Chapter 7
Wyatt
The phone rings at six in the morning, cutting through the pre-dawn quiet like a buzzsaw. I roll over in bed, squinting at the caller ID, and seriously consider letting it go to voicemail when I see Remy's name flashing on the screen.
But my cousin doesn't call this early unless something's wrong.
"What's the emergency?" I answer, voice rough with sleep.
"Merry Christmas to you too, sunshine," Remy drawls, and I can hear laughter in the background, the chaos of what sounds like kids tearing through wrapping paper. "No emergency. Just wanted to catch you before you disappeared into that hermit cave of yours for the day."
I sit up, running a hand through my hair. "It's December twenty-second, Remy. Christmas is in three days."
"Exactly my point. Aunt May's been calling you for weeks. When's the last time you answered?"
The guilt hits before I can stop it. "I've been busy."
"You're always busy. That's not the same thing as being alive."
I get up, padding to the kitchen to start coffee, phone pressed to my ear.
Outside, snow continues to fall, covering the ranch in pristine white that makes everything look clean and new.
Through the window, I can see the barn where Emmy will be working today, setting up equipment for her satellite clinic.
"Look," I say, measuring coffee grounds with more force than necessary, "I appreciate the concern, but I'm doing fine."
"Are you?" Remy's voice turns serious. "Because Aunt May drove by Tommy Preston's place last week, saw your truck at Peterson's Feed Store. Said you were with some woman. Pretty brunette who looked at you like you hung the moon."
Heat crawls up my neck. Of course the family grapevine would pick up on Emmy. "It's not what you think."
"What I think is that for the first time in five years, you might actually be letting someone in. And that scares the hell out of you."
The coffee maker gurgles to life, and I lean against the counter, watching steam rise from the pot. Remy isn't wrong. Emmy does scare me. Not because of who she is, but because of how she makes me feel. Like maybe the walls I've built around myself aren't as necessary as I thought.
"Her name's Emmy," I admit. "She's the new vet in town."
"And?"
"And nothing. She's helping with some renovations on the barn."
Remy snorts. "Right. Because you've always been real collaborative about ranch projects. What's she really mean to you, Wyatt?"
I pour coffee into a thermos, stalling for time. How do I explain Emmy to someone who's never met her? How do I put into words the way she looks at me like I'm worth saving, or how her laugh makes something tight in my chest loosen?
"She's..." I start, then stop. "It's complicated."
"The best things usually are." His voice gentles. "Look, I'm not trying to push. But Sarah's been gone five years. She wouldn't want you living like a ghost."
The familiar ache settles in my chest at the mention of Sarah's name. My fiancée died in a car accident the week before our wedding, and I've spent five years telling myself I don't deserve a second chance at happiness. That loving someone again means betraying her memory.
"I know what she'd want," I say quietly.
"Do you? Because from where I'm sitting, sounds like you might be ready to find out."
After we hang up, I sit in the kitchen with my coffee, staring out at the barn.
Remy's words echo in my head, mixing with memories I usually keep locked away.
Sarah with her wild red hair and infectious smile, the way she used to steal my coffee and claim hers was too bitter.
The plans we made for this ranch, the family we wanted to build.
She would have loved Emmy, I realize. Would have appreciated her stubborn streak and gentle hands, the way she stands up to me when I'm being an ass.
The thought should feel like betrayal, but instead it feels like permission.
I grab my coat and head for the barn, boots crunching through fresh snow. Inside, the space hums with activity. Matty's crew is putting finishing touches on the office area while Emmy directs the placement of examination equipment with the focused intensity I've come to love watching.
She's wearing dark jeans that hug her curves and a red sweater that brings out the gold in her hair. The keys I gave her hang from a lanyard around her neck, catching the light as she moves. When she spots me, her face lights up with a smile that makes my chest tight.
"Perfect timing," she says, crossing to where I stand. "I need someone tall to help hang this cabinet."
I follow her to the corner where a metal supply cabinet waits to be mounted. She's already marked the wall studs, drill and level laid out with typical Emmy efficiency.
"Hold this steady," she says, positioning the cabinet against the wall.
I step behind her, arms reaching around to grip the cabinet, effectively trapping her between my body and the wall. The position puts her soft curves against my chest, and I catch the scent of her shampoo, citrus and something uniquely her.
"Like this?" I ask, voice rougher than intended.
She nods, but I feel the slight tremor that runs through her at the contact. "Perfect."
She works with practiced competence, marking screw holes and checking measurements, but I'm acutely aware of every time she leans back against me, every brush of her hair against my chin.
When she reaches up to mark the top corner, her sweater rides up, exposing a strip of pale skin that makes my mouth go dry.
"There," she says, stepping back to survey her work. "Now we just need to..."
She turns in my arms, suddenly realizing how close we are. Her eyes widen, lips parting slightly, and for a moment we just stare at each other. The sounds of construction fade to background noise as the air between us crackles with familiar tension.
"Emmy," I start, but she cuts me off by going up on her toes and pressing her lips to mine.
The kiss is soft at first, tentative, but when I respond by pulling her closer, it deepens into something hungry and desperate. She tastes like coffee and peppermint, and I want to lose myself in the warmth of her mouth.
My hands slide down to grip her hips, pulling her flush against me, and she makes a soft sound of approval that shoots straight through me. Her fingers tangle in my hair, tugging just hard enough to make me groan.
"We should stop," she whispers against my lips, even as her body presses closer.
"Should we?" I trail kisses down her neck, finding that spot below her ear that makes her gasp.
"People are working," she breathes, but her head tilts back to give me better access.
"In the main barn. We're alone in here."
As if to prove my point, I back her against the wall, my body pinning hers as I capture her mouth again. This time there's nothing tentative about it. It's all heat and need and the week's worth of tension finally finding an outlet.
Her hands slide under my jacket, palms flat against my chest through my shirt, and I can feel my heart hammering against her touch. When she nips at my lower lip, I nearly lose what's left of my control.
"Wyatt," she gasps as I lift her, her legs automatically wrapping around my waist.
The new position brings us flush together, and I can feel exactly how much she wants this through the denim between us. It takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to carry her to that examination table and find out what she sounds like when she comes undone.
Instead, I force myself to step back, setting her down gently. We're both breathing hard, and her lips are swollen from my kisses. She looks thoroughly ravaged, and the sight makes something primitive and possessive roar to life in my chest.
"Rain check?" I ask, voice hoarse.
She nods, smoothing her hair with trembling fingers. "Definitely."
The sound of footsteps approaches, and we spring apart just as Matty appears in the doorway.
"Sorry to interrupt," he says, though his knowing look suggests he has a pretty good idea what he interrupted. "Just wanted to check if you need help with that cabinet installation."
"We've got it handled," I say, picking up the drill with hands that aren't quite steady.
After Matty leaves, Emmy and I work in charged silence, hyperaware of every accidental touch, every stolen glance. By the time we finish mounting the cabinet, the air between us practically vibrates with unresolved tension.
"I should get back to the clinic," she says, gathering her things. "Mrs. Patterson's bringing her cat in this afternoon, and you know how she gets if I'm running late."
I nod, not trusting my voice. She pauses at the door, looking back at me with eyes that promise this conversation isn't over.
"The Christmas Eve party is tomorrow night," she says. "Seven o'clock."
"I'll be there."
The promise hangs between us like a vow. After she leaves, I stand alone in the renovated space, surrounded by the equipment that will help her save animals, the office where she'll build something lasting.
My phone buzzes with another text from Remy:
Remy
Whatever's happening up there, don't overthink it. Some things are worth the risk.
For the first time in five years, I'm starting to believe he might be right.
The barn feels different now, charged with possibility and the lingering scent of Emmy's perfume. Tomorrow night, the whole town will gather here for Christmas Eve. Tomorrow night, I'll have to decide if I'm ready to let Hope Peak see what's growing between Emmy and me.
The thought terrifies and exhilarates me in equal measure.
I pull out my phone and dial Remy's number.
"Well, well," he answers on the first ring. "Change of heart?"
"Tell Aunt May she can come for Christmas," I say. "Both of you. There's someone I want you to meet."
The silence that follows is loaded with surprise and something that might be pride.
"About damn time," he says finally. "We'll be there Christmas morning. And Wyatt? I'm proud of you."
After we hang up, I walk through the barn one more time, seeing it through new eyes. Tomorrow night, this space will be filled with community and laughter and Christmas magic. But more than that, it'll be the place where I finally stop hiding from the possibility of happiness.
Emmy Sinclair walked into my life three weeks ago to treat an injured foal. Instead, she might just save me.
The thought doesn't scare me as much as it should.