Chapter Forty-One
Marina
I hear the horses before I see them.
The steady rhythm of hooves coming up the lane pulls me onto the porch, and the second I see Royce riding toward me, something inside my chest gives a traitorous little flutter.
He looks good.
Jeans sitting low on his hips. Boots planted in the stirrups. A dark button-down with the sleeves shoved to his elbows, exposing those strong forearms I’ve become far too aware of. His hat’s pulled low, shadowing the scar that cuts through his eyebrow and making his eyes look even more dangerous.
But it’s the horse beside him that makes me forget about Royce for a second.
Rowdy.
My mouth falls open. “What are you doing with my horse?”
Royce’s grin spreads slowly. “Rowdy and I decided we wanted to take you on a date.”
I stare at him. “A date?”
“Yep.”
He swings down from his saddle with the easy grace of a man who has spent his entire life around horses, then walks over to Rowdy and rubs a hand along his neck.
My gaze drops to the saddlebags hanging from both horses. “What’s in those?”
He glances at me. “Everything we need.”
“For what?”
He smiles. “Don’t ask so many questions. Just get your ass in the saddle and be surprised.”
I narrow my eyes. “Royce.”
“Rina.”
The way he says my name makes something warm curl low in my stomach. It sounds like a promise.
I glance back toward the door. Mom is peeking out, and she gives me a little wave before pulling the door, shutting her and Ryder inside.
I step off the porch and walk toward Rowdy. “You’re really committed to this thing.”
His expression softens. There’s something different about him tonight. Something deliberate.
This isn’t Royce Trust asking if I want to go grab dinner with him at the dining hall.
He planned this. For me. And I have no idea what to do with that.
I should remind myself that this is dangerous territory. That I’ve spent years building walls high enough to keep disappointment out. That I have a four-year-old whose heart is attached to mine and no room in our lives for another man who might eventually decide he wants something else.
But I look at Royce, and those walls feel a whole lot less sturdy than they did a month ago.
“Where are we going?”
He swings into the saddle. “You’ll have to wait and see.”
I sigh. “You know you’re irritating, right?” I say as I climb onto Rowdy’s back.
His grin flashes. “Just part of my charm, darlin’.”
“I’m not convinced you have any charm, cowboy.”
“That wasn’t the tune you were singing a few hours ago,” he says.
The reminder of how needy I was this morning makes me blush, and I’m thankful he and his stallion are in front of us.
“Temporary insanity,” I say.
He glances over his shoulder at me. “Keep the sass coming, and I won’t be fulfilling that promise I made.”
I gasp. “You wouldn’t dare.”
He smirks. “Follow me, cowgirl. And try to keep up.”
I settle in my saddle and kick my heels.
Let’s ride.
The trail winds away from the ranch, through the trees, and into the foothills.
The evening sun filters through the branches, painting gold across the trail. Rowdy’s familiar rhythm settles beneath me, and little by little, the tension I didn’t realize I had been carrying begins to disappear.
No academy.
No students.
No phone calls.
No past.
Just me and Royce.
We ride in silence for about twenty minutes. Then the trees open, and I suck in a breath.
The meadow stretches out before us, green and wild, framed by mountains and overlooking the valley below.
“Oh my God.”
Royce looks at me. “Like it?”
I turn toward him. “Are you kidding me? This place is stunning. If I wasn’t here, seeing it with my own eyes, I’d swear it was a painting.”
He dismounts and walks over to me and Rowdy, and his hands settle around my waist. “I’ve got you.”
He lifts me from the saddle and sets me on the ground. His hands linger on my body, and his eyes drop to my mouth.
My heart stutters.
Then he steps back. “You take a look around. Pick a spot out for us.”
I exhale. “Okay.”
He begins unloading the saddlebags—a blanket, a small cooler, a cast-iron skillet, and a bottle of wine.
“Are those flowers?”
I walk closer. Tucked carefully inside one of the bags is a small bundle of white tulips.
My breath catches. “Trust.”
“Your mom told me they were your favorite.”
I stare at the flowers.
My favorite since I was a girl. Something so small. Something so insignificant. And yet I can’t recall the last time someone bothered to ask or remember what my favorite flower is.
I reach for them. “They’re beautiful.”
“You’re beautiful.”
I look up.
He gives me that crooked grin. The one I used to think was cocky.
I find a shady spot under a big oak tree, and he spreads out the blanket and begins unpacking the food.
Rib eyes?
I stare.
Another one of my favorites.
He pulls out a foil-wrapped bundle of potatoes and a bottle of my favorite Pinot Noir.
I glance at the bottle. “Okay, what else did my mother tell you?”
“That you would hate being fussed over.”
My chest tightens, and I look away. “Yeah, well, I don’t hate it. I’m just not used to it.”
He builds the fire while I sit on the blanket, watching him move around the small campsite.
There’s something profoundly sexy about seeing a man like Royce do something just because he wants to make you happy.
No audience. No performance. No one to clap.
He cooks the steaks over the fire while I open and pour the wine.
He’s cooking over an open flame, and he looks at ease, like it’s something he does all the time.
Once he’s done, I take one bite of the steak and moan. “This is good.”
“I know,” he says, sitting back with his ankles crossed, his own plate on his lap.
“You’re so damn arrogant.”
He shrugs. “If I’m not good at it, I don’t do it.”
“Is that right?”
He nods.
“Tell me, then, Mr. Confident, how do you know if you’re good at something if you don’t try it?”
He smiles. “Do try it. At least once. If you suck at it, move on and find something you are good at.”
“Isn’t that the opposite of what you tell your bull riding hopefuls?”
He shakes his head. “No. They’ve already tried it. They already know they’re good at it, or they wouldn’t be there in the first place. All I do is tell them how to be better at it.”
We eat as the sun sinks lower and the mountains turn amber.
I find myself watching the way the firelight moves across his face. The scar. The strong line of his jaw. Those whiskey eyes.
He catches me staring. “What?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
I smile. “I was just thinking about how strange this is.”
His smile fades. “What?”
I gesture between us. “Us.”
He studies me for a long moment. Then he sets his plate aside and turns to face me. “I’ve been thinking about us too.”
My heart starts beating harder when he picks up my hand, and his thumb moves slowly over my knuckles.
“Lately, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what I want.”
I swallow.
His eyes hold mine. “I want this.”
The words are simple, but they don’t feel simple.
I squeeze his hand. “Royce …”
“I’m not asking you for anything tonight.” His voice is low and steady. “I just want you to know that I want this. I want you.”
He leans toward me and stops. He’s waiting on me. Waiting for me to make a decision. Waiting on me to try.
I lean in and meet him halfway.
His kiss is slow. Not hungry. Not rushed. Like he has all the time in the world and he’s savoring it.
My fingers curl into his shirt.
His hand slides to the back of my neck, holding me gently as our mouths move together.
And when we finally pull apart, his forehead rests against mine.
I close my eyes.
God, I could fall in love with this man.
The thought comes so suddenly that it scares me. I open my eyes and move back a fraction.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
He studies me like he knows I’m lying. “All right, keep your secrets. I’ll wear you down eventually.”
We enjoy the rest of the wine, watching the sky deepen to black velvet, one star after another pricking through the darkness, until it’s time to pack up.
I climb onto Rowdy, and Royce mounts his horse beside me.
We ride back beneath the moonlight.
I’m sad because the date is over.
But it’s not.
When we reach the ranch, Royce leads us around toward the cabin.
I hear laughter.
Then the front door flies open.
“Mommy!”
Ryder comes barreling outside in his pajamas, and I barely have time to dismount before he launches himself at me.
I catch him and swing him up on my hip. “Hey, baby.”
He wraps his arms around my neck. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too.”
Then he spots Royce. “Are you ready?”
Royce chuckles. “I am.”
Ryder beams.
I look between the two of them.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Peach cobbler!” Ryder squeals, and his face lights up.
I look at Royce. “You made peach cobbler?”
He shakes his head. “Not yet.”
Ryder slides down my side, and then he reaches up and takes Royce’s hand in his. “Come on!”
And just like that, he’s being dragged into the cabin by a four-year-old who has apparently decided he owns this cowboy.
I follow them inside.
Mom and I sit in barstools with a glass of wine, watching the two of them.
Ryder is standing on a chair beside the kitchen island, helping Royce mix peaches. There’s flour on Ryder’s cheek and down the front of Royce’s shirt.
Ryder glances up at Royce as he tries to sneak another peach slice.
“That’s for the cobbler, little man.”
“Just one more.”
“You said that three peaches ago. I’m not falling for it again.”
Ryder giggles.
And I realize something. My favorite flowers. Favorite food. Favorite animal. And now my favorite little human and his favorite dessert.
Royce thought about every single thing that I love.
I look at the man standing beside my son, flour on his shirt and a smile on his face, and something inside me shifts.
For the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t look like something I need to protect myself from.
It looks like something I might actually want.
He belongs on my list of favorites.
Because I love him too.