17. Jasmine #2
My heartbeat stutters. I want to say something cocky, something flirty, but all the blood in my body has apparently migrated south. I turn Josie for one more lap, confidence blooming?—
And then she freezes. All tension. Ears forward. Legs locked.
“Uh… Brooke?” I say, voice tight.
Brooke straightens fast. “Don’t panic. She’s just spooked. Keep your body loose—don’t grip too hard?—”
Before she can finish, there’s a rustle in the tree line.
Maybe a fox, maybe a raccoon—whatever it is, it’s loud and sharp.
Josie bucks. It’s not violent, just sudden—an instinctual bolt forward and sideways—but it’s enough.
The reins slip through my hands. My balance tilts, and the next minute I hit the ground hard.
The ground knocks the air from my lungs, my head snapping against the dirt with a jarring thud that makes the stars above me blur.
“ Jasmine! ”
I hear her before I see her—Brooke, feet pounding across the field, voice breaking with panic.
She drops to her knees beside me, hands already on my shoulders, cradling my head like something fragile.
“Hey—hey, baby, talk to me,” she whispers, brushing dust off my face with shaking fingers. “Look at me. Are you okay?”
I blink up at her. Her hair's come loose around her face, lips parted, eyes wide and wild.
And suddenly I can’t feel anything but her.
“And that,” I rasp, wincing slightly. “Is why I don’t ride.”
Brooke lets out a breathless laugh, part-relief, part-‘I’m-going-to-strangle-you’.
She slides a hand down my arm and pulls me into her lap, holding me close, her breath hitching as she presses a kiss to the top of my head.
“You’re insane,” she mutters. “You fall off a horse, hit your head, and you’re still trying to flirt.”
I grin weakly. Brooke exhales a shaky laugh. Her eyes glint in the moonlight—soft brown rimmed with something fierce—and she presses her hand gently to my cheek.
Her red hair falls wild and free around her face, catching silver where the moonlight touches.
It halos her in soft firelight, like the sky itself decided to crown her.
Her cheeks are flushed with adrenaline and worry, lips parted just slightly like she can’t decide whether to kiss me or lecture me.
There’s hay stuck to her jeans, dirt smeared across one thigh, and she’s never looked more unreal.
Her brows furrow as she searches my face, eyes flicking between mine like she’s trying to memorize every detail just in case I disappear.
“ You’re glowing again,” I murmur, dazed and smiling.
Brooke shakes her head, torn between exasperated and enchanted. “God help me,” she mutters, voice low. “I really like you.”
Even with hay in my bra and dirt in my hair, I grin up at her. “I really like you too, babydoll.”
She leans in, just a breath away now. Her lips hover over mine, heat and moonlight curling around us like we’re suspended in time.
And then she kisses me.
Not with urgency, not with desperation?—
But with something deeper. Slower. More certain .
Her hand curves around my jaw, fingers threading through my hair like I’m something precious. Her lips brush mine first like a question—featherlight, testing, savoring—and the moment they touch, the world stops spinning. Everything narrows to the space between us.
She doesn’t devour me. She claims me. I feel as if I should never have a moment where my lips are not on hers.
The kiss builds slowly, a coaxing fire instead of a spark.
Her mouth moves against mine with an ache that feels like both comfort and craving, her lips so soft I swear I could live inside this moment and never want for anything again.
The warmth of her body seeps into me through every point of contact—her palm against my cheek, her chest brushing mine, her thighs tucked against the side of my hip as I lay half in her lap.
I kiss her back, dizzy but grounded, my hands sliding instinctively to her waist, pulling her just a little closer. Her breath hitches as I deepen it, my lips parting just enough to taste the hint of milkshake and adrenaline still lingering on her tongue.
And just when I think I’ll let her kiss me until the stars burn out, she pauses.
Her hand stills in my hair. Her brow furrows.
She leans back, just an inch, eyes scanning my face. And then her gaze snags on something above my temple.
Her thumb brushes through a tangled curl—pauses. I see it in her eyes before I feel it: blood.
“Jas,” she whispers, voice tight with fear.
She shifts, her body curving over mine protectively as her fingers part the strands at my hairline. I wince—just slightly—and that’s all it takes. Her whole face falls, softness replaced by careful precision.
But she doesn’t pull away. She leans back in, her lips barely grazing mine—more breath than kiss now—as she whispers into my mouth, “You’re injured. Let me take care of you.”
I nod as she pulls away and helps me sit up slowly, hands steady on my back.
“You hit your head,” she says gently, brushing a smudge of dirt off my temple. “You’re gonna have a bruise, but I don’t think you need stitches.”
Brooke still looks concerned, even as she helps me to my feet. She loops an arm around my waist like she’s not entirely convinced I won’t pass out on the walk back.
“Let’s get you inside. I’ll put the horses up.”
“I can help?—”
“You’ll do no such thing,” she cuts in, her drawl firmer than usual. “You’re not dying on my ranch, Jasmine Rivera.”
I don’t argue as she leads me back to the house, past the porch and through the screen door, and I’m hit with a wave of warmth that smells like cedarwood, something citrusy, and the faintest trace of cinnamon.
The inside is pure Southern comfort—high wooden beams, cream-colored walls, and a mismatched mix of antique furniture that somehow works.
A stone fireplace anchors the living room, and an old guitar leans against a leather armchair like someone just got done playing it.
There are pictures tucked into the edges of the mirror—Brooke at a rodeo, Brooke holding a ribbon, Brooke hugging a woman who looks enough like her to be her mom.
She guides me to the couch with a touch that’s both firm and careful, like I might break if she pushes too hard. The cushions dip beneath me as I sink into them.
She disappears for a minute, the soft click of the stable doors echoing faintly behind her. I hear Osy whine once in protest, low and drawn out like he’s annoyed to be put away so soon. Then the creak of the front door swings back open.
She comes back with a first-aid kit, a bag of frozen peas, and a glass of water. Brooke kneels beside me focused on the cut in my hairline.
“Lay back,” she says. Her hand presses against my shoulder, guiding me back onto the couch.
“You’re a bossy nurse.” I mutter, and admire the blush that explodes across her cheeks.
Her fingers thread through my waves, parting them with a tenderness that makes my breath catch.
She inspects the cut at my hairline, her brow drawn tight in concentration.
The pads of her fingers are warm and steady as she moves my hair out of the way.
She grabs the first-aid kit and parses through until she pulls out the materials she needs.
She dabs the wound with antiseptic-soaked gauze, the sting immediate and sharp—but even that feels muted beneath her touch.
“Does it hurt?” she asks, her voice thick with concern.
“Only when you stop touching me,” I murmur, mouth tilting into a crooked grin.
She glances down into my eyes. Her hazel eyes are bright and alive as she looks at me. “Are you flirting or concussed?”
“Little bit of both,” I reply, propping myself up on one elbow to get a better look at her. The moonlight streaming in through the window casts her in silver, tracing her cheekbones, catching in her lashes.
“You’re impossible,” she mutters under her breath, reaching for a Band-aid and gently pressing it to my forehead. Brooke pulls back, her bottom on the heels of her feet. “I think you’ll live.”
I sit up slightly on my elbow, eyes never leaving her face. “Thank you,” I murmur, letting the words drip with something slower, thicker than gratitude. “For your life-saving service.”
Brooke lifts a brow, but the corner of her mouth tugs into a smile. She tries to play it off with a shrug, reaching for the used gauze and neatly folding it away. But I can see the flush creeping up her throat, just beneath the delicate skin, and the way her fingers hesitate slightly.
I sit up fully so that Brooke is kneeling between my legs on the floor and she tilts her head up to look at me, “I feel like I should thank you properly.”
She freezes, breath catching. Her eyes flick down to where my hand is touching her, then back to my face. Her pupils dilate. Her hands are braced lightly on my knee, as I grip her chin between my pointer and thumb.
“Oh?” she says, trying to keep her voice even. “And what exactly does proper thanks entail, Rivera?”
Her eyes drop to where my fingers are barely brushing the hem of her dress, then flick back up to meet mine. I watch her pupils flare, her breath falter.
I lean in, slow and easy, so our faces are only inches apart. My voice drops to a husky whisper as I trace the edge of the collar of her dress with one lazy finger, along the curve of her breast. “I don’t know, babydoll. Maybe you let me show you.”
My lips barely graze her ear as my finger continues its slow, teasing path along the neckline of her dress.
Brooke shivers, her breath hitching audibly, and I can feel the tremor that runs through her.
Her hands tighten on my knee, nails digging in just enough to make me aware of her presence, her need.
“Jasmine,” she whispers, her voice trembling with both hesitation and desire. “We shouldn’t?—”