Chapter 7 Walker
walker
I don't sleep worth a damn.
The storm rages outside. It rattles the windows and howls through the eaves. But that's not what's keeping me awake. I've slept through worse. Hell, I've slept through Lucy's colicky screaming when she was a baby, through tornado warnings, and Texas hail the size of golf balls.
What's keeping me awake is the woman down the hall. Eliza Kingridge, California attorney.
On her, the Kingridge name isn’t country at all. It’s expensive, sharp, and polished… just like the rest of her. She's probably lying in my guest bed right now with her silky hair spread across the pillow, wondering how the hell she ended up in a place like this.
I stare at the ceiling and try not to think about what she looks like under that designer blouse. Try not to remember the way her fingers trembled when they brushed mine at dinner. The way her eyes went soft when she watched Lucy ramble about cookies and chickens.
Mine.
The word echoes through me again, just like it did when I first saw her step out of that SUV. It's ridiculous. Primal. The kind of caveman bullshit I thought I'd outgrown somewhere around my thirtieth birthday.
But my body doesn't give a damn about logic. Not when it comes to Eliza, and it’s driving me crazy.
I throw off the covers and pad to the kitchen.
If I'm going to be awake, I might as well make myself useful.
I turn on the low under-cabinet lights and click a button on the coffee maker.
It gurgles to life. I stand at the window and watch the storm tear across the fields.
Trees bend sideways. Rain lashes the glass in sheets.
The power flickers once, twice, but then holds.
"You're up early."
The sound of her voice startles me, and I jump. I turn to find Eliza standing in the doorway, and the sight makes my mouth go dry.
She's wearing one of my flannel shirts.
The button-down swallows her whole and hangs past her thighs.
The sleeves are rolled up to her elbows.
Her hair is loose and mussed from sleep.
Her face is scrubbed clean of makeup. And those thick thighs…
damn it, those legs go on for miles beneath the hem of my shirt.
I blow out a deep breath and try to keep my eyes from roaming.
"I hope you don't mind." She tugs at the flannel. "My shirt was still damp from the rain, and I found this in the bathroom. I can change if—"
"Don't." The word comes out rougher than I intend it to. I clear my throat. "It's fine. Looks better on you anyway."
Something flickers in her eyes. Heat, or maybe a warning. It’s hard to tell with her.
"Coffee?" I ask, turning back to the machine before I do something stupid like cross the room and find out if her lips are as soft as they look.
"Please. No cream, just bl—"
"Black. I remember."
I pour two mugs and hand her one. Our fingers brush again, and this time neither of us pulls away. The contact sends electricity shooting up my arm and pooling low in my gut.
"Storm's still going strong," I say, nodding toward the window. "Might be stuck here a while longer."
"Lucky me." Her voice is dry, but there's no real bite to it.
She wraps both hands around the mug and moves to stand beside me at the window. She’s close enough that I can smell her. Something floral underneath the scent of my laundry detergent. The combination does things to me that it shouldn’t.
"Are you always up this early?" she asks.
"Yeah, I try to be. The ranch doesn't run itself. Cows don't care if you got a full eight hours."
"Sounds exhausting."
"Sounds like life. It isn’t too bad. Peaceful before all those jackass brothers of yours have a chance to cause havoc on the place." I take a sip of my coffee. "What about you? What time does a fancy California lawyer usually roll out of bed?"
"Depends on the case. Sometimes five. Sometimes I don't sleep at all." She stares out at the storm. "There's always another fire to put out. Another marriage to untangle. Another person convinced that love is the answer to all their problems, right up until it becomes the source of their undoing."
"That's a hell of a way to look at the world."
"It's a realistic way." She turns to face me, and in the gray morning light, she looks younger.
Softer. Tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep.
"I've seen what happens when people believe in fairy tales.
They end up in my office, crying over custody agreements and dividing up Christmas ornaments. "
"Not everyone ends up there."
"Enough do. I’ve never been married, but I’m working through my three hundred and forty-second divorce."
I study her face, searching for the cracks beneath the polish. "Is that what happened to your mom and Pa Kingridge? They believed in the fairy tale, and it fell apart?"
She flinches. Just barely, but I catch it.
"My mother believed," she says quietly. "My father… Hell, you know him better than I do at this point." Her laugh is bitter, hollow. "So no, I don't put much stock in happily-ever-after. In my experience, it's just a lie people tell themselves until reality catches up."
The pieces click into place. No wonder she came here with her armor locked in place. No wonder she wants nothing to do with this ranch.
"I know enough about him. He’s a good man who made some terrible choices.
And he missed out on knowing you. So that means he isn’t that smart.
" I set my mug down on the counter and turn to face her fully.
"I know you came here expecting to hate this place.
These people. I know you've got walls up so high you probably can't even see over them anymore. And I know you're scared."
Her eyes flash. I’ve got her attention. "I'm not scared of anything."
"Bullshit." I take a step closer.
She doesn't back away.
"You're terrified. Not of this ranch or your brothers or even the skeletons in your father’s closet. You're scared that maybe you're wrong about all of it. That love isn't the trap you've convinced yourself it is. That people can actually stay."
"People don't stay." Her voice is barely a whisper. "They never stay."
"I stayed."
The words hang between us, heavy and raw. I watch them land against her armor, and her resolve falters.
"Well, they don’t make men like you where I’m from." Her voice is soft, and it breaks my damn heart.
"Lucy’s mother walked out when she was eighteen months old," I continue.
"Said she wasn't cut out for this life. I was never sure if it was ranching life, motherhood, or me that pushed her over the edge.
" I shrug, though the old wound still aches if I press on it too hard.
"I didn’t have a choice of who to be at that point.
That little girl down the hall deserves a father who believes in something.
Who shows up even when it's hard. So that’s who I became. "
Eliza stares at me, and for the first time since she arrived, the mask slips completely. I see the hurt underneath. The loneliness.
"Walker…" She says my name like it costs her something. "You are an incredible father. She’s lucky to have you in her corner."
"I’m lucky to have her." I close the distance between us until we're inches apart. Until I can feel the heat radiating off her skin. "And I’m lucky that you’re standing here in my kitchen, looking more stunning than anyone has a right to be in that shirt."
Her breath catches. Her lips part. Her eyes drop to my mouth. Every ounce of self-control I possess screams at me to close the gap. Everything in me is desperate to take what I've wanted since the moment I saw her.
I reach up and brush a strand of hair from her face. Her skin is impossibly soft beneath my calloused fingers. She leans into the touch, just slightly, and a sound escapes her. Something between a sigh and a whimper.
"Tell me to stop," I murmur. "Tell me this isn't what you want, and I'll walk away right now."
She doesn't say anything. Just stares up at me with those dark eyes, chest rising and falling. Waiting. There’s no air left in the room. All I can hear is the sound of my own heart thudding in my chest.
I lean in.
Her eyes flutter closed.
I can feel her breath on my lips, can almost taste her—
"Dad?"
We spring apart like we’ve been electrocuted.
I turn to see Lucy standing in the hallway. She’s rubbing sleep from her eyes. Her hair is a wild tangle, and she's dragging her stuffed horse by one leg. She looks between Eliza and me with the kind of innocent curiosity that makes my heart clench.
"Why are you guys standing so close together?" she asks. "Were you telling secrets?"
"Something like that." I clear my throat and take a deliberate step back from Eliza. My heart is hammering so hard I'm surprised Lucy can't hear it. "What are you doing up, sweetheart? It's early."
"The thunder woke me." She pads across the kitchen and wraps her arms around my waist. "Can we have pancakes? You promised."
I look at Eliza over Lucy's head. She's got her arms crossed, cheeks flushed, looking everywhere but at me. The moment is shattered, but the tension still crackles in the air like static before lightning.
"Pancakes it is," I say. "Why don't you go put your robe on? It’s cold in here. Then you can pick out what shape you want."
"Christmas trees!" Lucy releases me and bounces toward the bathroom. "Do you like pancakes, Eliza?"
"I do." She lets out a soft giggle.
"Dad makes the best pancakes. You’re going to love them. Also, are those your real nails? I love the color. Can you paint mine after breakfast? I can grab my polish while I’m getting my robe. I have so many colors."
Eliza's expression softens in a way that does something dangerous to my chest. "Yeah, I'd like that. If it's okay with your dad, of course."
Lucy looks up at me with hopeful eyes. "Please, Dad? Please, please, please?"
I'm a goner. I have been since the day she was born. "Sure, sweetheart. If Eliza wants to."
"Yay! Actually, come with me." Lucy grabs Eliza's hand and tugs her toward the bathroom.
"I'll show you my sparkle collection. I have eleven different colors, but the blue one is my favorite because it looks like a mermaid.
But I might want a Christmas vibe, and I do think I have a green. Very elf-like…"
Her chatter fades down the hall, and I'm left standing in the kitchen. My coffee grows cold, but my body still thrums with need.
One night, she said.
But watching her let my daughter drag her down the hallway, seeing that polished armor crack just a little more with every step…
I know one night isn't going to be enough.
Not even close.