Chapter 13
CAILTIN
I changed outfits four times.
This was ridiculous. I was a grown woman—a veterinarian, a professional—and I was standing in front of my closet like a teenager before prom.
But this was different. This was a real date. With Blaine. The first one since... everything.
Jeans felt too casual. A dress felt like I was trying too hard. I finally settled on dark jeans, a soft blue sweater, and boots that were nice but practical enough that I wouldn't break an ankle if we ended up walking around the ranch.
My phone buzzed.
Still on for tonight?
I smiled at Blaine's text. Did you think I'd cancel?
Just making sure. I've been looking forward to this all day.
Me too.
Good. Pick you up at 6?
I glanced at the clock. Five-fifteen. Forty-five minutes to finish getting ready and calm my nerves.
See you then.
I put on mascara. Took it off. Put it back on. Told myself to stop being ridiculous.
It didn't help.
Blaine pulled up at six on the dot, driving a truck I didn't recognize.
"Where's the McLaren?" I asked as I climbed in.
"Didn't feel right for tonight." He leaned over and kissed me—brief, sweet. "You look beautiful."
"You clean up pretty well yourself."
He did. Dark jeans, a button-down shirt that fit him just right, hair that looked like he'd actually put effort into it. He smelled good too—something woodsy and warm.
"So where are we going?" I asked.
"It's a surprise."
"I'm not great with surprises."
"I know. That's why I planned one." He grinned. "Trust me?"
I studied his face—the nervous excitement, the hope, the way he kept glancing at me like he couldn't quite believe I was there.
"Yeah," I said. "I trust you."
He took me to a small Italian restaurant in the next town over. Not fancy, but cozy—red checkered tablecloths, candles on every table, an older couple running the place who clearly knew each other's rhythms after decades together.
"How did you find this place?" I asked as we settled into a corner booth.
"Hector. I asked him where he'd take someone special."
"Hector gave you date advice?"
"He grunted and wrote down an address. For Hector, that's basically a TED talk."
I laughed. "Fair point."
The food was incredible—homemade pasta, bread that was still warm from the oven, a bottle of wine that the owner selected personally after a rapid-fire conversation with Blaine about what we were ordering.
"I like this," I said, twirling spaghetti around my fork.
"The food?"
"All of it. The restaurant. The surprise. You." I met his eyes. "I like you, Blaine. In case that wasn't clear."
"It was a little clear." He smiled. "But I don't mind hearing it again."
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late."
We talked for hours. Not about Cole, not about the ranch, not about the mess of the past few weeks. Just... us. Our childhoods. Our dreams. The paths that had led us here, to this little restaurant, to each other.
"What made you choose large animals?" Blaine asked. "Over dogs and cats and, I don't know, hamsters?"
"My uncle." I smiled at the memory. "He had a cattle operation in upstate New York. I spent summers there as a kid, following the local vet around, watching him work. There was something about it—the scale, the stakes. These huge animals trusting you to help them." I shrugged. "I was hooked."
"So you always knew."
"Pretty much. Vet school, large animal focus, rural practice. It was the only path that ever made sense to me."
"That must be nice. Having that kind of certainty."
"It has its downsides." I took a sip of wine. "I tend to be stubborn about what I want. Even when it costs me."
"Like moving across the country for a job?"
"Like that. Among other things." I hesitated, then decided to just say it. "Preston never understood. Why I'd give up a comfortable life in New York for this. He thought I was being impractical. Idealistic."
"What did you think?"
"That I was finally being honest about what I wanted." I met his eyes. "He had this vision of exactly how his life was supposed to go. Prestigious career, nice apartment, the right social circles. And I fit into that vision—for a while. Until I didn't."
"What changed?"
"I did. Or maybe I just stopped pretending." I set down my wine glass. "I realized I wasn't part of his plan. I was just... adjacent to it. Something that fit when it was convenient."
Blaine was quiet for a moment. Then he reached across the table and took my hand.
"For the record," he said, "I think you made the right choice. Moving out here. Chasing what you actually wanted instead of what looked good on paper."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." He squeezed my hand. "And I'm very glad you did."
After dinner, we walked along the main street of the little town. It was quiet—most of the shops closed, only a few people out walking dogs or heading home from dinner.
"Can I tell you something?" I said.
"Anything."
"I'm not usually like this." I gestured between us. "Jumping into something new so fast. I'm the careful one. The one who makes plans and sticks to them."
"Is that a warning?"
"It's an explanation. Or maybe an apology." I stopped walking, turned to face him. "I don't want you to think this is just a rebound. That you're some kind of reaction to Preston."
"I don't think that."
"Good. Because you're not." I took a breath. "What I felt for Preston—what I thought I felt—it was comfortable. Safe. Like wearing a sweater that almost fits. You don't notice how wrong it is until you finally take it off."
"And now?"
"Now I feel like I'm finally breathing." I reached up, touched his face. "You do that. You make me feel like I can breathe."
Blaine leaned down and kissed me—slow and thorough, right there on the sidewalk under the streetlights. When we finally pulled apart, we were both a little breathless.
"I should get you home," he said. "Before I forget all about 'slow and careful.'"
"What if I don't want slow and careful anymore?"
His breath caught. "Caitlin..."
"I know what I said. But that was before." I stepped closer, my hands flattening against his chest. "Before dinner. Before tonight. Before you looked at me like?—"
"Like what?"
"Like I'm the only person in the world."
"You are." His voice was rough. "Every room. Since the first night."
"Then take me home. My place." I smiled. "No roommates."
He searched my face for a long moment. "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
The drive to my place took fifteen minutes. Neither of us spoke. The air between us was charged, electric, heavy with anticipation.
Blaine kept one hand on the wheel, the other wrapped around mine. Every so often, his thumb would trace circles on my palm, and I'd feel it everywhere.
By the time we pulled into my driveway, I was wound so tight I could barely breathe.
We made it inside. Barely.
The door had just closed behind us when Blaine's hands were in my hair and his mouth was on mine. I kissed him back with everything I had—weeks of wanting, of waiting, of pretending I wasn't falling for him when I absolutely was.
"Bedroom," I managed between kisses.
"Where?"
"Down the hall. Left."
We stumbled in that direction, kicking off shoes as we went—breathless, giddy, drunk on each other.
We made it to the bedroom. Moonlight spilled through the curtains, painting everything silver and shadow.
Blaine stopped at the edge of the bed, his hands settling on my waist. His thumbs traced slow circles against my bare skin where my sweater had ridden up, and even that small touch sent shivers through me.
"We don't have to—" he started.
"I want to." I reached for the buttons of his shirt, slowly working them open one by one. Each inch of skin I revealed made my breath catch—the planes of his chest, the definition of his abs, the trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath his waistband. "I really, really want to."
His shirt fell to the floor. I flattened my palms against his chest, feeling the heat of him, the steady thunder of his heartbeat beneath my hands. He was beautiful. Not in a polished, gym-sculpted way—in a real way. Strong and solid and here.
"Your turn," he murmured.
He reached for the hem of my sweater and lifted it slowly, his knuckles grazing my ribs, my sides, the curve of my breasts still covered by my bra. The sweater joined his shirt on the floor.
For a moment, he just looked at me. Not leering—appreciating. Like I was something precious.
"You're beautiful," he said. Not a compliment—a statement. Like he was simply observing a fact.
"You're not so bad yourself."
He smiled and reached around to unhook my bra. The clasp gave way, and he slid the straps down my shoulders with a tenderness that made my throat tight. The bra fell, and his breath caught.
"Caitlin..."
His hands cupped my breasts gently, reverently, thumbs brushing across my nipples until they peaked. I gasped, arching into his touch.
He lowered his head, his mouth replacing his hands. Hot and wet and devastating. I buried my fingers in his hair, holding him against me, lost in the sensation.
My hands found his belt, fumbling with the buckle. He helped me, and then his jeans were gone, and I could feel the hard length of him pressing against my thigh through his boxers. The evidence of how much he wanted me made something liquid and hot pool low in my belly.
"Jeans," he said against my skin. "Off."
I shimmied out of them while he watched, his eyes dark with want. When I stood before him in nothing but my underwear, he made a sound low in his throat that was almost a growl.
"Come here."
He pulled me against him, and now there was almost nothing between us. His hardness pressed against my stomach, and I rolled my hips instinctively, drawing a groan from him.
"You're killing me," he breathed.
"Good."
He walked me backward until my knees hit the bed, then lowered me down, covering my body with his. The weight of him felt right. Perfect. Like we'd been made to fit together.