Chapter 15 Hunter
Hunter
It’s been decades since I sat on that porch swing.
I almost couldn’t bring myself to do it either.
But somewhere between my hesitation and her insistence, it felt like something I had to do.
And by the time she poured me a glass of wine and looked at me like I was the only man in the world—or at least in her world—I wasn’t thinking about that porch, that swing, that house, or that land.
Just . . . her.
Gravel crunches beneath my tires as I ease the truck into gear and head back up the hill. Wine’s still ambling through my veins, but it’s not the reason my hands feel so restless on the wheel.
I shouldn’t have left.
I should’ve stayed on that swing, let the silence stretch between us a little longer, maybe even said what was really on my mind for once.
Or hell—kissed her. Lord knows every part of me wanted to.
It’s been a while since I felt soft lips like those on mine, and I could easily imagine the way her fingertips would feel stroking through my beard, grazing the side of my face.
That look in her eyes, the way she tilted her chin and leaned a little closer—she would’ve let me kiss her. I’m certain of that.
But I didn’t.
Because it’s easier to leave than to stay. Easier to pretend I didn’t feel what I felt the second she smiled at me with that glass of wine in her hand and the night breeze lifting her hair like something out of a dream I’ve never let myself have.
I park outside my house on the hilltop, kill the engine, and sit for a minute. Just breathing. Alone with my thoughts—thoughts that are louder tonight than they’ve ever been.
She’s too much.
Too soft.
Too pretty.
Too close to the parts of me I can’t remember the last time I let anyone see.
Every part of me wants her like I haven’t wanted anything in a long, long time.
But the truth is, I like control.
I need it.
Hell, I don’t know who I am without it.
I can control the type of seeds and chemicals I use. I can manage my weather expectations, employee output, finances, and acreage bids. I can plan and prepare. I can always fix what breaks. These are things I know . . . things I do and do well—better than most, if I’m being honest.
But I can’t control the way my chest tightens every time Wren looks at me like I’m someone worth knowing.
I can’t control the way it feels to hear my name on her lips or how it knocks the air out of me to watch her walk away.
My heart? That’s the one thing I can’t control.
And that’s the one thing that scares me most.
Because I know what happens when you hand it over. I’ve watched love disappoint. Watched it walk away. Watched it die. Everything I’ve ever loved, I’ve lost.
Everything but land.
But hearts? They do their own thing regardless of what you want them to do, and it’s human nature to avoid pain and suffering. I might be good at managing an operation, but in pouring my focus into my farm, I’ve become good at avoiding emotional anguish too.
I stare out the windshield at the dark stretch of river valley below, the clouds slowly thinning in the distance, outlined by the glow of a full moon. Half a mile away, Wren’s little porch light glows soft at the edge of her tree line, a tiny beacon that shouldn’t matter but does.
I imagine she’ll sit there for a while longer. Maybe finish that wine since she already opened it. Maybe think about me the way I’m thinking about her.
Or maybe not.
Maybe I’m just a man with a broken compass, too set in his ways to find his true north.
I scrub a hand down my face, exhale hard, and climb out of the truck, the taste of red wine still on my tongue and the heat of her body still warm on my shoulder.
Heading in for the night, I fall asleep with one thought on my mind and one thought only: I should’ve kissed her.