Chapter 11 #2
“Nessie, Naomi if we can pry her away from campaign planning, and me. Sometimes a few others from town. Mariah, Greta. We’d love to have you join us.”
“I’d… like that. Thank you.”
“Perfect! Seven o’clock.” Lila turned her attention to the horse, moving toward the temporary pen to begin her examination.
Anson stared down at the piece of oak in his hands, a strange hollowness in his chest. Ladies’ night.
Maggie becoming part of Valor Ridge in ways that had nothing to do with him, building connections with people he’d known for years.
It should have been a good thing—her finding community, making friends.
Instead, it felt like watching something slip through his fingers before he’d even fully grasped it.
“Hey, Jonah!” Bear’s voice boomed from the barn entrance. “Walker needs you and River at the north pasture. Fence is down again, and Spitfire got out.”
Jonah sighed. “Third time this month. That alpaca is a menace.” He turned to Anson. “Sorry to bail on you. Can you and Maggie finish up here?”
“Yeah.” He ignored the sudden flutter in his stomach at the thought of being alone with her.
“Save some fun for us,” River called over his shoulder as he followed Jonah out.
Then they were gone, and the barn felt suddenly larger, quieter. Lila had moved to the far stall with the horse, her voice a low murmur as she worked, leaving the two of them alone with the half-completed door between them.
Maggie clapped her hands together. “Okay. Where were we?”
“Assembly.” He moved to the workbench where the pieces waited.
“We need to attach these hinges before assembling,” she said. “The alignment will be better if we do it while everything’s still flat.”
He nodded and handed her the power drill. Their fingers brushed again, and he pulled back too quickly, making her look up.
“You okay?”
“Fine.” He turned away, pretending to search for screws he’d already laid out in perfect rows. “Just want to get this right.”
They fell into a natural rhythm, working in tandem without needing many words. She anticipated what he needed before he asked, handing him tools at the exact moment his hand would reach for them. It was unsettling how well they functioned together.
He lined up the crossbeam at the height she’d suggested, holding it steady while she drilled pilot holes.
The muscles in her forearms flexed with each movement, and he found himself watching her hands—capable, strong, slightly calloused from years of work.
Not soft like he’d imagined a TV personality’s would be.
“You do this a lot,” he muttered, the observation slipping out before he could stop it.
She glanced up with amusement dancing in her eyes. “Build doors? Or work with grumpy blacksmiths?”
“Build. For real, not just for cameras.”
“The cameras came after the building, not before. I was swinging hammers long before anyone thought to film it.”
He wanted to ask more—about her show, her life before, how she’d learned her skills—but the words stuck in his throat. Instead, he focused on holding the beam steady, letting the silence stretch between them.
“Anson,” she said after a while, her voice softer now. “You don’t need to worry about River.”
His head snapped up. “What?”
“I see how you watch him when he’s around me.” She kept her gaze on her work, driving in another screw. “There’s nothing there. He’s just friendly.”
Was he that transparent?
Heat crawled up his neck. “Not worried.”
“No?” She set down the drill and looked at him directly, one eyebrow raised in challenge.
He couldn’t meet her gaze. “He’s better with people. Makes sense you’d... connect.”
“Is that what you think?” She sounded genuinely puzzled. “That I’d prefer someone just because they can make small talk?”
He shrugged, uncomfortable with how accurately she’d read his insecurity. “Most people would.”
“I’m not most people.”
No, she wasn’t. She was beautiful, smart, talented, successful. She had her own TV show, for Christ’s sake. And he was... well, he was the ex-con blacksmith with scarred hands who could barely string two sentences together.
“I came here for you,” she said, stepping closer. “Not River. Not anyone else.”
The directness of her statement stole his breath. A splinter pricked his palm, but he barely felt it. He opened his mouth, closed it again, searching for words that wouldn’t come.
“Shit,” she muttered, reaching for his hand. “You’ve got a splinter.”
Before he could pull away, she’d taken his hand in hers, turning it over to examine his palm. The touch sent electricity racing up his arm, his pulse jumping beneath his skin. She didn’t flinch at the scars, didn’t hesitate to touch the damaged tissue that most people pretended not to see.
“Sit down and hold still.” She pushed him down onto a hay bail and reached into her pocket for a Swiss Army knife.
She opened the tweezers and moved to stand in front of him.
Her hair fell forward to shade her expression as she bent over his hand.
He could smell her shampoo, count the freckles across her nose.
An adorable crease formed between her eyebrows as she concentrated.
“Almost got it,” she murmured.
He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. She knelt between his thighs, and her closeness overwhelmed his senses, making his heart hammer against his ribs so hard he was sure she heard it. The barn’s dusty light caught in her hair, turning the dark strands to burnished copper at the edges.
“There.” She extracted the sliver of wood with a triumphant smile. “That wasn’t so—”
She lifted her head, and suddenly they were inches apart, her words dying in her throat. Her eyes widened slightly, pupils dilating as they met his. Time stretched, suspended between one heartbeat and the next.
His gaze dropped to her mouth. The curve of her lower lip, the slight part as her breath hitched. Everything in him ached to close that distance. To learn if she tasted as good as she smelled, to feel the softness of her lips against his own chapped ones.
His hand moved without conscious thought, rising to brush a strand of hair from her face, fingertips grazing her cheek with a touch so light he barely felt it. Her pulse jumped visibly at the base of her throat, matching the wild rhythm of his own.
All he had to do was lean forward. Just an inch. Less.
He could close the distance between them. Could press his lips to hers and discover if she tasted like he’d imagined during those long nights staring at her letters. Could find out if whatever this was between them existed beyond words on paper.
Instead, panic seized him, cold and sudden. What the hell was he doing? She was Magnolia Rowe. TV personality. Someone with a career, a life, a future far from Valor Ridge. And he was... this. Scarred. Damaged. A convicted felon who could barely speak in full sentences around her.
He released her abruptly and stood, nearly knocking her over. But he couldn’t worry about that now. He needed to put distance between them.
“Anson?” The confusion in her voice made him wince.
“Should finish the door,” he said stiffly, turning back to the workbench, his heart hammering agains this ribs. “Before Lila needs the stall.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw her shoulders slump slightly. “Right. Wouldn’t want to keep the horse waiting.”
So he worked, and she worked, the door taking shape between them—solid, functional, everything it needed to be.
Unlike whatever this was, whatever they were, which remained as splintered and broken as the door they’d come to replace.