21. Jessica
Jessica
It was day one of the fair: the livestock and breeding competition. Ten thousand people from across Texas descended on Copper Creek, and the infrastructure held because I built it to hold.
I’d woken up refreshed, and it was all because of Hunter. I'd gotten a full ten hours of sleep after the bath and massage. And the orgasm that had me hearing color was the cherry on top.
The parking worked — every lane marked, every marshal in position, the overflow lot opening on schedule when the primary filled at eight thirty.
The signage worked — every directional, every vendor banner, every sponsor logo in the right place at the right size.
The volunteer coordination ran clean because I'd trained every single one of them myself — three sessions, printed packets, a group text chain that I monitored from six AM.
I walked the fairground at nine with my clipboard and my headset and the sun on my face.
The main pavilion was full. The livestock pens were lined with judges, breeders, and families who came for a fun day out.
The Blackwood horses were in the featured paddock, and they were magnificent — Maggie had done something extraordinary with the presentation, the animals groomed and gleaming, the handlers in matching shirts, the whole setup professional and beautiful and exactly right.
I watched the judges walk the line. The morning sun was warm on my arms, and for the first time in my career, I was walking through the event I'd built at a pace that let me actually see it.
Actually enjoy it.
The barbecue station opened at ten. The queue reached the paddock fence by eleven. Clara Mae found me near the craft market and squeezed my arm and said, "Jessica, this is something.” There was pride in her voice, and it landed in me warm and solid.
Day two was rodeo events and kids' competitions. And of course, the food and craft market sprawling across the east paddock with vendors I'd sourced from six counties.
The mechanical bull was a hit. The insurance-approved matting was holding up. The backup chair vendor had delivered on time because the primary vendor had delivered late, exactly as predicted, and the backup had been ready since six AM because I'd called him at five.
Maisie won a ribbon at the kids' obstacle course — a category of competition that may or may not have been invented specifically so Maisie could win it.
She crossed the finish line in pink cowboy boots with hay in her hair and a look on her face that suggested she'd been preparing for this her entire life, which at six years old wasn't an insignificant amount of preparation.
Clay lifted her onto his shoulders. He paraded her through the crowd — both arms gripping her ankles, Maisie's ribbon held high in her fist. Callie was filming.
Laughing. Wiping her eyes with one hand and holding the phone steady with the other.
Wyatt was clapping. Ivy had her arm through Wyatt's.
Liam and Stephanie were somewhere in the crowd — I could hear Liam's whistle, the two-fingered one that cut through noise like a blade.
I stood near the finish line with my clipboard against my hip and my throat tight and the warmth spreading through my ribs.
Hunter was somewhere behind me. I didn't need to turn around to know.
I could feel him in the architecture of the day — the gate near the rodeo arena that swung smooth now because he'd rehung it last week.
The cable routing on the stage he'd built for the band.
The loading dock at the east gate that had appeared overnight three weeks ago.
He was in everything here the way he was in everything at the ranch.
Quiet. Unhurried. Holding things together so other people could stand in the sun and cheer for a six-year-old in pink boots.
Day three was the gala. The thing I was most excited for.
Black tie. Seated dinner under the marquee with the ranch stretching out behind it and the fairy lights I'd strung myself at midnight because the electrician had canceled and I wasn't going to let fairy lights be the thing that broke me.
The speeches had landed. The sponsors were glowing.
The live band was setting up and the evening was warm and golden and I was backstage checking the set list when I heard boots on the decking behind me.
I turned.
Hunter was in a tux.
My clipboard dropped three inches before I caught it.
My mouth opened. No words came out. The jacket was dark as night, the shirt a crisp white that brought the tan out in his skin.
His jaw was clean-shaven. His hair was combed back under the black Stetson.
His boots — the same boots, the ones he'd had for six years, the ones he'd be wearing when we were eighty — were polished.
He was carrying a plate of food. He stopped in front of me and I still hadn't spoken because every rational system I had was offline.
The remaining power was being used to catalogue the way the jacket sat on his shoulders and the fact that he had on a bow tie.
And most importantly, the black Stetson — the good one, the one he wore to church and to funerals and apparently now to galas — tipped low on his brow so his eyes were in shadow and his jaw was in light and the combination was doing things to my central nervous system that were not compatible with professional function.
"Jess."
"I — wow." My voice came out strangled. "Wow.
Just — wow. Why have I never seen you in a suit let alone a tux?
How have I known you for seventeen years and never once seen you in a suit?
And the hat. The hat with the tux. That's — that's not fair, Hunter.
That's a weapon. Someone should have put you in a suit and a Stetson years ago.
I could —" I pressed my hand over my mouth.
Removed it. "I could lick you right now.
Your whole body. Head to toe. Right here behind this stage.
I'm not even joking. I'm a professional woman at a professional event and I am telling you to your face that I want to lick you. Who am I? What are you doing to me?”
His mouth twitched. The grin starting — slow, one corner pulling, his eyes warming. "All over?"
The husky rasp of his voice rolled through me. "All. Over."
He leaned in. His mouth close to my ear. His voice dropped low — a register I felt in my stomach and below it. "You can start with my neck." His breath was warm against my skin. "Work your way down. I'll tell you when to stop."
My knees went soft. A full-body flush climbed my neck and hit my cheeks. I pressed my hand against my sternum and fanned myself with the clipboard.
"Holy fuck." I was laughing. Fanning. My voice had gone up an octave. "Who are you, and what did you do with Hunter?"
His grin was wide now. Full. His eyes were warm and amused and satisfied, and my God, was he the most beautiful thing.
He held out the plate. "Eat."
"You can't just — you can't say that and then tell me to eat."
His gaze ran over me in a slow, hungry sweep. ”Eat. And I'll take care of you later. After the gala."
My stomach dropped. My fanning paused. The way he said later — low, unhurried, a promise tucked inside two syllables — landed in me and stayed there.
I took the plate and ate standing up behind the stage. My face was still hot and my heart was still hammering, but the food was good. Better than good. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until the first forkful hit my tongue. But Hunter knew. He always knew.
He watched me eat. His arms crossed. His weight settled on his boots. The grin had faded to something quieter — warmer, steadier, the look underneath the heat.
"I'm proud of you, Jess."
My fork stopped.
"I've been hearing it all day. Vendors, sponsors, the county commissioner. Tom Morrison told me this is the best event the county's had in thirty years." His eyes held mine. "You built this. All of it. And it's extraordinary."
My throat tightened. My eyes stung. I blinked hard and shoved a bite of food in my mouth because if I opened it to speak right now, the words that came out wouldn't be professional and would probably involve crying, and I wasn't crying behind a stage at my own gala in front of him.
"Thank you," I said rough around the food. Elegant as always.
His mouth pulled. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers grazed my jaw on the way back. The combination of his gentleness after the filth he just said was actually going to kill me.
The stage manager's voice came from inside the marquee. "Jessica!" I jumped. "Five minutes to curtain!"
I blinked. Breathed. Straightened my dress. Looked at Hunter one more time — the suit, the Stetson, the jaw, the eyes that were holding both heat and pride.
"Hold that thought, baby. All of it. I’ll work my way down — later."
"I'm not going anywhere."
“Not if I have anything to do with it," I said, my voice catching.
The gala was in full swing. My face hurt from smiling, and my feet hurt from the heels — the red ones, the Manolos, the ones that were absolutely the right choice and that I absolutely didn't regret even though my arches were staging a formal protest.
At midnight, the fair was done.
Three days. Ten thousand people. And it worked.
Not just worked — thrived. The sponsors had already asked about next year.
The county commissioner had shaken my hand and said the words contract extension and my professional brain had filed the information while the rest of me was standing in the middle of an empty marquee at midnight watching the crew pack down the tables.
The volunteers were stacking chairs. The caterers were loading the trucks.
The fairy lights I'd hung at midnight three nights ago were still burning — tiny gold points strung between the oaks, swaying in the breeze, throwing soft light on the empty tables and the trampled grass and the marquee poles.
I stood in the center of it. Turned in a slow circle. My heels were off. My bare feet on the cool grass. My clipboard on a table behind me — face down, done, finished.
My eyes were wet. My chest ached with pride. The fairy lights swayed above me, none the wiser that these last three days had solidified something in my head that my heart had known for months.
The word arrived. Not new. But tonight it landed differently. Tonight I didn't push it back. Tonight I let it land.
Home.
The word settled into me. Warm. Heavy. Right.
Not the home I'd left at eighteen. Not the home I'd been afraid of for a decade.
This home. The one I'd built. The one that had the creek and the ranch and the workshop and the Sunday dinners and the man with the steady hands and the rare grin and the travel books on his shelf and the bath he'd drawn without being asked.
This was where I belonged. The knowing was quiet and enormous, and it sat beside the other word — the four-letter one, the one I still hadn't said out loud — and the two pressed against each other like hands holding.
Home. And love. And the man who was both.
I wasn't afraid of the word anymore. Either of them.