Chapter Seven
Libby
I didn’t want to leave the cabin.
Not just because my body still ached in all the best ways from the night—and morning—we’d just had. And not just because the sight Beckett, standing at the stove shirtless and barefoot, was giving me enough to dream about for a year.
It was so domestic it made my heart ache. It scared me a little, too—how quickly my body and heart were starting to believe this could be my new reality.
He moved around the kitchen with the same quiet efficiency he brought to everything, and I found myself smiling as I watched him.
His hair was still damp from the shower we’d shared—a shower that had turned into something else entirely before he’d dragged us both out with a muttered complaint about the water going cold.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the slow slide of skin against skin in the shower, the slick heat of his palms against my hips.
He’d held me like a man who didn’t know how to let go—and now, in the morning light, it was hard to believe that had really happened.
I wanted to reach out, to touch him again just to make sure he was real.
“What?” he asked without turning around.
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“Can you blame me?” I leaned back in the chair. “You’re cooking me breakfast while shirtless. It’s a very nice view.”
His shoulders tensed slightly, but when he glanced back at me, there was something almost shy in his expression.
“You’re trouble,” he said.
“You like trouble.”
“Unfortunately.” But he was almost smiling.
He set a plate of pancakes in front of me, then settled into the chair across from mine. For a few minutes, we ate in comfortable silence.
It felt easy. Natural. Like we’d been doing this for years. His knee brushed mine under the table and didn’t move, and for a heartbeat I let myself imagine this was a normal morning in a normal life.
And yet, underneath, my stomach fluttered. He’d been quiet all morning and I couldn’t tell if it was contentment or the start of him retreating.
And that terrified me.
Because I knew what happened when things felt this good. When you let yourself believe it could last. I’d learned that lesson the hard way—trusted the wrong person, let my guard down, and paid the price.
But Beckett wasn’t like that, was he?
I watched him eat, noted the way he kept glancing at me like he was making sure I was still there. The way his hand had reached for mine across the table without seeming to realize it.
He felt it too. This thing between us.
“What are you thinking?” he asked quietly.
I hesitated. “That this feels really good.”
“But?”
“No but.” I squeezed his hand. “Just... it feels really good.”
Something eased in his expression. “Yeah. It does.”
His thumb stroked across my knuckles once—just once—before he pulled his hand back, the gesture small but leaving my skin tingling.
After breakfast, we got dressed and headed to the barn together. It felt natural to walk beside him, our shoulders occasionally brushing, comfortable silence stretching between us.
But every step away from the cabin felt like stepping back into reality, and I could see him armoring up again. By the time we reached the barn his jaw was tight, his shoulders squared.
The words tasted bitter on my tongue, but I said them anyway. “You okay?” I asked.
“Fine.”
But he wasn’t. I could see it in the way he moved, the careful distance he was putting between us now that we were back in public view.
We worked with Wildfire for about an hour, and it should’ve felt the same as before. But it didn’t. Beckett was different. More closed off. He barely looked at me, barely spoke unless it was about the horse.
And when our hands accidentally brushed reaching for the rope, he pulled back like he’d been burned.
Something cold settled in my stomach.
“Beckett—”
“He’s doing good,” Beckett said, his voice flat. “You should document the progress. For your report.”
My report. Right. Because that’s all this was. A job.
Except it wasn’t. Not anymore.
But clearly, he was already regretting last night. This morning.
I tried to push down the hurt rising in my chest. Tried to stay professional. “Okay. I’ll take some notes and—”
“I need to check the other horses,” he said abruptly. “Can you finish up here?”
“Sure. But Beckett—”
He was already walking away.
I stood there watching him go. This morning he’d held me like I was something he couldn’t bear to lose. He’d told me I made him feel like he mattered.
Now he couldn’t get away from me fast enough.
Wildfire blew out a heavy breath and swung his big head toward me, as if he knew exactly what was happening. “Don’t you start,” I muttered, moving closer to stroke his neck.
I tried to steady my breathing, let my palms rest against the warm curve of his shoulder.
His size always struck me—fifteen hundred pounds of raw muscle and instinct, but when he exhaled against my palm it was as soft as a sigh.
“You get it, don’t you?” I murmured. “Keeping people at arm’s length.
Pretending you don’t care so it won’t hurt when they leave. ”
For a moment, with his forehead nearly brushing mine, it felt like a confession, like telling a secret to someone who couldn’t betray me.
I tried to convince myself I was overthinking it. That he was just busy. That the distance didn’t mean anything.
But by afternoon, when I still hadn’t seen him, I knew something was wrong.
What the hell had I been thinking? That one night—one perfect morning—would change everything? That he’d suddenly be okay with letting someone in?
I should’ve known better.
Horses or men. I always fell for the ones who couldn’t love me back.
Still, as I stood there in the barn with Wildfire’s warm breath fanning my neck, I couldn’t stop one thought from sneaking in.
Maybe this wasn’t over yet. Maybe he’d come back.
Maybe the man who’d looked at me like I was the only safe place left in the world hadn’t disappeared completely.
I closed my eyes, pressed my forehead to Wildfire’s and whispered, “We’ll see, won’t we?
” The horse flicked his tail, and for the first time all day I almost smiled.