Chapter 12
The Kind Of Love We Make
Layla
I’m pacing the house, barefoot, wearing a path into the floor like I might wear myself out if I keep moving. My hands won’t stop shaking. The place feels too quiet, too empty, like it’s holding its breath just to piss me off. I can’t believe that’s how tonight ended. I can’t believe him.
Who ignores chemistry like that? Not the polite kind. The kind that settles into your bones and refuses to leave. The kind you don’t imagine—you recognize.
I’ve only been here three weeks, but we see each other every damn day. We orbit each other like it’s a bad habit, like neither of us knows how to stop. So what am I missing? Am I making this up? Or is he just better at lying to himself than I am?
He said he doesn’t trust himself around me.
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
Seattle feels impossibly far away tonight. Too far to reach, too far to hide behind. I’m drunk enough that the room tilts when I stop pacing, my stomach rolling like I might actually lose it if I stand still too long. Everything in me feels raw and tight and pissed off.
Why does it feel like I’m in a fight with someone I’m not even with?
We’re not a thing. We’re not anything.
So why does it hurt like I just lost something?
Then—
A knock at the door.
Just one.
My heart stutters. I stop pacing, frozen, staring at the door like it might bite me. I know it’s him. I just know. And right now I have a choice, because if I open that door… something is going to happen. There’s no pretending otherwise. If I don’t open it, I know I’ll regret it.
I walk toward it slowly, my hand hovering over the knob. I inhale. Exhale. And open the door.
Cole stands there, rain pouring down on him. His blonde hair is plastered to his forehead. His shirt soaked through and clinging to his chest. His jaw is tight, eyes dark. He doesn’t speak. He just looks at me, nodding once, like he’s bracing himself.
“I’m leaving in October,” I say quietly, the truth spilling out of me.
“I know,” he says.
The door shuts behind him, firm, final and suddenly the apartment feels too small.
Rain taps against the windows like it’s trying to get in on whatever stupid thing we’re about to do.
Three weeks. That’s all it’s been since I walked into Cole’s life like a storm he didn’t ask for and hasn’t been able to shake since.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just steps closer until I can feel the damp heat rolling off him, smell rain and leather and that stupid cedar scent that’s been haunting me.
His hand lifts, hesitates like he’s giving me an out, then settles on my jaw—warm, steady, thumb brushing the edge of my lip.
“Layla,” he says, voice low and scraped raw. “Tell me to leave.”
My heart slams against my ribs. I should. I know I should. Instead my fingers twist into the wet cotton of his shirt. “You should go.”
His eyes darken, pupils swallowing the gray. “That’s not what I asked.”
A shaky laugh escapes me. “You don’t want this, Cole. Not for real. It’s just… adrenaline or proximity or whatever the hell this is. Tomorrow you’ll wake up and—”
He kisses me.
Hard. Sudden. Like he’s tired of my words and wants to drown them.
I gasp against his mouth, hands shoving at his chest even as they drag him in tighter.
He tastes like storm water and bad choices, and God, I hate how much I like it.
How much I’ve been thinking about it every time we’ve argued in the last three weeks. Ever since the creek.
He pulls back just enough to speak, lips still brushing mine. “Stop telling me what I want.”
“I’m trying to keep us from hating each other more than we already do.”
His forehead rests against mine. His breathing is ragged. “Too late.”
He backs me into the wall—slow, deliberate, like he’s daring me to stop him.
I don’t. My hands slip under his shirt instead, palms sliding over hot skin, feeling the fast thud of his heart.
Three weeks of sharp words, accidental touches that lingered too long, glances that felt dangerous—and now his body is pinning mine like it belongs there.
He yanks my shirt over my head, eyes raking down my body like he’s memorizing every inch. His hands hover at my waist, flexing, like he’s fighting himself.
“You’re shaking,” I whisper.
“So are you.”
My fingers fumble with his belt anyway. “This is a mistake.”
“Yeah.” His voice cracks on the word. “Keep saying it. Maybe it’ll stick.”
He lifts me like I weigh nothing. My legs wrap around his hips on instinct, thighs clamping tight, and every step he takes down the hall grinds us together until I have to bite my lip to keep quiet.
He lays me on the bed—gentler than I expect—and stands there a second, chest heaving, just looking at me.
Like he’s waiting for the moment I change my mind.
“Boots,” I manage, voice thin, trying to keep some control.
He doesn’t smile. Just drops to one knee, slides them off slowly, hands trailing up my calves, my thighs. When he hooks his fingers in my shorts and drags them down with my panties, he pauses—eyes locked on mine, giving me the out again.
He doesn’t wait for me to take it.
His mouth is on me before I can breathe.
Hot, insistent, devastating. I arch off the bed with a choked sound, fingers knotting in his hair—not guiding, just holding on for dear life.
He groans against me, the vibration ripping through my whole body, and I feel every wall I’ve tried to keep up crumble.
“Cole—” It comes out half warning, half plea.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. Lips shiny. Eyes wild. “Say stop. Right now. And I’m gone.”
I don’t say anything.
He rises, sheds the rest of his clothes. When I see him—thick, hard, ready—my breath snags in my throat. Not just because of how he looks, but because of how he’s watching me. Like I’m the thing he’s been fighting and the thing he’s about to lose to, all at once.
He settles over me, pushes in slow. So slow I feel every inch, every stretch, every pulse. My nails dig into his shoulders; I can’t help it. It’s too much. Too good. Too real.
“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead pressed to mine. “You feel—”
“Don’t.” My voice shakes. “Don’t make this bigger than it is.”
He rolls his hips once—deep, deliberate. “It already is.”
We move together—hard, frantic, desperate. Like we’re trying to outrun the morning. Words spill out between gasps: “We shouldn’t,” “I know,” “Then stop,” “Can’t.” His hand finds mine, fingers threading tight, pinning it above my head—not trapping, just holding on like I might disappear.
“Look at me,” he rasps.
I do. And in his eyes I see everything I’ve been terrified of, the same want, the same fear, the same helpless slide into something neither of us planned.
It shatters me. I come hard, his name tearing out of me, not angry, not doubtful, just his name, like it’s the only thing anchoring me.
He follows right after, burying deep, shuddering, groaning low against my neck.
We stay tangled. Sweaty. Breathing like we’ve been running for our lives.
His arm slides around my waist, tentative at first, then firm. Like he’s scared I’ll bolt the second the haze clears. I don’t move. I press my cheek to his chest instead, listening to his heart pound as hard as mine.
The rain has quieted to a soft patter. How did we go from snapping at each other, from tension so sharp it felt like anger, to this?
To being tangled together in the quiet, breathing in sync like we’ve done this a hundred times before.
I don’t think hate ever existed. Not really.
I don’t hate him. I never did. I think he despises how much he feels when he’s around me.
I think he hates that I make him feel anything at all.
And I don’t think I’ll ever fully know how this man truly feels. But that doesn’t matter. I remind myself of that. It has to not matter.
I’m only here for a few months.
I carefully reach for my phone on the nightstand, trying not to wake him.
The screen lights up softly, and reality slides back in.
Multiple emails from my agent, Tina. Gentle reminders stacked with pressure.
Deadlines. A hard date circled in red—October 14th.
Be back in Seattle. Big meeting. Push the new book. Be present. Be professional.
I want to. I really do.
And God help me, Cole has been a huge creative push for this cowboy romance I’m writing.
Every look, every argument, every quiet moment like this feeds the story.
My mind spins with ideas even as my body is still heavy with him.
So many thoughts running through my head while I’m wrapped up in the arms of an actual cowboy.
A handsome, frustrating, impossible cowboy.
He hasn’t moved. He hasn’t loosened his hold.
His fingers flex slightly at my waist, like even in sleep he knows I’m there. Like he’s making sure I don’t disappear. My eyes grow heavy again, the weight of the night settling back over me. And the truth sneaks in, quiet and dangerous, I feel safe. Safer than I ever have. Right here. Right now.
I wake to the smell of coffee and bacon. Real bacon. Not the sad microwave kind. For a second I don’t know where I am, and then I sit up in bed and look out the window. It’s still dark out, the sky just barely starting to lighten at the edges. I squint at the clock on the nightstand.
5:59 a.m.
Oh god. I don’t wake this early ever.
I rub my eyes and slide out of bed, my body pleasantly sore, heavy in that good way that makes me smile before I can stop myself.
I’m still in my panties, and I reach for the first thing I can find, Cole’s T-shirt.
It smells like him, like soap and something warm and familiar.
It’s tight when I pull it over my head, the hem barely covering my waist, but it’s the only thing I could grab fast enough.
My bare feet pad across the hard floor toward the kitchen, following the sound of sizzling. Cole’s at the stove. Of course he is.
Shirtless, hair messy, standing there like he belongs in my kitchen. Or maybe like I belong in his world now, I can’t tell which thought scares me more. He’s flipping bacon like this is a normal Tuesday morning and not the aftermath of us tearing each other apart hours ago.
“Are you making me breakfast?” I ask, my voice still rough from sleep.
He turns around, eyes flicking over me in that shirt, his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile.
“I am. Sit,” he says, like it’s an order.
“Cole, it’s six a.m.,” I say, rolling my eyes as I slide into the chair anyway.
“Yeah, and I have a ranch to run,” he grumbles. “But you need to eat and so do I.”
He sets a plate down in front of me, then a mug of coffee. It’s warm in my hands, comforting, and even warmer going down. He sits across from me, the table small, meant for two, like this space was always waiting for us.
“This looks so yummy,” I say with a huge smile, laughing a little.
“What’s funny?” he asks, taking a sip of his coffee.
He squints at me. “Wait… is that my shirt?”
“Oh look at that,” I say innocently, glancing down. “Here, you can have it back.”
I pull it up and off in one smooth motion and hand it to him, taking a bite of bacon like this is completely normal. I’m topless. He’s frozen.
Speechless.
“You,” I say, chewing, “cooking me breakfast. I did not see this coming.”
“Yeah,” he says slowly, shaking his head, “well, I didn’t see you eating breakfast with your tits out either, but here we are.”
I lose it. I laugh so hard I have to put my fork down, and he laughs too—real laughter, not the gruff half-smile he usually gives me. It feels easy. Too easy.
I shake my head, my smile softening. “What are we gonna do?”
He reaches across the table and grabs my hand, his thumb rubbing slow circles into my skin like he’s been doing it forever.
“We’re gonna have fun. Right?”
“Right,” I say, squeezing his hand back.
Then—
Bang. Bang. Bang.
“Is Cole in there with you?” John’s voice carries through the door. “He didn’t come home last night. I wouldn’t bother you, but I see the lights on. I know you’re up.”
Panic.
We both jump. I bolt for the bedroom, throw on the first dress I see, my heart racing. Cole’s pulling on his boots, trying not to laugh.
We’re both silently losing it.
“Back door,” I whisper. “Go out the back door, now, now.”
He grabs my face, kisses me quick and hard.
“It’s not like I want them to see us either!” he murmurs.
“Shut up,” I hiss, brows furrowed.
“I’m coming, John!” I yell, trying to sound normal as I rush to the door.
When I open it, I’m breathless.
“Hey, what’s going on?”
“You cooking breakfast?” he asks, suspicious.
Your son is.
“Well, gotta start the day bright and early,” I add. “And yes, Cole came home. He brought me home—we got back late—”
“Hey, Dad,” Cole says casually from behind him. “Did you need me? Sorry, I was chopping some wood out back. Layla was asking me for some good wood, y’know, for the fireplace.”
I laugh. I can’t help it.
“Oh,” John says. “Okay. I was worried. Maggie didn’t come home.”
“Dad, we’re adults,” Cole says. “Maggie went home with some girl last night.”
John waves his hand. “You’ll always be children to me. Go wake your brother and have him help you today. I’m not feeling up to it.”
Cole puts a hand on his shoulder and walks him toward the main house. Before he disappears, he looks back at me and smiles.
Not the smirk. Not the guarded one. The real one. Oh boy. What have I done?