Chapter 11 Snapper #2
“I am. I’m scared and confused, and I don’t know what I’m doing with any of this.”
“None of that makes you a mess. It makes you human.” I tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “And for what it’s worth, I don’t know what I’m doing either. I’m figuring it out as I go too.”
“You seem pretty sure of yourself.”
“Only because I’m sure about you.”
She laughed, watery and rough. “That makes one of us.”
“Finish eating,” I said, guiding her back to her chair. “Then dance with me.”
“What?”
“Dance with me. We found the formula today. We’re starting the harvest tomorrow or the next day. We’re going to make this wine, and it’s going to be incredible. So tonight, just for a little while, let yourself celebrate that.”
She looked at me like I’d suggested we fly to the moon. “I don’t think I remember how to celebrate.”
“Then, I’ll remind you.”
Our conversation shifted to lighter topics as we finished our meal.
She asked about my brothers, about the rodeo circuit, about stupid things Kick and I had done as kids.
I asked how her parents were, and we laughed when she reminded me about the time she tried to convince her dad to let her get a horse and ended up with a barn cat instead.
By the time we’d eaten every bite of food and drained the bottle of Pinot, some of the tension had eased from her shoulders.
I stood and held out my hand. “Come here.”
She let me help her to her feet, and I led her to the open space between the table and the doors.
No music played, just the sound of crickets and the rustle of wind outside the solid rock walls of the room.
I gathered her close to me, one hand at her waist and the other clasping hers against my chest.
“I’m a terrible dancer,” she murmured.
“Good thing I’m not.”
“I hate to think how you got so good at it.”
“My ma. She taught every single one of us, even Alex. I grew up two-steppin’ in our kitchen.”
I swayed, slow and easy, keeping her near enough that I could feel every inhale and exhale. She rested her head against my chest, and I pressed my cheek to the top of her hair.
She hadn’t asked, but this was exactly what I wanted. Saffron Hope in my arms, every day for the rest of my life. It felt so right. Like this was where I was supposed to be. That she completed me. If only she’d let me all the way in.
We moved in small circles, neither of us talking, both of us wrapped in this moment that felt stolen from time.
Her body fit against mine like it had been designed for it.
Her hand gripped my good shoulder, and her fingers curled into the fabric of my shirt.
Mine splayed across her lower back, holding her steady.
After a while, she lifted her head and looked up at me. Her eyes were darker in the candlelight, and I could feel her pulse quicken where my thumb rested against her wrist.
“Snapper,” she whispered.
I kissed her. Not like the desperate, consuming kiss in her kitchen. This one was slower, deeper, a question instead of a demand. I stopped moving and cupped her face with both hands, tasting the wine on her lips, hearing her whimpers of desire.
Her hands slid up my chest, around my neck, and into my hair. She opened her mouth under mine, and I was lost. Everything narrowed to the sensation of her—soft curves pressing against hard muscle, fingers pulling my hair, and the little gasps she made when I changed the angle of the kiss.
I walked her backward until she was pressed against the wall of the Stonehouse, never breaking contact. My hands moved from her face to her waist, pulling her tighter against me. She arched into me, her leg hooking around my calf, and I groaned.
She kissed me again, harder this time, and I stopped thinking. Stopped trying to be patient. Stopped pretending this wasn’t exactly what I’d wanted since I was old enough to know what wanting meant.
When I gripped her hips and she moaned, the sound snapped something inside me. I lifted her, and she wrapped her legs around my waist. I kissed her neck, her jaw, her mouth again.
“We should—” She gasped. “We should stop.”
“Why?”
“Because—” She broke off when I found the spot just below her ear that made her shiver. “Because I can’t think when you do that.”
“Good.”
“Snapper.” This time, it came out as a plea.
I leaned away enough to look at her. Her pupils were blown wide, her lips swollen, her chest heaving. She looked absolutely wrecked, and it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
“Tell me to stop,” I said. “If you want me to stop, just say it.”
Rather than respond, she unwrapped her legs from around my waist and slid her feet to the floor.
“I’m sorry,” she said, not meeting my eyes. “I just—I can’t—”
“You don’t have to explain.”
“I want to. But—”
“But you’re not ready.” I ran a hand through my hair, my every nerve ending on fire, every muscle coiled tight with want. But without words, she’d asked me to stop, so I stopped. “It’s okay, Saff.”
“It’s not okay. I just—” She eased around me, returned to the table, and sat down.
“Hey.” I sat beside her. “You get to decide what you’re ready for. Always. I’m not going to push you.”
“Even though I’m driving you crazy?”
“Especially because you’re driving me crazy.” I tried to smile. “It means you feel something too.”
She looked up at me then, and the vulnerability in her expression nearly broke me. “I do feel something. That’s what scares me.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because I don’t think you understand how terrifying this is for me. Wanting someone as much as I do you. Needing you this much. It feels like standing on the edge of a cliff with my eyes closed.”
I wanted to tell her I’d catch her if she fell—that I already knew about the foreclosure and would do anything to help her. But I couldn’t. Not without admitting I’d been keeping secrets too. Not without forcing her hand when she needed to come to me on her own.
“We should go,” she said, the moment fracturing. “It’s getting late.”
I wanted to argue, demand she stay so we could talk this through, but I didn’t.
I heard Bit again in my head. Don’t push. Let her set the pace.
So I just said, “Okay.”
The drive back to her house was thick with tension. Both of us were wound too tight, both of us wanted things we couldn’t have. At least not yet.
I parked in her driveway and walked her to the door, with my hands shoved in my pockets.
“Thank you for tonight,” she said.
“We start harvest tomorrow. Zinfandel.”
“What time?” she asked, her gaze not meeting mine.
“Dawn. I’ll text you.”
“Snapper?”
“Yeah?”
She rose up on her toes and kissed me. Brief, soft, over before I could really register it. “Thank you,” she said again. “For all of it.”
I stood on her porch after she disappeared inside, willing my pulse to slow and my body to accept that we weren’t getting what we wanted tonight. After several seconds, I got in my truck and drove home.
My house felt empty and too quiet when I walked in. I stripped off my shirt, poured myself a glass of water I didn’t drink, and stared at my phone, willing it to ring. Instead, it vibrated with a text.
Tonight was...
The dots appeared and disappeared three times before thank you appeared. It was wonderful. Like a dream.
I’ll make all your dreams come true, if you’ll let me.
Her response came faster this time—Maybe I will.
I set the phone down and dropped onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. My body still hummed with want, every nerve ending alive with the memory of her pressed against me. But underneath the frustration was something else. Hope.
She’d opened up tonight. Told me things she’d never said before. Admitted she’d made herself small, that she’d stopped dreaming, that she’d never even left the States.
Those weren’t the words of someone who didn’t trust me. They were the words of someone learning how.
Tomorrow, we’d start the harvest. Tomorrow, we’d begin the real work of making this wine. Tomorrow, we’d take the formula we’d found and turn it into something that might just give her the freedom to do what she wanted rather than what everyone else needed.