When she licks the cream off her thumb, I almost lose my train of thought. “You sure Sagebrush is big enough for you?”
She shrugs. “Maybe not. But I think you are.”
There’s no clever reply for that, so I just put my arm around her and let the moment hang.
Later, when I leave her at the door, she kisses my jaw, lingering as if she’s memorizing the shape of my face.
“Good night, Rhett.”
I say it back, even though it never feels like goodbye.
I don’t see her again until the Sunday farmer’s market. She’s by her booth, laughing with Willa over a stack of clipboards. I wait for the crowd to thin, then slide behind her, arms cinching at her waist. She tenses for a second, then melts into me.
Willa whistles. “About time, you two.”
Hannah elbows me. “He’s here to work, not flirt.”
“Can’t it be both?” I ask, and she just grins.
We hand out Cowboy Cupid flyers all morning, taking only brief breaks. She’s got a system—compliment the boots, ask about their ranch, then make her pitch. I watch her in her element, see the confidence she doesn’t show anyone else, and I realize I’d follow her anywhere.
At noon, she pulls me behind the display, the crowd pressing on all sides. “Can we get out of here?”
“Lead the way,” I say.
She takes my hand, weaving us through Sagebrush’s slow parade of pickups and strollers, out past Main and up the hill behind the co-op. The sun is sharp, the air dry as old toast. We climb in silence until we stand at the top, the whole town spread out below like a toy set.
She points at the old bakery. “I’m buying it,” she says quietly.
I put my hand over hers, and she looks up at me, eyes clear and steady. “You really want to do this, don’t you?”
I nod. “There’s nothing I want more than you.”
She steps in, presses her cheek to my chest, and I hold her there, counting the heartbeats.
If there’s a speed bump in this town, I don’t mind slowing down for it. Not this time.
EIGHT
RHETT
We eat dinner on my porch: steak, potatoes, fresh bread, and a bottle of red she brought from the city. By the time the sun drops below the far ridge line, the porch smells like warm wood and rosemary, and neither of us wants to go inside. I plug in the old turntable I keep above the bench out here, flick on a string of mismatched patio bulbs, and let Patsy Cline croon over the landscape. I offer her my hand. She looks at it, then at me, pretending to judge. Always making me work for it. “Do you even know how to waltz, Calder?” “Enough to fool a woman who’s had half a bottle.” She laughs, pushes her hair back with a flat palm, and slides in close. My hands settle right where they’re meant to—one at her waist, the other holding her fingers, her palm hot against mine. Moonlight catches dust in the air, the grape stains on her lips, the way she’s studying me without blinking. We dance slowly, stepping nowhere. There’s a heaviness in the air tonight, like we’re standing in the eye of something about to happen.
I can’t remember the last time someone touched me like this—like I’m worth a damn. Even through her thin cotton dress, I feel how charged she is, her body electric. She fits me in a way that’scriminal. She tilts her chin up. “You were right,” she says, low. “All those weeks ago. About Sagebrush.”
“Yeah?”
“I think I could stay anywhere, if you were around to dance me through it.”
I can’t help it, I grin like an idiot. “Be careful, or I’ll ask you to stay forever.”
Her hand travels up, thumb tracing my jaw. “Promise?”
I answer her with a kiss. It’s meant to be soft, but she tastes like honey and smoke, and once I start, I can’t stop. I back her up, careful not to bang her against the porch rail, and deepen it until she’s breathless. She digs her fingers into my shirt collar. Her mouth opens, and I lose myself: the taste of her tongue, the pitch of her breath, the way she exhales like she’s been waiting her whole damn life for this. When we part, her eyes are glassy, wet at the corners. “Rhett,” she says. Just my name. Heavy.
I don’t ask. I just pick her up, one arm under her knees, the other under her shoulder blades. She yelps, pretending outrage, but holds tight as I carry her inside and down the narrow hall to my bedroom. The air in here smells like cedar and laundry and the lemon soap she used earlier. She kicks at the door until it swings shut. I set her down, and she pulls me forward until my legs clip the edge of the bed. The tension in her is palpable, a live wire—I toy with her hem, brushing my knuckles up her thighs, and she trembles.
“First time I saw you,” I say, “you took my fucking breath away.”
