Chapter 8 Eliza
eliza
I slip into my own clothes. We spend the morning painting tiny fingernails and pretending I'm not falling apart.
Lucy is a girl after my own heart. She has opinions. Strong ones. She wants red on her thumbs because those are the important fingers for playing games on her phone. The sparkly green goes everywhere else because green is having a moment, thanks to the release of the second Wicked movie.
I follow her logic perfectly. Which either says something about her maturity or my mental state… maybe both.
"You're really good at this," Lucy announces, inspecting her finished hand with the critical eye of a seasoned manicurist. "Way better than my Dad. He always gets it on my skin. But he tries, you know. Sometimes he lets me paint his toes, but don’t tell him I told you."
"Your secret is safe with me. But tell me more… Are they red? He seems like a red-polish kind of man," I say, and she giggles.
From the kitchen, I hear Walker on the phone. He’s saying something about storm damage to a fence line and cattle that need moving. His voice is low and steady. That calm authority radiates from him like heat, and it draws me in like a magnet.
I try not to listen.
I try not to remember how close he was this morning. I push away the ghost of his breath against my lips in the heartbeat before Lucy interrupted us. But it's impossible. He’s imprinted himself on my brain and in my heart.
It’s wild, considering he was a stranger not that long ago.
I’ve never experienced anything like it.
This rush is giving me a whole new level of compassion for the clients who show up in my office, hearts in shreds.
If I spend even another few hours here, going back to my real life is going to sting.
I've been replaying the kitchen scene on a loop for hours. The way he looked at me. The way he loves his daughter down to his bones. He stayed. He was the one who got left, and he built something beautiful anyway. The way he said he stayed with so much conviction.
Men don't say things like that… Or maybe they do.
They say all kinds of pretty things when they want something. But meaning them is different. Following through? That's the fairy tale. And I stopped believing in fairy tales a long time ago.
"Eliza?" Lucy's voice pulls me back. "Are you sad?"
I blink at her. "What? No. Why would you think that?"
"You got that look." She scrunches up her nose. "The one my Dad gets sometimes when he thinks I'm not watching. Like you're remembering something that hurts."
Shit. This kid is too perceptive for her own good.
"I'm fine," I say, forcing a smile. "Just thinking."
"About what?"
About your father. About how terrifying it is to want something you've spent your whole life convincing yourself doesn’t exist. About him peeling my shirt off and pressing me into the countertop.
"About how pretty your nails look. You're going to be the most glamorous girl at school."
She beams and holds up her nails, totally distracted. I exhale.
Walker appears in the doorway, phone still in hand. "Storm took out a section of fence on the north pasture. I've got to go help the guys get the cattle secured before they scatter halfway to Oklahoma."
"In this weather?" I glance toward the window. The rain has slowed to a steady drizzle, but the sky is still dark and angry.
"Can't wait. Cows don't care about the weather." He looks at Lucy. "Sweetheart, Patty June's going to come pick you up. You can help her with the baking for the Christmas party."
"Yes!" Lucy pumps her fist. "She said I could use the big mixer this time!"
"Only if you're careful."
"Yeah, duh. I'm always careful."
Walker raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. He looks at me, and something passes between us. Something unfinished.
"You'll be okay here?" he asks.
No. I won’t be okay. I'll be alone with my thoughts and the memory of this morning.
"I'll survive," I say.
His mouth twitches. "Grab a winter coat from the hall closet if you go anywhere. The storm might kick back up this afternoon."
I tilt my head. "Got it, thank you."
He lets out a quiet chuckle. "Can’t help myself."
Then he's pulling on boots and a weathered jacket. A moment later, he’s disappearing into the gray morning. Five more minutes and he’s gone. It’s like he was never here at all.
Patty June arrives ten minutes later in a truck that's seen better decades. She's a small, wisp of a woman with silver hair and sharp eyes that miss absolutely nothing.
"Well, aren’t you sweet. You're the California sister," she says, looking me up and down without an ounce of subtlety. "We’ve all heard a lot about you."
"I'm sure you have."
"Mm-hmm." She doesn't elaborate, just helps Lucy into her coat and boots. "Walker says the power might flicker. There are candles in the drawer by the stove and flashlights under the sink. Don't mess with the generator unless you know what you're doing."
"Oh, okay. Thanks, I’m sure I'll manage."
She studies me for a long moment, then nods once. "I expect you will."
Lucy bounds forward. “By Eliza! I’ll bring you some of the batch I make.”
“I can’t wait.”
They leave, and suddenly I'm alone.
The house feels different without Lucy's chatter. It’s quieter, that’s for sure. I notice the photos of her at various ages. There’s a child’s drawing framed on the wall. It’s a stick-figure man and girl, both with huge smiles. I see the worn copy of Goodnight Moon on the coffee table.
All of it swirls around me like a warm blanket on a cold day. There’s a soft charm here that I’ve never experienced before. I’m still pissed off at Danner, but a small part of me is starting to understand that this place is special.
I search for the button to turn on the fireplace. When I don’t find one, I assume this kind requires actual logs. So I settle for a blanket and pull out my laptop. I try to work with mixed results. I fire off one email for every two times I think about Walker.
I use the opportunity to bring myself down to reality by reciting the facts of my situation.
I’m horny for a smoking hot cowboy. That is California’s fault.
The dudes there are skinnier than I am. It’s Christmas.
Walker is a sexy single dad. I have, of course, fallen for him.
That’s Hallmark’s fault. None of this is real.
By the time I hear the front door open, I've almost convinced myself this morning was a fluke. Then Walker walks in, and all that careful reconstruction crumbles to dust.
He's soaked. Rain drips from his hair, his jacket, the brim of his hat. Mud cakes his boots and streaks up his jeans. He looks exhausted and rough, like he’s been fighting the elements for hours, and it's the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
"Fence is fixed," he says, shrugging off his jacket. "Cattle are secured. Lucy?"
"She’s still with Patty June. They’re baking."
He nods, toeing off his boots. "Good. That’s good."
Silence stretches between us. Heavy. Electric. It’s the same charge from this morning, but now it’s amplified.
"You should get out of those wet clothes," I say, and immediately regret the way it sounds.
His eyes meet mine. They’re dark and knowing. "Yeah. I should."
But he doesn’t move.
Neither do I. Instead, we pick up right where we left off.
"Eliza." He says my name like a warning. Like a prayer. "I've been thinking about you all day. Couldn't focus on a damn thing except how you looked in my kitchen this morning. In my shirt. Looking at me like…"
"Like what?"
He crosses the room in three long strides and stops inches away from me. He’s so close I can smell the rain on his skin.
"Like you wanted me to kiss you."
My heart slams against my ribs. "I didn’t—"
"Don’t lie to me." His voice is low, rough. "You can lie to everyone else. You can lie to yourself. But don’t lie to me."
I stare up at him, chest heaving, every nerve ending sparking.
"What do you want me to say?"
"The truth." He reaches up and cups my face in his calloused hands. His palms are cold from the rain, but they send heat flooding through my entire body. "Tell me you don't feel the connection between us, and I'll walk away right now. I'll give you the guest room and all the space you want."
Yes, I should say yes to that.
I should end this before it starts. I’m here for a day. I can't possibly be this deep. I can't want a life that looks nothing like my reality. I can't break myself against a man who has an entire world rooted in a ranch in Texas.
But when I open my mouth, what comes out is something else entirely.
"I'm terrified," I whisper. "I don't do this. I don't feel things like this. I watch people destroy each other in the name of love every single day, and I swore I would never—"
"I know." His thumb traces my cheekbone. It’s so gentle it makes my chest ache. "I know you're scared. I'm scared too. But I'm more scared of letting you walk out of here without knowing what this could be."
"Walker…"
"Tell me to stop." His forehead drops to mine. "Tell me, and I will."
I don’t tell him to stop.