Chapter 7
SEVEN
RHETT
Every small town needs a speed bump, some harmless obstacle to keep people from thinking they can pass through without slowing down.
In Sagebrush, that’s the dogleg curve where Main Street dips behind the grain co-op, and the other is Hannah Scott.
I find myself taking the slow road often these days, sometimes just to catch her walking the two blocks from her rental to the print shop or standing in line at the coffee window, always in a skirt or those damn spandex leggings, always with her hair up like she’s trying not to be seen. But she is. Every time.
It’s been three days since the restaurant—three days since her mouth met mine like it was a question she wanted to answer for herself.
Since then, nothing’s changed except everything.
We agreed on slow, but there’s nothing slow about how she’s gotten in my blood.
I see her everywhere, even when I’m out stringing wire on the west pasture or hosing down the salt lick for the cattle.
Like today: I’m staring at the feed store’s corkboard, watching the color stickers on her flyer fade one sunbeam at a time.
I catch myself smiling, and then I catch Willa eyeing me from across the aisle.
“Need something, Rhett?” she asks, but she’s half grinning.
“Just admiring Cowboy Cupid’s handiwork.” I take my bucket of mineral blocks, make a show of heaving them one-handed.
She wags her finger at me. “You tell Hannah she still owes me that interview for my town newsletter. Maybe she’ll sit still for you.”
I promise nothing. But I do stop in front of the bakery next, like a dumbass, just in case.
By sundown, I’m standing on Hannah’s porch with a casserole dish and cold beer. She opens the door, loose hair falling down, and I take a second before remembering to talk.
“Hope you’re hungry,” I say.
She looks at the dish. “If that’s lasagna, you’re a wizard.”
“It’s not. It’s enchiladas, but I can lie if it helps.”
She steps aside. “Come in, lie to me.”
The inside of her rental is too clean, like she never plans to stay. The walls are blank except for the lone photo of a cat I’ve never met, pinned to the fridge by a Denver Broncos magnet.
Hannah stands by the sink, opening the fridge, and I catch the way her hip fits against the counter. Without her heels, the top of her head doesn’t even reach my chin. She hands me a beer and doesn’t let go of the bottle until I look at her. Dear God in heaven, she’s breathtaking.
We eat off mismatched plates by the window, sun bleeding out over the horizon.
She tells me about her day, about the web of calls she’s making to match up singles who barely use their phones.
She’s animated, gesturing with her fork, and for the first time, I see the line between business and personal blur for her.
She wants this to work, and I want that for her more than anything.
She finishes her plate and wipes her mouth. “I wasn’t sure you’d call.”
“I said I would.”
She shakes her head softly, like that answer is too easy.
I shift in my chair. “Town’s talking.”
“About us?” Her eyebrows go up, but she doesn’t sound mad. “Are we an us?”
I set my beer down. “Don’t know. Is that a dealbreaker for you?”
She tugs her ponytail loose and shakes her hair out. “No. But I don’t want to be a headline, either.”
“You won’t.” I mean it.
We clear the table. She washes, I dry, and for a few minutes we are just two people, filling the silence with small clinks and the sound of running water. She hands me a plate, wet and slippery, and I almost drop it. She laughs, the last of her wariness falling away.
“Want to see something?” she asks, voice low.
I nod.
She leads me down the short hall to her work nook, where sticky notes and printouts cover half the wall. There’s a binder labeled ‘Sagebrush Market Analysis’ and a legal pad with doodles in the margin. She’s got a system, and she’s letting me in.
“I’m thinking of leasing the corner spot on Main. The old bakery has a storefront and an apartment above,” she says. “It’s dumb, but—”
“It’s not dumb,” I cut in. “It’s smart. You already know Sagebrush wants this. They just don’t know it yet.”
She looks surprised. Not at my words, but how easily I said them.
I touch the edge of her desk. “The place is rough inside, but I know a guy who can fix it up. He worked on Willa’s place last year.”
She smiles. “You know a guy for everything.”
I think about that. “Not everything.”
Hannah sits on the edge of her desk, leaning in. “What don’t you have a guy for?”
I step between her knees. “This,” I say, and I kiss her.
It’s not the slow burn from the other night—it’s a door kicked open.
She makes a sound low in her throat, and her hands find my shirt, twisting the fabric like she’s trying to decide how fast to pull it off.
I get my fingers into her hair, and she arches into me, her thighs tightening at my hips, and I feel every last wall she’s been building since Beau and Willa’s wedding come down all at once.
She breaks off, lips swollen. “This is fast.”
I rest my forehead on hers. “I thought that was the point.”
“No,” she whispers, “I mean—it’s like you already know me. Like you’re not scared of what you’ll find.”
“I’m not.” I run my fingers up her arms, feeling the goosebumps rise. “The only thing I’m worried about is if you’re gonna let me stick around.”
She kisses my jaw, smiling into it. “That’s the easiest decision I’ve made all week.”
I pull her in tighter, and we find the couch without looking for it.
Her hands work up my shoulders and into my hair, and I get my mouth on her ear, her neck, the soft skin just above her collarbone where her pulse is going fast. She smells like something warm and faintly sweet, and when I drag my teeth along her throat, she makes a sound that I feel more than hear.
Her fingers drop to my belt buckle—slow, deliberate—unhurried, like she’s already decided but wants to enjoy the deciding.
We make it another ten minutes before she stops, breathing hard. “Is this what you want?” she asks, but I know she’s asking something bigger.
I nod, then kiss her, slower this time. “If you need to pump the brakes, you tell me. I won’t make it weird.”
She relaxes into me. “I don’t want weird.”
I drag the back of my thumb across her cheek, seeing the blush there. “Good. I don’t know how to do this halfway.”
We sit there, legs tangled, beer going flat on the coffee table, the last of the sunset leaving the room blue-toned and quiet. It feels like a beginning, not a bet. Maybe even a home.
She dozes off on my chest, and I hold her until the clock says midnight. I slip out, locking the door behind me, and walk the long way to my truck because I want the extra time alone with what just happened.
By the time I start the engine, the windows are iced up, and I’m starving for more of her.
She calls the next morning at seven sharp, her voice still scratchy with sleep. “You around tonight?”
I tell her I’m bringing dessert.
This time, she opens the door in leggings and a t-shirt that might be mine, and I know I’m already in trouble. She sweeps the porch with her foot. “I’m having a day.”
I hand her a bakery box. “The only way to fix that is with sugar.”
We eat cannoli on the stoop, talking about nothing. She doesn’t mention her business, or her doubts, or anything urgent. I like her like this. Unforced.
When she licks the cream off her thumb, I almost lose my train of thought. “You sure Sagebrush is big enough for you?”
She shrugs. “Maybe not. But I think you are.”
There’s no clever reply for that, so I just put my arm around her and let the moment hang.
Later, when I leave her at the door, she kisses my jaw, lingering as if she’s memorizing the shape of my face.
“Good night, Rhett.”
I say it back, even though it never feels like goodbye.
I don’t see her again until the Sunday farmer’s market. She’s by her booth, laughing with Willa over a stack of clipboards. I wait for the crowd to thin, then slide behind her, arms cinching at her waist. She tenses for a second, then melts into me.
Willa whistles. “About time, you two.”
Hannah elbows me. “He’s here to work, not flirt.”
“Can’t it be both?” I ask, and she just grins.
We hand out Cowboy Cupid flyers all morning, taking only brief breaks. She’s got a system—compliment the boots, ask about their ranch, then make her pitch. I watch her in her element, see the confidence she doesn’t show anyone else, and I realize I’d follow her anywhere.
At noon, she pulls me behind the display, the crowd pressing on all sides. “Can we get out of here?”
“Lead the way,” I say.
She takes my hand, weaving us through Sagebrush’s slow parade of pickups and strollers, out past Main and up the hill behind the co-op. The sun is sharp, the air dry as old toast. We climb in silence until we stand at the top, the whole town spread out below like a toy set.
She points at the old bakery. “I’m buying it,” she says quietly.
I put my hand over hers, and she looks up at me, eyes clear and steady. “You really want to do this, don’t you?”
I nod. “There’s nothing I want more than you.”
She steps in, presses her cheek to my chest, and I hold her there, counting the heartbeats.
If there’s a speed bump in this town, I don’t mind slowing down for it. Not this time.