43
“I can’t believe you live like this,” I tell Wyatt as we step inside his Airstream. The space is cramped but cozy. Sunlight streams through the curtains, cutting through the stale air. Clothes are strewn on the bed. I rest my boring, ugly gray replacement cane in the corner.
“Livin’ like a king,” he boasts, setting his two-way radio on the dinette table.
“Bullshit.” I arch a brow, flicking a sandwich crust in the trash. “This is the hovel of a monster, Wyatt.” I set the packing boxes I’m carrying on the counter next to an open package of Twinkies. “Ants. You have ants.”
The two-way radio crackles. “Wyatt. Fallon? You there?” Davis.
“Christ,” Wyatt complains.
I give him a dry look. “Are we allowed to legally emancipate from our siblings?”
He chuckles then, blowing out an aggrieved breath, snatches up the radio.
As he checks in with Davis, I roll my eyes.
Big, grumpy babysitters.
That’s what the Montgomery men are.
We’ve been living at the ranch for three days, and I already hate it.
The mood is tense. Everyone on guard. Because I’ve been right all along.
My accident wasn’t an accident. Between the DMs and the roses, Wyatt’s certain someone’s out to get me.
It makes me feel better that his brothers believe us.
It makes me feel like shit that Reese was hurt.
Now, it’s all hands on deck. Gratitude sweeps through me at all these broody cowboys trying to fix it. Davis and Richter are pulling town videos. A PI Ford knows is looking into the DMs. Wyatt’s been my shadow, keeping me close and protected.
And me, I’m just pissed off.
Someone came into my cottage. Stole my cane. Fucked up what I’m sure were the best cinnamon rolls of my life.
Worse, I never got to tell Wyatt how I feel. Maybe the break-in was the universe’s way of stopping me from making an idiotic confession of love. Either way, relief washed over me the second I saw Wyatt storming for me. When he pulled me into his arms, for one long second, everything felt okay.
Exhaling, I look around the place. “So what do we need to do?”
“Box up all the shit.” Wyatt tosses clothes into the box. “The Airstream’s goin’ to scrap.”
“I can’t believe you’re getting rid of her.” I look around longingly. Memories flash. Sex during the end-of-the-year party. Smoking weed while stripping a saddle. The last time I was here…I left the letter for him.
“Yeah, well, I can’t believe my brothers are kickin’ me out,” he grumbles. “She’s got rats anyway. Chewing through the rotten wood floor.”
I pick through the remnants of his cupboards. Peanut butter, jelly, and marshmallows all go into a box. “What do your brothers plan to do with the land?”
“Expand,” he says, dunking a stack of books into a box. “Plannin’ shit that ain’t got nothin’ to do with me.”
“Then what are you going to do? The school?”
He glances up, swallows. “Ain’t sure. My brothers want—”
“Wy, you need to do what you want.”
His handsome face turns contemplative. “I always wanted to make ’em proud.”
I frown. “They are proud.” He doesn’t see it. How much they all love him in their own broody big brother ways. He makes them laugh, he’s a damn good rancher, and he defends his family like he’s getting paid for it.
He shakes his head, keeps his gaze on the books he’s stacking.
“Maybe you go back on the rodeo,” I hedge then smile. “With me.”
His muscles tense, and his jaw locks. “You ain’t ready.”
“I will be one day.” I reach for him, threading our calloused hands together. His face softens. “You can’t worry about me all your life.”
He traces a finger over my cheekbone. “You’d be surprised.”
I rein back an eyeroll then scan my gaze around his trailer. “This is your home. Won’t you miss it?”
“This place ain’t a home,” he drawls. “It’s temporary.”
I brush the hair away from his eyes. “Where will you stay?”
“Maybe a cabin for the winter. Ain’t sure.”
“Stay with me.”
The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
He stares down at me. “You sure?”
I tilt my chin, refusing to feel embarrassed for the slip. “You’re already there. Might as well.”
“Temporary?”
I lick my lips. “No. Not temporary.” Every day I’m around him, I open my heart a little bit more. Almost there. Almost fucking there.
A grin blooms across his face. “Might regret it.”
Mouth curving, I flick a dishtowel at his ass. “I haven’t yet. Even if you do leave the toilet seat up.” Then, spinning around, I toss old salt and pepper shakers into the box. Reach for a tin can of Folgers. Lightweight, it rattles in my hand.
Wyatt reaches for it. “I got it—”
“What’s in here?” I’m already peeling the lid back. I’m nosy as hell when it concerns Wyatt Montgomery.
“Fallon, don’t—”
I blink when I peek inside.
I don’t respond. I can’t.
At the bottom of the can are our rings from Vegas. The hammered gold bands with their unique, moss-like markings glint in the sunlight.
“Our rings,” I breathe, wide-eyed. “You kept them.”
He swallows. “I couldn’t get rid of them.”
Couldn’t. His words have weight. Have me suddenly breathless. Hopeful. Stupid.
What if—all these years—he’s felt the same way?
I shake them out into my palm. Heart pounding in my chest, I slide the simple band of gold on my ring finger. Flex my hand, make a fist. It’s heavy on my hand. A weight I like.
Eyes on me, Wyatt slips his own ring on. The ring on his tan, muscled hand looks better than I deserve.
Suddenly, all I want to do is just exist on this flying rock in space. Exist with Wyatt Montgomery. I could live happy. I could die happy.
Hell, I am happy. With this man whose communication is so on point it scares me. This man who’s been so calm, comforting, gentle, and patient. This man who never makes me feel fenced in.
“It looks good on you,” I say.
“You look good on me,” he says quietly, in that voice of smoke and flame. He moves toward me, reaching to grip the back of my neck. “You look good in every fuckin’ universe, in every life I have ever imagined for us.”
I press a hand to my aching heart. “Wyatt…”
“I want this,” he says, voice choked. “I want us.”
“Me, too.” I cup his strong jaw, stare into those bright-blue eyes. “I don’t want to get divorced.”
Something—relief, love—breaks in his face.
“Thank fuck,” he growls then slams his mouth to mine.
“Wyatt,” I moan, my lips muffled by his.
“Baby, I know,” he rasps, his tongue stroking over mine.
Need this man.
Love this man.
Now if only I could fucking stop lying. To myself. To him.
I’ve never hated myself more.
His hands slip into my hair, and I’m already unzipping his jeans.
A crackle on the two-way radio pulls us apart. Charlie’s frantic voice sounds over the speakers. “I can’t find Ruby. I can’t find my wife.”