“Yeah.” Her voice is breathless. “I do.”
So we walk.
Silverwood is bustling, the late afternoon sun sinking, giving way to the winter chill. One last rush for last-minute shopping. One after another, the storefronts are decorated with colorful bulbs, and “Jingle Bells” pumps from the candy shop. We pop into Java Junkie for to-go coffees and pumpkin scones. We stop at a new kitchen store and browse, quietly wondering about the kind of person who needs all these damn gadgets.
When we step outside, ready to head for my truck, her gloved hand finds mine. Our breaths puff white in the chilly air as we wander. Apple cider spices the air. Locals lift their hands in greeting, and I find myself doing the same.
Since Bellamy left Silverwood, I’ve stayed away from our old haunts, only hitting up the hardware store and the grocer. Today, I’m seeing it fresh. And it feels like home.
Home.
My gaze lands on Bellamy, keeping pace beside me.
I still haven’t told her how I feel. How I’ve felt for the last three years. Because once I do, once I ask her to stay, there’s no going back.
She belongs to me. Yet an irrational fear plagues me, warning me that she might not agree. That in three days’ time, she’ll get back on a plane to San Francisco, and it’ll be like the last seventy-two hours have been a dream.
I’m not prepared for that. In my mind, there’s no going back. There’s no me without her. She saved the farm, but if I need to leave it in order to be with her, then I will. Because she’s given up more than enough for me.
“Hank, you coming?” She steps forward and turns, assessing me.
My breath catches at the sight. Backed by the blue sky, lit up in the late afternoon sun, she’s stunning. Her white sweater and jacket have slipped, exposing one bare shoulder. Her dark hair is soft around her face and cascades down her back.
“You want to go out?” I nod at the bar across the street. Buck’s. Next to the door, an animatronic Santaho-ho-hos and waves a beer. “Grab an early dinner?”
Her eyes widen with surprise. But she nods, almost shyly, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. “Yeah. Okay.”
Hand in hand, we cross Main Street. As I hold the door open for her, the scents of fried food and stale beer and sawdust hit us.
Bellamy inhales deep. “Missed that smell.”
I take the place in and let out a low whistle.
Buck’s Bar is decked out, floor to ceiling, for the holidays. Garland wrapped around the buck head over the bar. A North Pole sign over the jukebox. Bartenders in Santa hats pulling draughts in Santa-shaped steins. Twinkle lights strung from the ceiling.
“Damn. Buck didn’t just deck the halls, he Griswolded the whole damn bar.”
Bellamy lights up, joy radiating from her. She loves this. “Hank.” She giggles, pointing. “Those elves-on-a-shelves are violating the liquor bottles.”
Chuckling, I guide her toward an empty high-top.
“How do you feel?” she asks, those brown-gold eyes of hers searching my face. “About the farm?”
“Honestly, sugar, I fuckin’ hate that I let you do that.” It stings, letting another person step in. It’s not the cowboy way. But I’m not so proud that I’d lose the farm.
“Accept it, cowboy, and buy me a drink.” The stubborn tip of her chin makes me smile.
“You drive a hard bargain.” I lift a hand, signal to the bartender. My eyes go to her. “Still like the amber?”
“You know it.”
Once we’ve ordered, I reach across the table and grip her hand, feeling the pulse that beats in the soft pad of her palm. Can’t resist the urge to touch her in public. Touch her like my wife.
She sucks in a breath but doesn’t pull away. “Think we’re takingold times’ saketo a new level.”
I hum, lower my head. “Ain’t upset about that.”
We watch each other. Like we’re pushing this as far as it can go, like we’re trying to figure it out on the sly.
