Chapter Twenty-Six – Paisley
Chapter Twenty-Six
Paisley
F un fact: you can't actually die from anticipation. Trust me, I've done extensive research on this over the past hour while standing in Martha's back room as an army of well-meaning small-town ladies fuss over my hair and dress like I'm some kind of life-sized paper doll they've been waiting decades to style.
"Hold still," Martha commands, wielding a hairpin like a weapon. "This braid needs to last through the whole competition."
"About that…" I try to catch her eye in the mirror, but she's laser-focused on her mission. "Is this really necessary? The elaborate hair, the dress that probably cost more than my first advance?—"
"Hush." She secures another pin with military precision. "This is a Pine Ridge tradition. Every detail matters."
Right. Tradition. Like this entire evening isn't just an excuse for Martha's extremely unsubtle matchmaking schemes. The Fall Festival is in full swing outside, the sound of music and laughter drifting through the window along with the scent of pumpkin spice and Martha's infamous apple pies. The whole town's turned out, dressed in their finest western wear, ready for what Martha keeps calling "an evening of magic and romance" with the kind of emphasis that should probably be illegal in at least three states.
"There." Martha steps back, admiring her handiwork. "Perfect."
I study my reflection, barely recognizing the woman staring back at me. The dress is something straight out of a romance novel—deep blue with silver accents that catch the light like stars. My hair falls in an intricate braid crowned with tiny wildflowers, and there's a softness to my expression that has nothing to do with Martha's expert makeup application.
"He won't know what hit him," Carol Sue declares from her post by the door, where she's been "standing guard" (read: making sure I don't make a break for it).
"That's assuming he shows up." The words come out sharper than intended, bitter with the memory of how carefully Wes has been avoiding me since our dance practice. Since that moment in Martha's when something almost real flickered between us before he shut down again.
"Oh, he'll show." Martha's smile could power half the county. "Jake has made sure of it."
Before I can ask exactly what that means, a commotion outside draws everyone to the window. The square dance is about to start, and couples are lining up under strings of twinkling lights that transform the town square into something magical.
"That's our cue." Martha practically vibrates with excitement. "Places, everyone!"
"Martha—" I start, but she's already shooing me toward the door.
"No more stalling." She adjusts my skirt with practiced efficiency. "Sometimes the best stories are the ones we're most afraid to write."
The words hit closer to home than she probably realizes. Because that's exactly what I've been doing these past weeks—writing the scariest, most honest story of my life. Not about perfect cowboys who do sunrise yoga, but about real men who pray in their kitchens at dawn and read bedtime stories with all the voices and love so fiercely it terrifies them.
The evening air hits me like an embrace as I step outside, carrying the scent of autumn and possibility. Lanterns sway in the breeze, casting warm light across faces I've come to know as family. Emma waves frantically from her spot beside Jake, practically bouncing with excitement. Even Bernard, who Martha somehow convinced to be part of the evening's entertainment, looks imperious in his designated "performance area."
Then I see him.
And there he is—all six feet of pure heartbreak in a black western suit that makes my chest ache with wants I'm not supposed to have. Wes stands at the edge of the dance floor, hands clasped behind his back, looking like every bad decision I've been trying not to make since I first stepped onto his porch.
Then he sees me, and the world stops spinning for one endless moment.
His eyes darken as they track over me, something raw and hungry flickering in their depths. "You're making this really hard, you know that?"
"What's that?" I aim for casual, missing by about the same distance as Manhattan to Montana.
"Doing the right thing." His voice comes out rough, as if each word costs him. "Walking away."
"Then don't." I step closer, close enough to catch the familiar scent of leather and coffee that's become home. "Just... not tonight. Tonight, we can pretend there's no bank notices, no failing ranch, no morning after."
He makes a sound low in his throat—defeat or desire or maybe both. "Paisley..."
"One dance." I'm not above begging, not when he's looking at me like that. "Let's have one perfect moment before reality crashes back in."
"Ladies and gentlemen!" Martha's voice carries over the crackling tension between us. "Take your places for the Pine Ridge Fall Festival dance competition!"
Wes moves toward me with a fluid grace that still makes my heart stutter. His hand settles on my waist like a brand, and I try very hard not to think about how this will feel tomorrow when it's just another memory of something I can't keep.
"I have to admit, it's an improvement over the manure incident."
A laugh escapes before I can catch it. "High praise indeed. I notice you're not wearing those fancy dress boots Emma mentioned."
"Some risks aren't worth taking." His lips twitch, and for a moment, I catch a glimpse of the man who spent three days on his couch with me, arguing about terrible TV shows and sharing tissues.
The music starts—a slow, sweet melody that has couples moving into position. Wes's hand finds my waist, warm and steady, while the other clasps mine like it belongs there. We move together as the first notes fill the air, and just like that, the rest of the world fades away.
"You're better at this than last time," he murmurs as we turn.
"Amazing what can happen when you're not actively dying of plague."
His chest rumbles with silent laughter. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"Better than admitting we spent three days watching terrible reality TV and arguing about soap operas."
"I still say that woman should have picked the rancher."
"She picked the neurosurgeon because he had actual emotions and could express them using words." I meet his eyes, challenging. "Unlike some people I know."
His grip tightens slightly as we turn again. "Some things are harder to say than others."
"And some things," I counter softly, "are worth saying anyway."
The music shifts, faster now, and we move with it. His hands are sure and strong, guiding me through steps that feel more natural than they should. We're closer than strictly necessary, my skirt brushing his legs with each turn, his breath warm against my hair.
"I can't give you what you deserve," he says suddenly, his voice rough with something darker than regret.
I nearly miss a step. "What?"
"A future. Security." His grip tightens on my waist almost painfully. "The ranch is drowning, Paisley. The bank's ready to take everything."
"I know." I meet his eyes, steady despite my racing heart. "Jake told me."
He exhales sharply. "Of course, he did."
"Did you really think I'd run?" I challenge, brave or stupid or maybe both. "That knowing the truth would send me racing back to Manhattan?"
"You should." His jaw clenches, but he doesn't let go. If anything, he pulls me closer. "You should run as far and fast as you can."
"Too bad I've never been good at doing what I should."
His eyes darken, something primal flashing there. "This isn't one of your stories. I can't promise you anything except complications and hard choices and probably heartbreak."
"Good thing I'm tired of writing fiction." I fist my hands in his shirt, anchoring us both. "I want reality. Even if it's messy. Even if it hurts."
"Paisley." His voice cracks on my name. "I've been fighting this so hard."
"Then stop fighting." I press closer, feeling his heart hammer against mine. "Stop being so noble and just?—"
The music fades, but we don't move apart. The crowd around us has gone quiet, or maybe I just can't hear them over the pounding of my heart. Wes's eyes search mine, like he's looking for something he's afraid to find.
"I'm not good at letting people in," he whispers.
"I noticed." A smile tugs at my lips. "Although you're better at it than you think."
His other hand slides into my hair, careful of Martha's intricate work. "This isn't going to be like one of your books."
"Good." I grip his shirt, anchoring us both. "Like I said, I'm tired of writing fiction."
He cuts me off with a growl, one hand tangling in my hair while the other pulls me flush against him. The kiss isn't gentle or sweet or anything like what I write in my books; it's desperate and hungry and tastes like surrender. Like a man who's finally stopped denying himself what he wants.
I kiss him back just as hard, pouring everything into it—all the words I couldn't write, all the truth I've been learning since I first stepped onto his porch. His hands are rough on my skin, possessive in a way that makes my blood sing, and I arch into him like I'm trying to crawl inside his chest where all those carefully guarded pieces of his heart live.
When we finally break apart, the crowd erupts in cheers. Emma's voice carries over the rest, bright with triumph. "Finally!"
Wes rests his forehead against mine, laughing softly. "I think we just made Martha's year."
"Pretty sure she's already planning the wedding." I glance over to where Martha stands with her committee, practically glowing with satisfaction. "I have to admit, her matchmaking skills are impressive."
"Terrifying, you mean." But he's smiling—that real, full smile that transforms his whole face. "I suppose I owe her a thank-you."
"We both do." I brush my thumb across his jaw, marveling that I can finally touch him like this. "But maybe we should wait until after she's done crying happy tears into her clipboard."
He laughs again, the sound warming me more than any Montana summer. "You sure about this? About us?"
"I've never been surer of anything." I meet his eyes, steady and certain. "But I do have one condition."
His eyebrow arches. "Oh?"
"No more sunrise yoga scenes in my books." I grin up at him. "I think I've found something better to write about."
"Yeah?" His hands settle on my waist again as the music starts back up. "And what's that?"
"Reality." I stretch up to kiss him again, quick and sweet. "Turns out, it's better than fiction anyway."
Above us, the harvest moon bathes everything in silver light, and somewhere in the crowd, Martha is probably already planning our future. But right here, in this moment, with Wes holding me like he never wants to let go, I finally understand what I've been trying to write all along.
Sometimes the best stories aren't the ones we plan. They're the ones that write themselves, in early morning coffee and bedtime stories, in shared colds and square dances, in all the quiet moments between once upon a time and happily ever after.
And maybe, just maybe, this is only the beginning of ours.