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“You okay?” Brad pulls the camera up so that I can see his gorgeous face again. He looks dreamy as hell, but his brows tug together ever so slightly when he notices my wild-eyed expression.

Letting out a chuckle of relief, I finish wiping my hand as clean as it can possibly be for now. “Yeah, uhhhhh, I thought someone was about to walk this way and get a whole eyeful. False alarm.”

Brad grins, unremorseful. “Your dick looks pretty fucking incredible on camera by the way.”

The back of my neck glows hotter.

“Send me a photo tonight?” His energy is so damn addictive, so playful.

I find myself nodding.

“This is where the thing I’m supposed to say goes along the lines of ‘Have a nice life …’” he murmurs, eyes sparkling at me through the phone. “But I don’t think I’m strong enough to say the words, cowboy.”

Chewing my bottom lip for a long moment I simply stare at him. I stare, because it’s all I ever want to do where Brad is concerned. He makes me want to be in his orbit. He’s got this gravitational pull I feel deep in the marrow of my bones. I want to cook him breakfast, lunch, and dinner … and I want to spend so many more nights with his arms wrapped around me.

“In everything else I would say I’ll gladly be strong enough for the two of us.” I blow out a long exhale, a white plume gusting past my lips. “But in this? When it comes to trying to walk away from you, my sunshine boy? I’m so goddamn weak, you have no idea.”

CHAPTER 22

Christmas Eve party mode is here, and in all the years I’ve insisted on Rhodes Ranch being the hub of holiday spirit—much to old man Rhodes’s chagrin—I’ve never once felt like I wanted to run away. Yet, here I am, knee bouncing, eyes glued to my phone, battling the urge to sprint out into the snow. Anxious little thoughts nip at my heels as I wonder why I haven’t heard back from Flinn tonight.

Rationally, I keep telling myself he’ll be at his local Christmas market. He told me he’s spending the evening with his family. No doubt he’ll be occupied, probably catching up with old friends, running into the usual small-town round of fifty questions about his life and what he’s been up to since this time last year.

But I’m itchy with all the unknowns, the damn spinning chaos of wondering if my guy is entertaining conversations of a different kind.

Wanna grab a coffee sometime?

Shall we exchange numbers?

How about you come back to my place?

I can’t stand this feeling. We’ve been texting and calling virtually nonstop since the other night—after we flew straight past the undisputable boundary of whether or not we were going to forget about each other and move on with our lives. And it’s more than just hot-as-fuck phone sex, too. I’ve given him a tour of the stables, introduced him to the horses, and confessed that I worry about Lily something chronic. For a cat that didn’t even belong to me, I somehow ended up awfully attached.

Story of my life.

My last message sent to him earlier sits forlornly unread.

Wish you’d meet me under the mistletoe.

Flinn hasn’t opened the text or responded, and my silly little heart drags its bottom lip along the floor with every passing hour I don’t hear from him. Oh god, I think—well, I know—I slipped and let myself get hopelessly swept up in him. How could this possibly be a good idea? We’re not even in the same state … I don’t really know where he is for most of the year or what his regular life looks like, other than the fact that he travels around for work as a horse trainer.

I’ve been a coward and have been too afraid to ask. My skills at deflecting to different topics are ninja level. The reality I’m all too familiar with is that men like him who operate as freelancers in the equine industry end up being on the road a lot. He hasn’t mentioned working with one particular ranch or stable, and I’m honestly just too shit scared to poke a hole in the flimsy gift wrapping of all that encompasses Flinn. This is a truth I don’t want to discover: that even with all our other problems aside, he might want to carry on his life of travel and freedom.

How the hell did I wake up one day and become ball-and-chain Brad? I’d never do that to him.

Scrolling back through some of our messages from when we chatted briefly early this morning, I find a photo he sent me. It shows his big, strong hand holding a chipped mug with a cartoon sun giving a cheesy thumbs-up on it.

He’d sent it along with a text …

Flinn:

Even at five a.m., I can’t escape you, my sunshine boy.

“Christ. Do I even wanna know what caused a smile that wide? Hope it’s not one of those dick pics you kids seem to think is a good idea to splash all over the internet?” My dad narrows his eyes at my phone, looking at it with all his forty-plus years of distrust in modern technology. His expression is wary, as if the thing was about to leap out and transform into a real-life trouser snake, forcing him to see unsolicited cock.

I quickly lock my phone screen and scrub a palm over my mouth, a poor effort to hide the enormous, goofy smile occupying my face. “No sneak attack dicks. Officially a dick pic–free zone.”

I mean, that’s not exactly true. Those are safely stored in a private album. An ode to Flinn’s perfect cock.