Chapter 5 Eliza
eliza
Walker's house is nothing like I expect.
From the outside, it's a modest cabin set back from the main ranch buildings. Warm light glows through the windows despite the growing storm. But inside, it's… lived in. Loved, even.
There are crayon drawings taped to the refrigerator and a half-finished puzzle on the coffee table. A basket of folded laundry sits by the couch, and a handmade quilt is draped by the fireplace. The whole place smells like pine and something sweet. Cookies, maybe.
This is what a home looks like. I wouldn't know.
“Dad!” Lucy barrels down the hallway in fuzzy socks and a nightgown covered in cartoon emojis. “Patty June let me frost three cookies, and she only yelled at me once about the sprinkles. Which was fair, I poured in the rest of the jar.”
Walker catches her mid-leap, swinging her up like she weighs nothing. “Only once? That’s a new record.”
“I was very restrained.” She spots me over his shoulder, and her eyes go wide. “Oh! Hi! The lawyer is here. Why don’t you like Christmas?”
“I never said I don’t like Christmas.”
“You made a face at our tree.” She narrows her eyes with the devastating honesty of a child. “It was a judgy face.”
“Lucy.” Walker’s voice carries a gentle warning.
“It’s fine.” I find myself almost smiling despite everything. “I probably did make a face. The star is crooked.”
“I know!” Lucy throws her hands up. “I told Dad to fix it, but he says it has character.”
“Character is just another word for flawed,” I say, and immediately regret it.
What kind of monster crushes a child’s Christmas spirit?
But Lucy just tilts her head, considering. “Or maybe it’s another word for interesting. Perfect is boring.”
I blink at her. “How old are you?”
“Ten and three-quarters. Almost eleven.” She wriggles out of Walker’s arms. “Anyway, are you staying for dinner? We’re having leftover chili because Dad forgot to defrost the chicken again.”
“I didn’t forget. I made a strategic decision to prioritize—”
“He forgot,” Lucy stage-whispers to me.
I watch them together. Their easy back-and-forth twists something in my chest. This is the exact opposite of what I do for a living.
I watch families fall apart. I document the wreckage of love gone wrong.
I divide assets and custody schedules. All day long, I help people untangle the mess of promises they couldn’t keep.
But this. This is something else.
Walker moves around the kitchen with practiced ease.
He heats up chili while Lucy sets the table with mismatched plates.
He asks about her day without checking his phone.
He listens to her rambling story about the cookies and Patty June and some drama with the chickens, like it’s the most important thing in the world.
Because to him, it probably is.
He’s fully present. Not performing for anyone, not checking boxes on some parenting checklist. Just… here. With her. I get the feeling they aren’t changing a single thing on my behalf, and I love that.
“You can sit here,” Lucy announces, pulling out a chair for me. “This is the good chair. It doesn’t wobble.”
“Thanks.” I lower myself into the seat, feeling distinctly out of place in my designer heels and silk blouse.
Everything about me is wrong for this room. I’m too put together, too cynical, and just too much. Walker sets a bowl of chili in front of me, and our fingers brush when I reach for the spoon. Heat shoots up my arm, and I jerk back like I’ve been burned.
His eyes meet mine, dark and knowing. “Careful. It’s hot.”
He’s not talking about the chili. I know it, and he knows I know it.
“I can handle the heat,” I hear myself say.
The corner of his mouth twitches. “I bet you can.”
“Dad.” Lucy’s voice is thick with preteen disgust. “Can you not be weird in front of our guest?”
Walker laughs, and the sound does something dangerous to my chest. “Sorry, sweetheart. I’ll try to contain myself.”
We eat dinner while the storm rages outside. Lucy tells me about her school and her best friend, then rolls right into a story about the new calf born last week. Walker watches me with those steady eyes. He’s not pushing, not prying, just observing. Like he’s trying to figure me out.
Good luck, bro. I’ve spent thirty-one years trying to figure myself out, and I’m still not there.
After dinner, Walker carries a half-asleep Lucy to bed. I stand at the window, watching the rain lash against the glass and wondering how the hell I ended up here. Stranded on a ranch with a man who looks at me like he can see past every wall I’ve built.
“She likes you.”
I turn to find Walker in the doorway, his massive shoulder leaning against the frame.
“She doesn’t know me.”
“Kids are good judges of character. Better than adults.” He crosses the room to stand beside me at the window. Not too close. But close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. “She’s not wrong about the tree, by the way. The star is crooked. But she put it up there herself, so it stays.”
I don’t know why that makes my throat tight. It shouldn’t. It’s just a tree.
“You’re a good father,” I say quietly.
“I try to be.” He’s watching me in the reflection of the glass. “Not everyone sticks around to find out.”
I can tell there’s a story there, but he doesn’t offer it. So I don’t ask.
“The guest room is down the hall,” he says finally. “Clean towels are in the bathroom cabinet. If you need anything…”
“I’ll be fine.” I turn to face him, and suddenly we’re too close. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. Close enough to smell cedar and rain and something distinctly him.
“I know you will.” His voice is low. “That’s not what I’m worried about.”
“What are you worried about?”
He holds my gaze for a long moment. There’s so much unspoken, but that’s impossible. We hardly know each other. Then he finally steps back, and I can breathe again.
“Nothing. I’m not worried about anything. Come on, it’s still early. I’ll start the fire.”
An hour later, we’re sitting across from each other in front of a roaring fireplace. Shadows dance across his face and soften the sharp lines. It makes him look almost unreal in the warm glow… not that he needed any help in the looking-sexy department.
The conversation flows easily. We keep it to safe topics, harmless stories, and nothing that should make my pulse skip. Yet every word he speaks feels like it’s tugging at something buried deep inside me that I didn’t even know existed.
It’s all surface level, but somehow it’s not.
Not with him. It gets late, and I know I should end this.
I should stand up and head to bed, but something in me can’t do it.
I feel starved for this connection. I need to know everything about this man who has somehow captivated me with nothing more than quiet steadiness and those maddeningly patient eyes. So I push it.
Monotony usually isn’t my thing. Small talk bores me. Silence is worse. But with him? I’m hanging on every word. Every pause. Every shift of his gaze.
It’s ridiculous. It’s dangerous. It’s… intoxicating.
At some point, I let a yawn slip, and it breaks the spell we’ve been under. Walker glances toward the hallway, and something in his face shifts. It’s gentle and careful, like he’s setting down something fragile.
“We’ve got to call it. The sun’s going to be up before we know it.” He stands and puts a hand out to help me to my feet. “Goodnight, Eliza.”
The words are simple. Innocent. But they land in my chest with an absurd amount of force. My palm bubbles with fire long after he lets go. He walks me to the guest room and opens the door for me before disappearing down the hall.
Walker leaves nothing but the scent of cedar and rain lingering in the air. Now I’m standing in the dark with my heart pounding like I just ran full speed into a life I wasn’t expecting.
What the hell just happened? Get your shit together, Eliza. This is one night. Just one night. A blip. A nothing. Stop freaking out.
But as the wind howls against the cabin and the warmth of his home seeps into my bones, I feel something shift. It’s small and terrifying and undeniably real.
I have zero chance of falling asleep tonight.