Chapter 25
twenty-five
. . .
FINN
Up to that point, the only women I’d ever lived with were my mother and Aria, and I was worried how adapting to having Reagan in my space would go.
I shouldn’t have been worried.
Living with Reagan was as easy as breathing, like we’d been cohabitating for years instead of a few weeks.
Easy if you completely ignored the unspent sexual energy that pulsed in every one of our interactions.
Both of us were busy, though, so we usually only came together for dinner and rotting on the couch for a few hours before bed.
While I was at work, I’d usually see her car up at the big house, Aspen’s parked right alongside it, likely working on wedding details together.
The two of them had grown close during Reagan’s time here, and I was grateful she had a friend to keep her company when I had to be at work.
Mama and Aria also absolutely adored her; she folded into my family so easily, it was difficult to remember a time when she hadn’t been around.
Everyone looked at and talked about us like a couple, and I supposed from the outside looking in, we sure seemed like one.
But she hadn’t made a move in the physical sense, though we’d grown so much closer emotionally over meals and glasses of bourbon before bed. There was no doubt in my mind this woman was it for me, and I wanted to show her that, hoping she felt the same way.
The opportunity presented itself perfectly almost two weeks after she’d moved in with me.
There hadn’t been any movement on Lainey’s case, though I knew Reagan called Lane regularly for updates.
Trey was taking his sweet ass time going through the old security footage from the Swallow, and honestly, I was getting as impatient as Reagan.
Waiting for some tangible lead we could follow to her sister’s whereabouts was painful.
West and I had gone up in the plane four more times, clearing half of the area we were currently focused on, and managed to locate five properties that had potential to be the one from Reagan’s dream.
Every day, every time her hopes were dashed by my big brothers, it grew harder and harder to keep those clandestine trips to myself. I wanted so badly to tell her, but I didn’t want to get her hopes up more only to disappoint her.
The sounds of cooking greeted me when I walked into the house after work that night.
Once I’d shed my boots and hat, I found Reagan in the kitchen, barefoot, long golden legs on display in a pair of tiny white shorts.
Her tank’s thin spaghetti straps exposed the gentle, tan slopes of her shoulders, the lines of her collarbones, the long column of her neck.
She had yet to notice my presence, likely because of the music blasting from the surround sound, so I leaned against the wall and watched her.
I loved the easy way she moved around my home. She seemed to know exactly where everything was, not having to dig or open multiple cupboards before locating what she needed. I wanted her to think of this place as hers too. I wanted it to be ours.
When she bent over to pull a tray of what I quickly realized was lasagna from the oven, the sight of her ass had me unintentionally clearing my throat, fighting off a groan at the perfect peach shape, ripe and right there for the taking.
The tray of lasagna clattered to the stovetop as she whirled on me, hand to her chest.
“Sorry,” I said with a grimace, loud enough to be heard over the dulcet tones of Hozier crooning about how someone was too sweet for him. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
Grabbing her phone off the counter, she turned the volume down.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I was a little distracted.”
“This looks amazing.” Moving into her space, my body pressed against hers, I took a giant whiff of the lasagna and cheesy garlic bread.
Reagan inhaled sharply, then shoved me out of the way, grabbed both with oven-mitted hands, and carried them to the table.
“There’s salad and wine in the fridge too,” she said, and I grabbed them before joining her.
After she shed the mitts and set them on the island, I pulled out her chair.
Once she sat, I opened the wine and poured us each a glass.
Truthfully, I wasn’t a big wine guy, but since Owen had married into a family who owned a winery, I’d been known to drink it more than I used to.
Chateau Delatou was the only label I kept in my house.
Reagan caught me studying the bottle of Pinot Grigio and said, “I hope you don’t mind. I found it on the rack in the pantry.” She took it from me, squinting at the label. “I’ve never heard of this winery before.”
“It’s my sister-in-law’s,” I said. “Owen’s wife’s family owns a winery in northern Michigan.”
Setting the bottle down in favor of her wine, she sipped. “It’s delicious.”
“I’ll take you there one day,” I promised. “You’d love Delia and her sisters.”
Reagan smiled but didn’t say anything, and I quickly realized my misstep.
Mention of my sister-in-law and her sisters was likely a sore spot for my girl.
While I searched for a safer topic of conversation, Reagan blurted, “I want to scout the ranch for photo locations for the wedding.”
I blinked in surprise. “Okay…”
“Is there an ATV or something I could borrow? And maybe a map?”
“Not necessary,” I said quickly.
“What do you mean?”
“Have you ever ridden a horse?”
She pursed her lips and narrowed her gaze. “I’m southern. Of course I have.”
I grinned. “Perfect. Horseback is the best way to see the ranch.”
“I can borrow one?”
“Of course. We’ll go out tomorrow if you want?”
“We?”
“You didn’t think I’d let you see my family’s ranch for the first time without me there as a guide, did you?”
Reagan smiled, almost reluctantly, but it dropped quickly. “Tomorrow is Friday. Don’t you have to work?”
“I can take the day off.”
“You don’t have to do that for me.”
“I want to.”
“But you shouldn’t.”
“Stop arguing with me, woman.”
“But it’s so much fun,” she grinned.
I merely growled in response, though my lips twitched with a barely leashed smile of my own as I returned my attention to my meal.
When we finished, I cleared the table and did the dishes—exactly like at Mama’s, whoever didn’t cook, cleaned.
Reagan should’ve been used to the dance by now, but she still tried to help me.
I had to shoo her out of the kitchen with a pat on her ass—and, okay, maybe I snuck a squeeze, which had her squealing before heading down the hall and disappearing into her room for the night.
Once I finished cleaning and got the dishwasher running, I shut myself in my own room and called my mom.
“You’re calling late,” she said when she answered. “Everything okay?”
“Everything is fine,” I assured her. “But…I’m taking Reagan on a tour of the ranch tomorrow, and I was hoping you’d help me put together a picnic.”
Mama was silent for a moment. “You’re not proposing, are you? The last time I had to make a picnic for one of you boys, he came back with a fiancée.”
“No!” I said, a little too loudly. Dropping my voice, I repeated, “No, I’m not proposing. We’re not…” I sighed. “It’s not like that.”
“But you want it to be.”
“Have you seen her?” I responded with a chuckle.
Mama laughed as well. “I have, and I’ve seen you together. There’s something there, isn’t there?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “Hence this phone call.”
“I’ll have it all ready in the morning,” she said. “Swing by before you head down to the barn.”
“You’re the best, and I love you so much.”
“I love you too, my boy.”
The following morning, Reagan and I rode over to the barn together.
I parked at the big house and told her to go along to the stables so I could run inside and grab the picnic.
The basket was ready to go, and I didn’t bother to question what was inside, knowing Mama would take good care of us.
I gave her a peck on the cheek, ruffled Aria’s hair, and set off across the yard.
When I walked into the barn, I found Reagan standing at one of the stalls, cooing at and scratching the nose of one of the horses.
As luck would have it, my horse.
“That’s Raider,” I said when I reached her side. “He’s a sweet old thing.”
“He really is,” she agreed as Raider leaned in to nuzzle her cheek. Reagan giggled, and it might’ve been the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard.
“He’s mine.”
“Makes sense.”
“How so?”
“Soft guy, soft horse.”
With a smirk, I patted my stomach and adopted a thick, country-boy drawl as I said, “Baby, there ain’t nothin’ soft about me.”
“Don’t I know it,” she agreed with a grin.
“Let me get him out and tacked up, then we’ll pick one for you.”
As I led Raider out of his stall, plying him with a few peppermints, Reagan asked, “Are all of these yours?”
“My family’s and the remuda for the ranch hands, yeah. West has stables on the dude ranch that hold a dozen more, but since this is closest to the big house, it’s where we keep ours.”
“What are all of their names?”
“Outlaw, Rebel, Bandit, Raider,” I said, pointing at each stall in turn and pausing to brush a hand along Raider’s coat. “Rogue, Rascal, and Scamp.”
Reagan chuckled. “Really leaned into the whole ‘lawless’ thing, didn’t y’all?”
“It made the most sense. Plus, we let Aria name them.”
She’d been a little tike when all these horses had come to the ranch before Dad died. When she asked if she could name them, Dad agreed. He’d never been able to say no to his little girl.
Conversation died out as Reagan watched me tack up Raider, even going so far as to prove she knew her way around a horse by getting his bit and bridle in place while I focused on the saddle.