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“How else could we be so skilled at the making-up part?” She rested her head against his shoulder. When he thought of the years they could have spent fighting and making up, his heart crushed like an empty soda can.
“If you want to pick a fight with me, Aubrey Collins, knock yourself out. Not literally, though.” He tightened his hold on her, and she freed an elbow and shot it into his ribs.
“That was bad.”
“How bad?”
“Bad bad.”
This was the Aubrey he remembered. Paired with a kinder, tenderer version of himself that he remembered. He hadn’t always been a stubborn ass who wanted to corral her. In the beginning, he’d liked the way she challenged him. Once the power she’d managed to wield effortlessly had overtaken him, though, he’d been scared down to his spurs.
His grandfather and father ran the literal roost, and Vic had mistakenly believed, as the only Grandin son, that would also be his job. He’d been inexperienced both in relationships and in managing a ranch this size. He’d feared that taking an ounce of attention off his work would cause the entire outfit to collapse.
When Aubrey had insisted on continuing on to graduate school, he’d seen no pros, only cons. The idea of her stressed about earning a decent salary, or her fate being chosen by faceless city board members, drove him crazy. It was Vic’s job to take care of her. She was his princess, and he’d wanted to build a carefree life for her. And he could admit to the sliver of doubt that’d crept in when her drive and ambition had made it seem like he hadn’t offered her enough.
He’d been immature and shortsighted, and they’d lost years together because of it. Well, this time he wouldn’t go down without a fight. She belonged with him.
She always had.
