Chapter 10 #2
Dad and Clay had moved to the fire pit with their whiskey. Liam was making his evening rounds. Hunter had disappeared to check on a sick calf.
I should have gone to my cabin. Should have maintained the distance I'd been trying to keep all week.
Instead, I found myself walking to the barn.
She was in the tack room, humming something low and sweet while she organized bridles that didn't need organizing. She'd always done that—found busy work when she was thinking too hard, when she needed her hands occupied so her mind could wander.
"I don't remember you humming," I said from the doorway.
She didn't jump, didn't turn. Just continued working. "I don't remember you being jealous."
"I'm not—" I stopped, because what was the point? We'd never been able to lie to each other about the things that mattered. "Tyler's too young for you."
She snorted. “He's persistent."
"He's annoying.” Was half-tempted to fire him, but jealousy wasn’t a good enough reason.
"That too." She turned then, leaning against the workbench. "But at least he's straightforward about what he wants."
I crossed my arms over my chest, frowning. “And what's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. Just that some people say what they mean instead of sending mixed signals."
I scoffed. “Mixed signals? You want to talk about mixed signals?"
"I want to talk about why you're here, Wyatt. What do you want from me?"
The question hung between us, and I didn't have an answer. Or rather, I had too many answers. I wanted her to leave. I wanted her to stay. I wanted to understand why she'd run. I wanted to forget she'd ever existed. I wanted to kiss her again. I wanted to never touch her again.
“This ranch,” I said instead, choosing the safest truth I could find, “it runs smoother when you’re here.”
She blinked, caught off guard. “It’s only been a week and a half.”
“Doesn’t matter. The hands respect you. The systems you’ve implemented are already showing results. Even the cattle seem calmer. I shouldn’t have messed with your embryo schedules.”
Her brows lifted. “Is that an apology I hear, Wyatt Blackwood?” She tilted her head, that teasing smile breaking through her professional mask. “Who are you and what did you do with Wyatt?”
My mouth twitched before I could stop it. “Don’t get used to it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she said softly, but her eyes lingered on mine, full of that same ache I’d been trying to drown all week.
Silence settled between us, thick as molasses.
“You always did give me too much credit,” she added finally, her tone quieter now, something fragile under the teasing.
“No,” I said, voice low. “I gave you exactly the right amount. You just never believed it.”
She looked at me then—really looked—and I saw it, that tiny fracture in the armor she wore so damn well. A shimmer of the girl I used to know, the one who’d looked at me like I hung the stars.
“I should go,” she said, but she didn’t move.
“Yeah,” I agreed, but I didn’t step aside.
The space between us tightened, thickened, pulled hot around the edges.
Her breath brushed my lips—soft, unsteady—and my whole damn body lit up like it remembered her better than my mind did.
She lifted her face a fraction, the barest invitation, and her chest grazed mine on the inhale. That single touch—barely anything—sent heat straight down my spine.
And then it hit me. Fast. Hard. Painful.
My cock swelled, thick and insistent, pressing uncomfortably against my jeans so suddenly it stole my breath. The kind of ache that felt like punishment. The kind she’d always done to me without even trying.
She was the only woman who’d ever done that—turned me hard with just a look, a breath, the slightest tremble of her mouth.
And right now, with her standing close enough that her heat rolled into me…it was torture.
Her eyes dipped to my mouth again, slow, like gravity was pulling her there, and my dick throbbed so hard it felt like I was seconds from losing every bit of discipline I had left.
I dipped my head—reflex, instinct, need—closing what little space was left. Her breath hitched, warm and shaky against my lips.
One more heartbeat. One more inch. We would kiss.
Her phone buzzed on the counter, and she jolted back like she’d been burned and stepped back fast, breaking the line of heat between our bodies. The screen lit up with some guy’s name.
Mark. Who the hell was Mark?
You still mad? Can we talk? I miss you.
Ivy groaned under her breath and dropped her head into her hands. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, give up already,” she muttered, swiping the screen dark.
I frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“Mark keeps calling,” she said finally, setting the phone face down. “My ex. From Dallas. Wants me to come back. Says I’m making a mistake being here.”
Jealousy flared in my chest before I could stop it, sharp and hot. “He bothering you?”
She shook her head. “No. He’s harmless. I ended it before I left. But he’s…” She sighed, frustration curling her lips. “Persistent. Like Tyler, but with better suits and bigger promises.”
I forced a chuckle, needing to cover the way my blood was about to boil. “Sounds exhausting.”
“Yeah,” she said, a humorless laugh escaping. “It is.”
I hesitated, then asked the question I didn’t really want the answer to. “You thinking about going back?”
That made her look at me. And for the first time since she’d come back, the polished consultant was gone. What was left was the girl I used to know, the one who’d once loved me enough to walk away.
Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t know where I belong anymore.”
The honesty of it hit me square in the chest, cracked something wide open. Before I could stop myself, the words were out.
“You belong here, Ivygirl,” I said quietly. “You always have. I hope you know that.”
Her eyes went wide, bright with what might have been tears. Then she smiled—small and sad and real—and it was the first true smile she'd given me since she'd been back.
I couldn't help it. I smiled back. Just a slight curve of my lips, but it felt like surrender. Like admitting that no matter how much I wanted to hate her, I couldn't. Not when she looked at me like that, lost and found at the same time.
"Goodnight, Wyatt," she said softly, and this time she did move, sliding past me in the doorway, careful not to touch.
"Night, Ivy."
I stayed in the barn after she left, breathing in leather and hay and the lingering scent of her perfume. That smile—hers and mine—had cracked something open. Made it harder to hold onto the anger that had been my armor for so long.
Tomorrow, I'd probably rebuild those walls. Tomorrow, I'd remember all the reasons I needed to keep my distance.
But tonight, for just a moment, we'd been Wyatt and Ivy again. Not who we'd become, but who we'd been.
And God help me, I'd missed us.