“Now,” he says, “we order dessert. And you tell me what you actually want.”
I stare at him, and for the first time in weeks, I can’t think of a single thing to say.
So I just nod. “I want the chocolate tart,” I say, and it comes out stupid, but I don’t care.
He grins, and the tension lifts. For a second, I let myself think it could be that easy.
We walk back to the table. The waitress brings new menus and gives us a knowing look. I don’t care. I want the chocolate, and I want the man across from me, and I want to stop pretending I only belong to myself.
Maybe it’s possible to pick and be picked at the same time. Maybe that’s the whole point.
SEVEN
RHETT
Every small town needs a speed bump, some harmless obstacle to keep people from thinking they can pass through without slowing down. In Sagebrush, that’s the dogleg curve where Main Street dips behind the grain co-op, and the other is Hannah Scott. I find myself taking the slow road often these days, sometimes just to catch her walking the two blocks from her rental to the print shop or standing in line at the coffee window, always in a skirt or those damn spandex leggings, always with her hair up like she’s trying not to be seen. But she is. Every time.
It’s been three days since the restaurant—three days since her mouth met mine like it was a question she wanted to answer for herself. Since then, nothing’s changed except everything. We agreed on slow, but there’s nothing slow about how she’s gotten in my blood. I see her everywhere, even when I’m out stringing wire on the west pasture or hosing down the salt lick for the cattle. Like today: I’m staring at the feed store’s corkboard, watching the color stickers on her flyer fade one sunbeam at a time. I catch myself smiling, and then I catch Willa eyeing me from across the aisle.
“Need something, Rhett?” she asks, but she’s half grinning.
“Just admiring Cowboy Cupid’s handiwork.” I take my bucket of mineral blocks, make a show of heaving them one-handed.
She wags her finger at me. “You tell Hannah she still owes me that interview for my town newsletter. Maybe she’ll sit still for you.”
I promise nothing. But I do stop in front of the bakery next, like a dumbass, just in case.
By sundown, I’m standing on Hannah’s porch with a casserole dish and cold beer. She opens the door, loose hair falling down, and I take a second before remembering to talk.
“Hope you’re hungry,” I say.
She looks at the dish. “If that’s lasagna, you’re a wizard.”
“It’s not. It’s enchiladas, but I can lie if it helps.”
She steps aside. “Come in, lie to me.”
The inside of her rental is too clean, like she never plans to stay. The walls are blank except for the lone photo of a cat I’ve never met, pinned to the fridge by a Denver Broncos magnet.
Hannah stands by the sink, opening the fridge, and I catch the way her hip fits against the counter. Without her heels, the top of her head doesn’t even reach my chin. She hands me a beer and doesn’t let go of the bottle until I look at her. Dear God in heaven, she’s breathtaking.
We eat off mismatched plates by the window, sun bleeding out over the horizon. She tells me about her day, about the web of calls she’s making to match up singles who barely use their phones. She’s animated, gesturing with her fork, and for thefirst time, I see the line between business and personal blur for her. She wants this to work, and I want that for her more than anything.
She finishes her plate and wipes her mouth. “I wasn’t sure you’d call.”
“I said I would.”
She shakes her head softly, like that answer is too easy.
I shift in my chair. “Town’s talking.”
“About us?” Her eyebrows go up, but she doesn’t sound mad. “Are we an us?”
I set my beer down. “Don’t know. Is that a dealbreaker for you?”
She tugs her ponytail loose and shakes her hair out. “No. But I don’t want to be a headline, either.”
“You won’t.” I mean it.
