wes laughed.

“Thank God.”

Read GOOD GIRLS RIDE OLDER!

Age-Gap | Daddy Kink | Older Competent Man | Bratty Younger Woman

Chapter One

By the time I realized I was flirting with my landlord, I was already sitting on his tractor.

Not driving it. That would have been useful. I was sitting sideways on one enormous back tire, one boot dangling, taking photographs of myself while sunset turned the fields gold behind his barn.

This was considerably less useful.

Possibly more dangerous.

“You planning to work today?”

I lowered my phone.

Cal Mercer stood twenty feet away with both hands on his hips.

Forty-seven. Divorced. Six-foot-something, with silver beginning at his temples and absolutely no embarrassment about it.

Cal owned three gray T-shirts, two pairs of work boots and enough land to make Google Maps reconsider its priorities. He looked better in all of it than men who paid somebody to curate their wardrobes.

Today’s shirt carried a streak of grease across one side from the tractor he’d been repairing before I decided it required decorative improvement.

“I am working.”

“You’ve taken eighteen photographs.”

“Content is work.”

“You’re illustrating a cookbook.”

“Personal brand.”

His eyes moved slowly from my boots to my face.

“That one better?”

“Much.”

I smiled.

Cal didn’t.

That was one of the things I liked about him.

Men my age tended to reward you too quickly. A little eye contact and suddenly they behaved like golden retrievers who had heard the word park.

Cal looked at me the way a man might look at weather gathering over a distant hill. Interested, not alarmed, possibly planning around it.

I’d been renting the cottage at the edge of his property for six weeks.

The cottage was temporary.

So was I.

I had come to finish illustrations for a cookbook and recover from a three-year relationship that ended with every woman I knew saying some variation of, “I never liked him anyway.”

I was twenty-eight.

My mother called the move taking time for myself. My sister called it hiding in a field.

Both descriptions were fair.

Cal nodded toward the tractor.

“Move.”

“What if I like it here?”

“I need the wrench behind you.”

I looked down.

There was, in fact, a wrench beneath my thigh.

“Oh.”

Cal walked toward me.

I could have moved.

Instead I picked up the wrench.

“Come get it.”

He stopped.

Only for a second, but after six weeks I’d become a student of Cal Mercer pauses.

There was the I’m considering whether this deserves a response pause. The you’re about to hurt yourself pause. The I noticed your shorts and resent that you noticed me noticing pause.

This was new.

This was Claire, do you know what you’re doing?

I did.

Mostly.

“Claire.”

“Cal.”

“Give me the wrench.”

I held it up.

“What kind is it?”

He stared at me.

“What?”

“You think I’m useless. Test me.”

“What kind of wrench?”

I examined it carefully.

“Gray.”

His mouth twitched.

I gasped.

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“You almost smiled.”

“No.”

“You did.”

“Heat stroke.”

I climbed down.

My boot slipped.

There was nothing romantic about it. My heel slid against the tire, I swore, and then Cal caught me with one hand around my waist.

For two seconds neither of us spoke.

His hand was enormous.

That was my first coherent thought.

My second was that my shirt had ridden upward and his thumb was resting against bare skin.

His gaze dropped there, then returned to my face.

Quieter.

That was the only word I had for what happened to his eyes.

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

He didn’t release me.

Neither did I.

One of my hands had landed against his chest and his heartbeat was slow beneath my palm.

Annoyingly slow.

“You can let me go.”

“I can.”

He didn’t.

I smiled.

“There it is.”

“What?”

“The game.”

His thumb moved once against my waist.

“You’re the one playing.”

“What if I admit it?”

“Then I’d ask whether you know the rules.”

I looked up at him.

“There are rules?”

“Always.”

“I thought older men made them up as they went.”

His jaw flexed.

Interesting.

“How old do you think I am?”

“Old enough to hate my music.”

“Your music is terrible.”

“Old enough to own land.”

“Not an age.”

“Old enough to know what you’re doing.”

“Sometimes.”

I tilted my head.

“Old enough that if I called you Daddy right now, you’d pretend not to like it.”

Silence.

Complete.

Even the cicadas seemed professionally interested.

Cal removed his hand from my waist. For one terrible second I thought I’d miscalculated.

Then he reached past me, took the wrench from my hand and placed it carefully on the tractor.

Oh.

That was worse.

He turned back.

“Say it again.”

Every intelligent thought left my body.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

This version of Cal was significantly more interesting than the one I had been inventing for six weeks.

I swallowed.

“Daddy?”

His eyes stayed on mine.

“Don’t ask me.”

My stomach tightened.

I tried again.

“Daddy.”

“Better.”

I laughed because combustion seemed socially awkward.

“You’re full of surprises.”

“No.”

He stepped closer.

“You decided what I was before you ever bothered finding out.”

“Did not.”

“You’ve spent six weeks trying to make me lose control.”

“Maybe I like a challenge.”

“I know.”

His thumb brushed the corner of my mouth.

“But you’re making one mistake.”

“What?”

“You think losing control is the interesting part.”

I forgot the joke I’d been about to make.

“What is?”

Cal looked straight at me.

“Keeping it.”

Then he picked up his wrench and went back to the tractor.

I stared at him.

“That’s it?”

“For now.”

“You cannot say something like that and return to mechanical work.”

“Watch me.”

“You’re horrible.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“How long?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Cal.”

“Fifteen if you stop distracting me.”

I leaned against the tire.

“And if I don’t?”

This time he looked at me openly. Boots. Bare legs. Shorts. Face.

“Then maybe you’ll finally learn what happens when an older man stops pretending he doesn’t notice.”

I stopped speaking.

Cal glanced at his watch.

“Fourteen minutes.”

Chapter Two

He finished in thirteen.

I knew because I checked.

Repeatedly.

Cal washed his hands at the outdoor sink beside the barn with an orange bar of mechanic’s soap. I sat on the fence pretending the sight of a forty-seven-year-old man washing grease from his forearms was not educational.

It was.

Men could spend thousands in gyms and still fail to produce whatever was happening there.

Cal dried his hands and looked at me.

“Come here.”

No dramatic finger curl. No smile.

Just two words.

I climbed down.

“You know I have a name.”

“I know.”

“You could use it.”

“I could.”

I stopped in front of him.

“Do all your conversations use this few words?”

“The good ones.”

“Rude.”

His expression became serious.

“You sober?”

I blinked.

“Yes.”

“Want me?”

My pulse jumped.

“Yes.”

“Because you’re bored?”

“No.”

“Because your ex made you feel unwanted?”

“No.”

“Because I’m nineteen years older and you’ve decided that’s exciting?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it again.

“Partly.”

The corner of his mouth moved.

“Honest.”

“You asked.”

“I’m asking again.”

His eyes held mine.

“Do you actually want me?”

The teasing disappeared.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“You made me pass an interview.”

“Two questions.”

“Felt bureaucratic.”

“I can print forms.”

I laughed.

Cal hooked one finger through my belt loop and pulled me the final inch toward him.

My laugh disappeared.

“One more thing.”

“I knew there was paperwork.”

“If you call me that again, don’t do it because you think it’ll make me lose control.”

A shiver moved through me.

“What if that’s exactly why?”

“It won’t.”

“Very confident.”

“I’ve had nineteen additional years of practice.”

“At what?”

“Not reacting every time a pretty woman tries to provoke me.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“Every time?”

“Figure of speech.”

“Better be.”

His finger tightened in the loop.

“What it will do is tell me you want the game that comes with it.”

“What game?”

“You push.”

“Obviously.”

“I decide whether I’m moving.”

My pulse increased.

“And?”

“And when I tell you what I want, you decide whether you want to give it to me.”

That wasn’t the answer I’d expected.

“That’s surprisingly reasonable.”

“I’m old.”

“Forty-seven isn’t old.”

“You’ve spent six weeks saying otherwise.”

“Marketing.”

Cal smiled.

A real one.

It transformed him.

Which was selfish.

“You’re trouble.”

“You like trouble.”

“I like solving problems.”

There are statements a woman should probably not find erotic.

That was one of them.

I stepped closer.

“Daddy.”

His face didn’t change dramatically. No theatrical growl, no possessive snarl from the internet.

Only a small pause.

Then:

“Cottage.”

I blinked.

“Mine?”

“Yes.”

“What happens there?”

“We talk.”

“That sounds suspiciously disappointing.”

“We’ll see.”

“You’re making me walk?”

“It’s seventy yards.”

“In these boots?”

“You chose them.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Very much.”

I folded my arms.

“I liked you better when you were repressing yourself.”

“No, you didn’t.”

I hated how easily he said it.

Mostly because he was right.

At the cottage, Cal stopped outside.

I opened the door.

“You’re not coming in?”

“One question first.”

“Another interview?”

“Claire.”

The tone changed me instantly.

“What?”

“I’m your landlord.”

“I’ve noticed. The rent reminders are very sensual.”

“I’m serious.”

So was he.

I leaned against the doorway.

“Okay.”

“Your lease, your rent and your right to stay here have nothing to do with whatever happens between us.”

Something in my chest eased before I realized it had been tight.

Cal continued.

“If you tell me to leave tonight, I leave. Your rent doesn’t change. Your lease doesn’t change.”

“I know.”

“I want you to hear me say it.”

I looked at him for a moment, then nodded.

“I heard you.”

“Good.”

I felt that word.

He saw it.

Of course he did.

“Don’t.”

His eyebrow rose.

“Don’t what?”

“Look pleased.”

“I’m forty-seven. This is my face.”

“That excuse can’t cover everything.”

“Inside?”

I stepped aside.

“Inside.”

The cottage looked smaller with him in it.

Cal wasn’t simply tall. He occupied space as though he’d paid taxes on it.

His gaze moved across my laptop, sketches, yellow sofa and the shorts I’d left on the floor.

I kicked them beneath a chair.

“I’m creative.”

“Apparently.”

“It’s a process.”

“Laundry?”

“Don’t be provincial.”

I approached him.

Cal lifted one hand.

“Boots.”

“What?”

“Take them off.”

“You don’t like them?”

“I like them.”

“Then why?”

“Because you’ve already fallen off a tractor once today.”

“Technically I slipped.”

“Boots.”

This was not sexy.

It was practical.

Annoyingly, that made it significantly sexier.

I pulled them off.

Cal watched.

“Happy?”

“Safer.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

His eyes dropped to my bare feet and came back up.

“Getting there.”

I smiled.

“You’re looking.”

“I’m allowed.”

“Who decided?”

“You. Approximately five weeks ago.”

“Excuse me?”

“You started wearing those white shorts every morning after you figured out what time I feed the horses.”

I opened my mouth.

“Coincidence.”

“Seventeen mornings.”

“You counted?”

“I notice patterns.”

Apparently.

I stepped closer.

“What else did you notice?”

“The blue dress.”

I knew exactly which one.

“What about it?”

“You wore it to town.”

“Correct.”

“Came back late.”

“Eleven.”

“Stood on the porch talking to a man for fourteen minutes.”

I smiled.

“You were spying on me.”

“I was locking the workshop.”

“Jealous?”

“No.”

Too fast.

I grinned.

“Liar.”

Cal’s hand settled around my waist.

There.

Not rough.

Not gentle.

Certain.

He brought me against him.

“You know what I noticed?”

“What?”

“You kept looking toward my house while you talked to him.”

Caught.

My smile vanished.

“You saw that?”

“I notice a lot.”

“And still waited?”

“You weren’t ready.”

That irritated me.

“What makes you think I’m ready now?”

“You’ve stopped checking your phone.”

My chest tightened.

For weeks I’d been waiting for some grand moment of recovery from my ex.

Apparently it had been less cinematic.

A morning when I didn’t check whether he’d viewed my story. Then a day. Then three.

Cal had noticed before I did.

“I don’t want to talk about him.”

“Neither do I.”

“Very emotionally available.”

“You want to discuss your ex while I’m holding you?”

“No.”

“Then I’m doing excellent work.”

I laughed.

Cal kissed me.

The first kiss tasted like every second of the six weeks he’d refused to make easier for me.

He didn’t rush.

That was the first difference.

He didn’t kiss like he was trying to prove anything.

That was the second.

One hand remained at my waist. The other moved into my hair and stayed there until I stopped anticipating what he’d do next.

When he finally lifted his mouth, I was breathing harder than he was.

“Annoying.”

“What?”

“You’re not even winded.”

“I am.”

“You don’t look it.”

“Older men conceal suffering.”

I laughed, then whispered:

“Daddy.”

His eyes sharpened.

“Careful.”

“Found a button?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

“Claire.”

“What?”

“Bedroom.”

My stomach flipped.

“Bossy.”

“Yes.”

“What if I say no?”

“Then I go home.”

No hesitation.

No disappointment performed as punishment.

Nothing.

That answer did more to me than the command.

I took his hand.

“Bedroom.”

Chapter Three

Cal stopped beside my bed.

I leaned against the dresser because standing without structural assistance had recently become optimistic.

“Still yes?”

“Yes.”

“Say what you want.”

“You.”

“Specific.”

I stared at him.

“Is this an age thing?”

“It’s a communication thing.”

“Less sexy.”

“Supposed to be.”

I laughed.

Nervously.

Cal noticed.

Of course he did.

“Nervous?”

“A little.”

“Bad?”

“No.”

“Want slower?”

I looked at him.

This was the part nobody put in fantasies.

The exits.

Not dramatic ones. Tiny ones.

A pause.

A question.

A man standing close enough to touch me and giving me enough room to discover that I absolutely did not want him to leave.

“No.”

Cal nodded.

“Then tell me.”

I could make a joke.

Normally I would have.

I had built an entire personality out of getting to the joke half a second before anybody could get to me.

Instead I said:

“I want you to make me stop thinking.”

Something changed in his face.

Not dramatically.

With Cal nothing good happened dramatically.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

He stepped closer.

“I can do that.”

I believed him.

That was the dangerous part.

I touched the silver at his temple.

“Do you know this is my favorite part?”

“What?”

“This.”

“The gray?”

“Silver.”

“Gray.”

“You’re ruining my fantasy.”

“I’m part of your fantasy?”

“You know you are.”

His hand settled around my waist.

“Say it.”

“My fantasy?”

“What you called me outside.”

My pulse jumped.

“Daddy.”

“Good girl.”

Everything inside my head went blank.

Completely.

Cal saw it happen.

The bastard.

“You did that deliberately.”

“Yes.”

“At least pretend to feel guilty.”

“No.”

“You like saying it.”

“I like meaning it.”

That was worse.

“What does that mean?”

His thumb moved slowly against my side.

“It means I’m not going to praise you every time you do what I want.”

I inhaled.

“Romantic.”

“You’re very demanding.”

“You like it.”

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

His mouth brushed mine.

“Earn it.”

Oh.

There it was.

Not punishment.

Not humiliation.

Challenge.

I had spent six weeks trying to make Cal react because getting a reaction felt like winning.

Now I wanted something else.

Approval from a man who didn’t hand it out automatically.

“What do I have to do?”

His eyes held mine.

“Stop performing.”

My smile disappeared.

There it was again.

People kept learning me.

Very inconvenient.

“And?”

“Ask for what you actually want.”

I swallowed.

Cal waited.

Of course he did.

“I want you to kiss me.”

He did.

Slowly at first.

Almost irritatingly slowly.

His mouth stayed on mine until I stopped trying to predict what came next.

Then one hand slid into my hair.

The other stayed at my waist.

Certain.

Warm.

Not asking me to disappear beneath him.

Asking me to stay.

When he lifted his head, I followed before I could stop myself.

His mouth curved.

“Again?”

“Yes.”

“Ask.”

I stared at him.

“You cannot possibly intend to make me request every kiss.”

“No.”

“Good.”

“Just this one.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“Cal.”

He waited.

I hated him.

“I want you to kiss me again.”

“Better.”

He kissed me harder.

The change stole my breath.

My hands caught his shirt.

Cal pulled back only enough to look at me.

“And?”

“You know.”

“Tell me.”

I almost laughed.

Then his thumb touched the corner of my mouth.

I didn’t.

“Stay.”

His hand tightened around my waist.

“Good girl.”

The words went through me so fast that my knees nearly gave out.

Cal felt it.

His eyebrows lifted.

“No.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking.”

“I was.”

“Don’t.”

“Can’t help it.”

“You are unbearably pleased with yourself.”

“A little.”

I reached for him.

He caught my wrist.

Not hard.

Just enough.

My pulse kicked.

Cal watched my face.

“That okay?”

“Yes.”

His thumb moved once over the inside of my wrist.

“Still?”

“Yes.”

Then he released me.

Almost disappointing.

I looked at him.

“That’s it?”

“What did you expect?”

“I don’t know.”

“You do.”

I hated how easily he said that.

His mouth moved to my jaw.

Then lower.

My head tipped back.

His lips found the place beneath my ear that apparently had been waiting twenty-eight years to betray me.

My breath broke.

“Oh.”

Cal stopped.

I opened my eyes.

“Why did you stop?”

“What do you want?”

“Now?”

“Especially now.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Claire.”

The voice.

Low.

Patient.

I was beginning to understand why one syllable from this man did more to me than entire conversations with other men.

“I want you to keep going.”

“How?”

I groaned.

“Cal.”

“Words.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Yes.”

“At least lie occasionally.”

“No.”

I looked at him.

Really looked.

He wasn’t playing at being dominant.

That was what made it worse.

No growling.

No ridiculous performance.

No pretending I was powerless.

Cal just stood there waiting until I stopped hiding behind charm and told him the truth.

“I want you to touch me.”

His eyes changed.

“Where?”

My face heated.

“You know where.”

“Not good enough.”

I covered my face.

Cal laughed softly.

“You started this.”

“I was much braver outside.”

“You had a tractor for moral support.”

I lowered my hands.

“Everywhere.”

“That’s still not specific.”

“It is emotionally specific.”

“Claire.”

I exhaled.

Then I took his hand and put it where I wanted him.

“Here.”

The teasing vanished from his face.

“Here?”

“Yes.”

His thumb moved.

My breath caught immediately.

He watched.

That was almost unbearable.

“Still yes?”

“Yes.”

Again.

Slower.

I closed my eyes.

“Look at me.”

They opened.

There was no force in the command.

There didn’t need to be.

Cal had discovered something much more effective.

I wanted to obey him.

That realization moved through me like heat.

“Good.”

Not good girl.

Just good.

Somehow worse.

His hand traveled slowly along my side.

Every inch felt deliberate.

When his mouth found mine again, I pulled him closer.

This time I felt the restraint in him.

The control he had been bragging about beside the tractor.

It wasn’t effortless anymore.

That thrilled me.

I reached for the bottom of his shirt.

Cal caught my hand.

I froze.

“What?”

“Ask.”

“You want me to ask permission to take off your shirt?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

His eyes stayed on mine.

“I want you to say what you want without turning it into a joke.”

The words landed too close.

I looked at our hands.

Then at him.

“I want to see you.”

Something softened in his expression.

He released me.

“Then go ahead.”

I pulled his shirt over his head.

And lost every intelligent word I had.

Cal noticed.

Naturally.

“Problem?”

“No.”

“You’re staring.”

“You’re forty-seven.”

“I remember.”

“That seems statistically unlikely.”

“Claire.”

I smiled weakly.

“I like looking at you.”

“Better.”

“That sounded smug.”

“It was.”

I kissed him before he could enjoy himself further.

His hand returned to my waist.

Then my back.

Then the hem of my shirt.

He stopped there.

Waited.

I raised my arms.

He removed it.

No performance.

No strategic pose.

No pretending I didn’t care what he saw.

For once, I simply let somebody look.

Cal’s gaze moved over me.

Slow.

Open.

Hungry enough that my pulse climbed.

But not evaluating.

Not measuring.

I felt wanted.

There was a difference.

“Say something,” I whispered.

“No.”

“Cal.”

“You asked me to make you stop thinking.”

“That doesn’t mean you get to become mysterious.”

“You’re beautiful.”

The simplicity of it nearly hurt.

I blinked.

“That was suspiciously sincere.”

“It was.”

“Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Give me feelings while I’m undressed.”

His mouth curved.

“Come here.”

I did.

The next kiss had nothing tentative left in it.

He brought me against him.

My hands moved over his shoulders.

His mouth traveled along my neck.

Mine found his jaw.

Then the silver at his temple.

At some point the backs of my knees touched the mattress.

I sat.

Cal remained standing.

That should not have done what it did to me.

He looked down.

I looked up.

Neither of us spoke.

Then:

“Daddy.”

Cal went still.

There.

Finally.

Not loss of control.

Something better.

Control requiring effort.

“Again.”

I smiled.

“Found one.”

“Claire.”

“Daddy.”

His jaw tightened.

I watched it happen.

“You like that.”

“Careful.”

“That means yes.”

“That means careful.”

I smiled wider.

“Daddy.”

Cal closed his eyes for half a second.

Victory.

Tiny.

Perfect.

When they opened again, the humor had left them.

“Lie back.”

My stomach tightened.

“Bossy.”

“Claire.”

I did.

Slowly.

His gaze followed me.

Then:

“Hands above your head.”

I stared at him.

“Seriously?”

“Do you want to?”

That was Cal.

Always the difference.

I swallowed.

Then put my hands above my head.

His expression changed.

“Good girl.”

The praise hit so hard I closed my eyes.

“Damn you.”

“Look at me.”

I did.

He came down over me.

Not pinning.

Not trapping.

Just close enough that I could feel every inch of distance disappearing.

“Still want me?”

“Yes.”

“Want this?”

“Yes.”

“Say my name.”

“Cal.”

His mouth found mine.

Everything accelerated after that.

Not hurried.

Intense.

There was a difference.

Clothes disappeared.

Mine.

His.

I stopped noticing which came first.

His hands learned where my confidence became breathlessness.

My hands learned exactly how much self-control a supposedly unflappable forty-seven-year-old man actually possessed.

Less than advertised.

That pleased me enormously.

At one point I caught his face.

“You’re not as calm as you pretend.”

“Neither are you.”

“I never claimed to be.”

“That is absolutely true.”

Then he kissed me until sarcasm became logistically difficult.

The first time he told me to keep my eyes on him, I laughed.

The second time I obeyed.

The third time I couldn’t have looked away if I’d wanted to.

Something about that changed the room.

I had expected sex with Cal to feel like surrender.

It didn’t.

It felt like being so completely present that I finally had nowhere left to hide.

He watched every reaction.

Every inhale.

Every moment when bravado became something real.

And whenever I drifted away into embarrassment or self-consciousness:

“Claire.”

Just my name.

Enough to bring me back.

At one point I whispered:

“I can’t think.”

His mouth curved.

“That was the request.”

“Don’t be smug.”

“Too late.”

I laughed.

The laugh became a gasp.

Then language started failing.

That surprised me.

Language was usually my last line of defense.

Cal noticed.

His forehead touched mine.

“Still with me?”

“Yes.”

“Want me to stop?”

“No.”

“Want more?”

My answer came immediately.

“Yes.”

“How much?”

I stared at him.

“You cannot possibly need a measurement.”

“Try.”

I reached for him.

“All of it.”

The expression on his face changed.

No teasing.

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

“Claire.”

“Yes.”

Then quieter:

“Good girl.”

That was the one.

My body reacted before I could prepare for it.

Every bit of tension seemed to gather at once.

I grabbed his shoulders.

Cal stayed close.

Steady.

Watching.

“Look at me.”

I shook my head.

“Claire.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

I opened my eyes.

That was a mistake.

Or exactly what I needed.

The way he looked at me broke the last remaining piece of distance between us.

My breath caught.

Then broke completely.

For several seconds I had no clever thought.

No joke.

No awareness of how I looked.

Nothing except sensation and Cal’s voice.

“I’ve got you.”

That finished it.

Everything I had been holding released at once.

My eyes closed.

My fingers tightened against him.

I lost the room.

The rain.

The bed.

The version of myself standing outside every moment taking notes.

Gone.

When I finally opened my eyes again, Cal was still watching.

Still there.

Still controlled.

Almost.

I reached up and touched the silver at his temple.

“Daddy.”

His breath changed.

Tiny.

But I heard it.

I smiled.

“You’re not completely bulletproof.”

His forehead dropped against mine.

“You really want to talk right now?”

“No.”

“Good.”

He kissed me.

And for once, I let him have the last word.

Much later, rain tapped steadily against the windows.

I lay beneath the sheet with my cheek against his chest while his fingers moved through my hair.

For almost a minute I said nothing.

Cal looked down.

“You alive?”

“Debatable.”

“Water?”

I opened one eye.

“Please don’t ruin this by being responsible.”

“You need water.”

“That is painfully on-brand.”

He reached for the glass anyway.

I drank.

He took it back.

His hand returned to my hair.

No dramatic speech.

No analysis.

Exactly right.

After a while I said:

“You are unbearably pleased with yourself.”

“A little.”

“I knew it.”

“You were quiet.”

“Do not ruin this.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

I rested my cheek against him again.

The silence felt different.

Not like somebody had won.

Not like I’d run out of material.

Just quiet.

I could get used to that.

Which was alarming.

Chapter Four

The problem with sleeping with your forty-seven-year-old landlord is that he still owns a farm in the morning.

At six thirty, Cal was dressed.

I opened one eye.

“This is obscene.”

“What?”

“The time.”

“It’s morning.”

“It’s an accusation.”

He handed me coffee.

I accepted because principles have limits.

“How are you?”

I narrowed my eyes.

“Physically?”

“Generally.”

“Suspicious question.”

“Answer.”

I took a drink.

“Good.”

“Regrets?”

“No.”

His answer came immediately.

“Me neither.”

I hadn’t realized I needed it until I heard it.

“Okay.”

Cal sat on the edge of the bed.

“My lease ends in three weeks.”

“I know.”

“Of course you do.”

“I own the cottage.”

“Stop being logical while I’m vulnerable.”

He waited.

I hated emotionally competent silences.

“I was thinking about going back to the city.”

“Okay.”

My head snapped toward him.

“Okay?”

“What should I say?”

I had no idea.

Something irrational. Possessive. A line I could mock while secretly enjoying it.

Instead Cal looked at me like the decision belonged where it belonged.

With me.

“You could object.”

“Do you want me to?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then I’m not going to make up an answer for you.”

I sighed.

“You could be slightly less healthy.”

“No.”

“Just once?”

“No.”

He tucked my hair behind my ear.

“You came here because you spent years arranging yourself around another man’s life.”

My chest tightened.

“I didn’t tell you that.”

“You told Maggie.”

“The feed-store woman?”

“She knows everything.”

“Security breach.”

“Agreed.”

Cal continued.

“I’m not going to become the next man who tells you where you’re supposed to live.”

“Annoyingly decent.”

“I have flaws.”

“Name one.”

“I noticed the white shorts before I knew your last name.”

“That’s not a flaw.”

“I considered introducing myself because of them.”

I gasped.

“Cal Mercer.”

“Dark period.”

I smiled, then asked the question that scared me.

“What if I wanted you to ask me to stay?”

Cal looked at me long enough that my pulse climbed.

“What if I did?”

“I’d probably make fun of you.”

“I assumed.”

“I might still stay.”

“Might?”

“I need leverage.”

“Terrifying.”

I touched his chest.

“Ask.”

His hand covered mine.

“Claire.”

“Yes?”

“Stay.”

No speech.

No promise about forever.

No claim that he knew from the moment he saw me.

Just stay.

Perfect.

“For how long?”

“As long as you want.”

“Suspiciously open-ended.”

“I own the cottage.”

“You’re seducing me with real estate.”

“Apparently.”

“Finally. Something morally questionable.”

Cal smiled.

“So?”

I pretended to think.

“I have conditions.”

“Naturally.”

“One, I keep paying rent.”

“Fine.”

“Two, you stop criticizing my music.”

“No.”

“Cal.”

“It’s terrible.”

“Potential deal breaker.”

“I’ll take the risk.”

“Three…”

I climbed across him and caught both his wrists.

He could have moved me without effort.

He didn’t.

“Sometimes I get to be in charge.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“Sometimes?”

“Don’t push it.”

“What’s being in charge look like?”

I pressed his hands against the mattress.

“This.”

“Terrifying.”

“Shut up.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I kissed him.

Cal let me run the show for nearly a full minute.

It was generous of him.

Then one of his hands slipped free and settled at my waist.

I stopped.

“That was cheating.”

“You were losing focus.”

“I was not.”

“You were.”

“I was doing something very advanced.”

“Looked like kissing.”

“Exactly.”

He rolled us gently until I was beneath him.

I stared up.

“Abuse of superior body weight.”

“File a complaint.”

“With whom?”

“Landlord.”

“That seems compromised.”

“Probably.”

His mouth touched mine.

“Still want to stay?”

I looked at him.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

That word again.

I smiled.

“Careful.”

His eyebrow lifted.

“Found another button?”

“Maybe.”

Chapter Five

Three days later, a storm rolled over the property while I was working in the cottage.

Cal knocked once and opened the door.

“South barn.”

“What about it?”

“Need to close it before the rain.”

“I’ll come.”

“No.”

I looked up from my tablet.

“Excuse me?”

“Lightning.”

“It’s rain.”

Thunder cracked outside hard enough to shake the window.

Cal looked at me.

“Rain with ambition.”

“I have a jacket.”

“You own no useful clothing.”

“Insulting.”

“You have nineteen dresses.”

“You counted?”

“Clothesline.”

“Spy.”

“Stay here.”

I smiled.

“You enjoy saying that now.”

“Claire.”

“Make me.”

Cal went very still.

I had learned to appreciate stillness.

He walked toward me slowly and stopped directly in front of the sofa.

“Do you really want to find out whether I mean what I say?”

“Yes.”

“Wrong answer.”

He kissed me once.

Short.

Devastating.

Then he touched one finger beneath my chin.

“Stay.”

I swallowed.

“Fine.”

“Good girl.”

Then he left.

The man fought dirty.

I lasted two minutes.

Possibly ninety seconds.

Time is subjective.

By the time I reached the barn, I was barefoot under a raincoat because apparently my survival instincts operated selectively.

Cal was closing the enormous wooden door.

He saw me and stopped.

Not admiration.

Not immediately.

First came the look of a man discovering a rule had survived less than two minutes in the wild.

“What did I say?”

I stepped inside.

“Something controlling.”

“Claire.”

“It started raining harder.”

“That was the point.”

“I got lonely.”

“You were alone for ninety seconds.”

“You counted?”

“Obviously.”

Water ran from my hair.

Cal’s gaze dropped.

The pale top beneath my raincoat had not handled weather professionally.

His eyes came immediately back to mine.

Almost gentlemanly.

“You need a towel.”

“I need several things.”

His jaw flexed.

“Do you ever stop?”

“Hasn’t happened yet.”

He found a towel and handed it to me.

I dried my face, then looked over the edge of it.

“What happens to girls who don’t follow instructions?”

Cal went still.

There it was.

The game.

But he didn’t answer how another man might.

Instead he asked:

“What do you want to happen?”

My teasing faltered.

Always the same thing with him.

He refused to guess when he could ask.

I lowered the towel.

“I want you to stop handling me like I might break.”

“I don’t.”

“A little.”

“I handle you like you matter.”

The sentence hit somewhere soft.

I immediately attempted escape through sarcasm.

“Alarmingly romantic.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“I have social media.”

“Claire.”

“Fine.”

He touched the wet ends of my hair.

“You want me to stop being careful?”

“Not careless.”

“Different thing.”

“I know.”

“Good.”

I stepped backward until my shoulders touched one of the heavy wooden posts.

Cal followed.

One palm rested beside my head.

He didn’t cage me.

There was space on both sides.

That was why I stayed.

“You like pushing.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“To see whether you push back.”

His mouth curved.

“Finally honest.”

“Older men supposedly appreciate honesty.”

“Older men know what it costs.”

That quieted me.

There was history in Cal that he never performed for sympathy.

A marriage that hadn’t worked.

A father he’d cared for until the end.

Years of making choices and living with them.

His confidence wasn’t shiny.

It had dents.

I touched the silver at his temple.

“I really do like this.”

“You’ve mentioned.”

“I have a thing.”

“For old men.”

“For you.”

That changed his face.

Tiny.

Real.

“Oh.”

“What?”

“You like that better.”

“Don’t analyze me.”

“I literally draw food for money. Let me have something.”

“You’re terrible at instructions.”

“And yet you keep giving them.”

His hand settled at my waist.

“Turn around.”

Heat moved straight through me.

“Why?”

“Because I want you to.”

“That isn’t a reason.”

“It’s the only one I’m offering.”

I smiled.

Then turned.

Because I wanted to know.

Not because I had to.

His hands settled at my hips from behind, warm and certain.

My breath caught.

“There.”

“What?”

“You followed one.”

“Don’t celebrate.”

His mouth brushed just below my ear.

“Good girl.”

I closed my eyes.

“Damn you.”

“I paid attention.”

“Cheating.”

“Experience.”

I turned back, caught his collar and kissed him.

Cal laughed against my mouth.

Actually laughed.

It made him look younger.

Not young.

I didn’t want young.

Just less guarded.

When we finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against mine.

“My house,” I whispered.

He lifted his head.

“Why?”

“I’ve never been inside.”

“Nosy.”

“Curious.”

“Nosy.”

“Your house.”

Cal studied me.

“Okay.”

“Very commanding.”

He looked toward the open barn door, then back at me.

“Run.”

I blinked.

“What?”

“You wanted my house.”

Thunder rolled.

His mouth curved.

“Better beat me there.”

I stared at him.

“You’re forty-seven.”

“Correct.”

“I’m twenty-eight.”

“Also correct.”

“I will destroy you.”

“Probably.”

I ran.

Chapter Six

I did not destroy him.

This deserves documentation.

Cal Mercer, forty-seven-year-old allegedly ancient landowner, overtook me halfway across the field while wearing work boots.

I was barefoot.

And had cheated.

“This is humiliating,” I announced on his porch.

“You run like a duck.”

“I was avoiding rocks.”

“So was I.”

“You had boots.”

“You had a head start.”

“Technicality.”

His house surprised me.

I’d expected brown furniture, deer heads and one decorative horseshoe.

Instead there were old wood floors, books, plants, a huge kitchen table and a ceramic bowl filled with peaches.

I pointed at an enormous monstera.

“You own that?”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“Eleven years.”

I stared.

“You’ve kept a houseplant alive for eleven years.”

“Should I apologize?”

“Don’t. It’s disturbingly attractive.”

He looked at my soaked clothes.

“Bathroom.”

“Sending me away?”

“Getting you dry clothes.”

“Whose?”

“Mine.”

Oh.

Five minutes later, I stood in his bathroom wearing one of Cal’s white T-shirts.

It reached almost to my knees.

There are clichés women enjoy pretending to be above.

Wearing the older man’s shirt is one.

I was not above it.

I looked excellent.

I stepped into the hall.

Cal came from his bedroom in dry jeans and a dark shirt.

He stopped.

Completely.

His gaze moved over me.

Not quickly.

The silence became gratifying.

“What?”

“That’s my shirt.”

“I noticed.”

“I want it back.”

“You own others.”

“Four.”

“Winter doesn’t count.”

His gaze dropped to my bare legs.

Then returned to my face.

“You enjoy making things difficult.”

“Very much.”

Cal walked toward me.

My pulse climbed with every step.

He touched the hem of the shirt.

Stopped.

“Still want this?”

“Yes.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want?”

I smiled automatically.

“You.”

“Not enough.”

“Usually works.”

“Not with me.”

There it was again.

The demand for something real.

I could make myself charming.

Funny.

Easy.

The woman who knew exactly what expression belonged in every moment.

Cal waited.

So I gave him the truth.

“I want to stop thinking.”

“About?”

“Everything.”

His eyes stayed on mine.

“I want to stop wondering what I look like. Whether I’m doing this right. Whether you’re impressed. Whether I’ll regret something tomorrow.”

His palm settled against my cheek.

“And what do you want instead?”

I exhaled.

“You.”

“Better.”

I touched his jaw.

“And Cal?”

“Mm?”

“If you call me a good girl tonight, mean it.”

His expression changed.

“I always mean it.”

Heat moved straight through me.

I looked at the shirt.

His shirt.

His house.

The rain.

Then at him.

“Take it off.”

One eyebrow lifted.

“My shirt?”

“The one I’m wearing.”

“You’re giving orders.”

“Sometimes I’m in charge.”

“We discussed this.”

“Yes.”

His fingers caught the hem.

Stopped.

“Still?”

“Yes.”

He lifted it over my head.

This time he did not disguise the look.

No polite glance away.

No carefully neutral expression.

Cal looked at me exactly the way I had wanted him to look at me since the first week.

Wanted.

Hungry.

Controlled only because he chose to be.

My confidence wavered under the intensity.

“You’re staring.”

“Yes.”

“Not even pretending?”

“No.”

I swallowed.

“Good.”

The word came out quieter than intended.

Cal noticed.

Naturally.

He stepped closer.

“Come here.”

I did.

His mouth met mine.

Harder than the first night.

Still deliberate.

But the caution had changed.

We knew each other now.

He knew I liked being challenged.

I knew he would listen if I said stop.

That knowledge made everything more dangerous.

And safer.

Which turned out to be an extremely effective combination.

His mouth moved down my neck.

I gripped his shoulders.

“Bedroom.”

Cal lifted his head.

“You asking?”

“Yes.”

“Ask.”

I stared at him.

“You really intend to do this forever.”

“Probably.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Claire.”

I took his hand.

“Take me upstairs.”

His gaze sharpened.

“Better.”

The bedroom looked exactly like Cal.

Large bed.

Old wood dresser.

Jeans folded over a chair.

One pillow per person.

Naturally.

I pointed.

“One pillow each?”

“You need more?”

“I need options.”

“For sleeping?”

“For architecture.”

“You’re exhausting.”

“You like me.”

“Yes.”

Immediate.

No game.

The answer hit harder than anything flirtatious could have.

I forgot what I was going to say.

Cal saw that too.

“Come here.”

I went.

Quietly this time.

His hands settled at my waist.

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

“Nervous?”

“No.”

He waited.

I sighed.

“A little.”

“Why?”

“Your house.”

“And?”

“Your bed.”

“And?”

I looked at him.

“This feels more real.”

Cal nodded.

“Yeah.”

“You feel it too?”

“Yes.”

Good.

That helped.

I touched his chest.

“What happens now?”

“Whatever we decide.”

“That is not sexy.”

“It’s right.”

“Unfortunately.”

His thumb moved along my side.

“What do you want?”

I knew immediately.

The answer had been waiting downstairs.

“I want you to take control.”

Cal went still.

The room changed.

“How much?”

I swallowed.

“Enough that I can stop managing everything.”

“That’s not the same as me deciding everything.”

“I know.”

“You can change your mind.”

“I know.”

“Say it.”

“I’ll tell you.”

“If?”

“If I want something different.”

Cal nodded.

“Good.”

I waited.

Nothing happened.

Then:

“Sit.”

My stomach tightened.

I sat on the edge of the bed.

Cal stood in front of me.

“You like that.”

“No.”

“Claire.”

“Yes.”

A tiny curve at the corner of his mouth.

“Hands on the mattress.”

I did it.

My pulse accelerated.

“This is extremely bossy.”

“Yes.”

“And presumptuous.”

“You asked.”

“I reserve the right to complain.”

“I assumed.”

He touched my wet hair.

Pushed it back from my face.

Then his thumb traced my cheek.

“Look at me.”

I did.

No growling.

No theatrical dominance.

Cal didn’t need any of it.

He was certain.

That was enough.

“Good girl.”

My fingers curled into the blanket.

Cal saw.

“There.”

“Don’t.”

“You asked me to mean it.”

“You can mean it less effectively.”

“No.”

He kissed me.

I reached for him.

Cal caught my wrist.

“Hands.”

My stomach flipped.

I put it back beside me.

His gaze dropped to it.

Then returned to my face.

“Both.”

I swallowed.

Then placed both hands flat against the mattress.

“Good.”

Heat moved through me.

“That one wasn’t even good girl.”

“You still reacted.”

“Stop collecting data.”

“No.”

He kissed me again.

This time, not being able to reach for him changed the entire sensation.

His mouth against my jaw.

His hand sliding through my hair.

His fingers tracing my side.

Everything felt louder.

I had expected control to feel like being overpowered.

Instead it felt like relief.

Fewer choices.

No need to perform.

No need to lead.

No need to wonder what came next.

Cal would tell me.

And I could decide every single time whether I wanted to follow.

That was what made it work.

His mouth moved to my neck.

I forgot the rule.

My hand found his waist.

Cal stopped.

“Hands.”

I froze.

Then looked down.

“Oh.”

He almost smiled.

“Forgot?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re distracting.”

“Good.”

“That sounded pleased.”

“It was.”

He took my wandering hand.

Held it.

Then placed it back on the mattress himself.

My breath caught.

Cal watched my face.

“Too much?”

“No.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

He leaned closer.

“Then leave them there.”

I nodded.

“Words.”

“Yes.”

His mouth curved.

“Good girl.”

Fuck.

I closed my eyes.

“Look at me.”

I opened them.

“You are abusing that phrase.”

“No.”

“You absolutely are.”

“You asked me to mean it.”

“That was before I understood the consequences.”

“You understood.”

He kissed me before I could answer.

My brain stopped functioning efficiently.

At some point he told me:

“You can touch me now.”

I immediately grabbed his shirt.

Cal laughed.

“You lasted less than a minute.”

“Time is subjective.”

“You’ve used that.”

“It remains valid.”

I pulled his shirt off.

The structure deteriorated after that.

In the best possible way.

His shirt hit the floor.

Then the rest of what separated us gradually followed.

I kissed his shoulder.

His chest.

The silver at his temple.

He caught me smiling.

“What?”

“My thing.”

“The gray?”

“Silver.”

“Gray.”

“Shut up.”

I kissed him.

He let me push him backward toward the bed.

For approximately ten seconds I believed I had reclaimed control.

Then he sat and pulled me onto his lap.

A sound escaped me that I would later deny under oath.

Cal smiled against my neck.

“Problem?”

“No.”

“Words.”

“I like this.”

“Better.”

His arms closed around me.

Strong.

Certain.

And loose enough that I knew I could move away whenever I wanted.

I didn’t.

I leaned back enough to look at him.

“Daddy.”

His eyes changed instantly.

I smiled.

Every single time.

“Careful.”

“No.”

“Claire.”

“Daddy.”

His hand tightened at my waist.

“Trouble.”

“You knew that.”

“Day three.”

I blinked.

“What happened on day three?”

“You asked whether I owned anything that wasn’t gray.”

“I was making conversation.”

“You were wearing the white shorts.”

“Coincidence.”

“You walked past the barn four times.”

“Exercise.”

“In sandals.”

“Low-impact exercise.”

Cal shook his head.

I touched his face.

The humor faded.

“I wanted you to notice me.”

“I know.”

“How?”

“You kept checking whether I had.”

I looked away.

He touched my chin.

“Hey.”

I looked back.

“What?”

“I noticed.”

Something inside me went painfully soft.

“I know.”

He kissed me.

Different from the first night.

No discovery.

Recognition.

He knew my mouth now.

My hesitation.

My tells.

I knew exactly how his breathing changed when I called him Daddy and exactly how much he hated that I knew.

When we fell backward onto the bed, I almost kicked the lamp.

Cal caught it.

“Smooth.”

“You distracted me.”

“You’re blaming me for furniture?”

“Yes.”

“Of course.”

I reached for him.

“Come here.”

One eyebrow lifted.

“Command?”

“Request.”

“Good distinction.”

“Cal.”

His mouth covered mine.

For a while, there was no talking.

That might have been the strangest part.

Me.

Quiet.

Voluntarily.

Every time my attention drifted into how I looked or whether I was doing something right, Cal brought it back.

My name.

A touch beneath my chin.

“Look at me.”

The first time I obeyed.

The second time I smiled.

The third time he caught both my wrists when I tried to reach for him.

Not violently.

Not trapped.

Just stopped.

I stared at our hands.

Then at him.

“Problem?”

“No.”

“Want me to let go?”

I answered instantly.

“No.”

Something changed behind his eyes.

“Good.”

My pulse jumped.

He kept my hands there.

Not long.

Just long enough to make me want longer.

When he released them, I immediately reached for him.

He smiled.

“Patience.”

“I waited six weeks.”

“So did I.”

“That was your stupid decision.”

“You weren’t ready.”

“I was extremely ready.”

“You were checking your phone every twenty minutes.”

I went still.

Cal touched my cheek.

“Different kind of ready.”

I stared at him.

“You save emotionally competent observations for extremely inconvenient moments.”

“I know.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No.”

I pulled him closer.

This time when he told me to look at him, I didn’t joke.

I did.

That was when the scene shifted.

Not physically.

Something deeper.

Cal stopped asking questions because by then he could read the answers.

I stopped performing because there was nobody left to fool.

“Tell me what you want.”

“You know.”

“Tell me.”

I closed my eyes for one second.

Then:

“I want you to keep going.”

His hand covered mine.

“Until?”

“Until I stop being able to think of something sarcastic.”

“That could take hours.”

“Asshole.”

“There it is.”

“Cal.”

He kissed me.

I tried to hold on to the joke.

Honestly.

But he had learned too much.

Where to slow down.

When to stop.

When not to.

How long to wait before giving me exactly the word I wanted.

He made me work for it.

That was the worst part.

The best part.

My breathing became uneven.

My grip tightened.

I could feel myself getting close to the point where language would become impossible.

Cal knew.

Of course.

But he still waited.

“Cal.”

“Yeah?”

I pulled him closer.

He kissed below my ear.

Then finally:

“Good girl.”

Everything inside me tightened at once.

My breath broke.

“Oh, fuck you.”

Cal laughed softly.

“Working on it.”

I would have objected if my body had not chosen that precise moment to abandon diplomacy.

He lifted his head.

“Still with me?”

“Yes.”

“Want more?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

I stared at him.

“You are not making me quantify this.”

“Try.”

I caught his face in both hands.

“All of it.”

No teasing now.

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

His forehead rested against mine.

“Say my name.”

“Cal.”

“Again.”

“Cal.”

“I’ve got you.”

That was the sentence.

Not Daddy.

Not the commands.

Not even the praise.

I’ve got you.

My body went tight.

Then everything gave way.

The release hit hard enough to erase the room.

I closed my eyes.

Held onto him.

Stopped knowing whether I was saying his name or simply trying to.

Cal stayed with me.

Steady.

No victory.

No smug comment.

Just:

“Claire.”

I opened my eyes.

He was watching me.

The intimacy of it should have embarrassed me.

Instead I reached for his cheek.

Then his temple.

The silver.

“Daddy.”

That got him.

Finally.

His control slipped.

Just enough.

His breathing changed.

His eyes closed.

His jaw tightened.

The man who had spent the entire book insisting that losing control wasn’t the interesting part suddenly had to work very hard to keep his.

There.

That was what I had wanted since the tractor.

Not to break him.

To reach him.

I smiled.

“You’re not even going to pretend that didn’t work?”

His eyes opened.

“Claire.”

“Yes, Daddy?”

That was probably excessive.

His expression said so.

I grinned.

Then stopped grinning when he kissed me.

Much later, rain softened against the windows.

I lay with my head on Cal’s shoulder wearing absolutely none of the outfit I’d arrived in.

His fingers moved lazily through my hair.

For several minutes neither of us spoke.

Then:

“You know what’s irritating?”

“A long list.”

“You were worth the wait.”

Cal looked at the ceiling.

“Terrible news.”

“Why?”

“Now you’ll be impossible.”

“I was impossible before.”

“True.”

I touched the silver at his temple.

“You worried about the age thing?”

He looked at me.

“Are you?”

“No.”

“Then not tonight.”

“Healthy answer.”

“Sorry.”

“Could you occasionally be toxic? Just a little?”

“No.”

“Very disappointing Daddy.”

His hand tightened in my hair.

“Careful.”

I smiled.

“Found another button.”

“You never stop.”

“Not if it’s working.”

Cal reached for the glass of water beside the bed.

He handed it to me.

I stared.

“Hydration?”

“Drink.”

“Is this part of your dominant older-man routine?”

“It is when you forget to drink water.”

“Profoundly unsexy.”

“Drink.”

I took the smallest possible sip.

Cal waited.

I sighed.

Then drank properly.

“Happy?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

His eyebrow rose.

I realized what I’d said.

“Oh, no.”

“Say it.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Claire.”

I smiled.

Then leaned closer.

“Good boy.”

Silence.

Cal’s eyebrows went up.

I started laughing.

He took the glass from my hand.

“That funny?”

“Extremely.”

“You sure?”

I saw the look.

“Oh dear.”

He moved.

I tried to escape across the bed.

One arm caught me around the waist with humiliating ease.

“This is an abuse of age and experience.”

“Age?”

“Wisdom. I meant wisdom.”

“Too late.”

I was still laughing when he pulled me back against him.

Eventually the laughter faded.

His hand settled at my waist.

Mine covered it.

The storm moved farther away.

For once, I didn’t need another joke.

I still had several.

But I didn’t need them.

That might have been the most intimate thing Cal had done to me all night.

Chapter Seven

My lease expired three weeks later.

I renewed it.

At full rent.

This was my condition.

Cal complained exactly once.

“You’re sleeping at my house four nights a week.”

“Five.”

“Then why are you paying for the cottage?”

“Independence.”

“You use it as an office.”

“Correct.”

“And wardrobe storage.”

“Also correct.”

“And your sister stays there when she visits.”

“See? Investment property.”

He shook his head.

I kissed his cheek.

“You’re very attractive when losing.”

“I’m not losing.”

“Rent arrives on the first.”

He sighed.

Three months later, I posted another tractor photograph.

Same tractor.

Different shirt.

Boots this time, because I was a woman capable of growth.

Cal had taken the picture after twenty minutes of instruction because apparently a man who could rebuild an engine believed portrait mode was some kind of filter.

The caption read:

Might have moved to the country permanently. Please respect my privacy during this difficult agricultural period.

My sister replied in seventeen seconds.

You’re never coming home, are you?

I looked toward the tractor.

Cal was underneath it.

Different gray shirt.

Same forearms.

“Probably not,” I said.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

He rolled out.

“Talking to yourself?”

“I’m an artist.”

“Right.”

I climbed down from the tire.

Cal looked at my boots.

“Careful.”

“I’ve learned.”

“That would be new.”

I stepped over him.

He caught my ankle.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re distracting me.”

“Oh, no.”

His thumb brushed the inside of my ankle.

“I thought older men had concentration.”

“We do.”

“Then get back to work.”

He released me.

I walked toward the barn.

Three steps.

Four.

Five.

“Claire.”

I stopped.

“Yes?”

“You forgot something.”

I turned.

Cal held up the gray wrench.

The original one.

I laughed.

“You kept that?”

“It’s mine.”

“Sentimental.”

“No.”

“Extremely sentimental.”

Cal got to his feet and started toward me.

I backed away.

“Oh dear.”

“Run.”

I smiled.

“You know I’m faster now.”

“You still run like a duck.”

“Asshole.”

“Language.”

I took another step backward.

He kept coming.

I tilted my hat, looked directly at him and used the word that still changed his eyes every single time.

“Come get me, Daddy.”

This time he smiled immediately.

“Good girl.”

I ran.

Not because he told me to.

Because by then I’d learned the difference.

Being chased only feels frightening when you aren’t sure you want to be caught.

I knew exactly where I was going.

I just liked making the older man work for it.

GOOD GIRLS RIDE HARDER