Chapter 25 #3
The cab is quiet. Afternoon light cuts through the windshield and catches the dust particles drifting between us, and I’m suddenly very aware of how small this truck is.
How close his hand is to my knee on the console.
How the scent of him, cedar and leather and his skin, has been wrapping around me for the last hour and I’ve only just let myself notice.
“We should go in.” He doesn’t move.
“We should.” I don’t move either.
He’s looking at the barn. While I’m looking at his forearms, remembering the way they tensed last night on the porch when he held my face, but how they didn’t waver at all when he cleared the cabin with a flashlight and a set jaw.
“Daisy.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re starin’.”
“I know.”
He turns his head, and we’re close. Closer than I realized. The console is the only thing between us, and it’s not enough. His eyes drop to my mouth for half a second and then drag back up with visible effort, and the air in the cab goes thick.
“This morning I said this can’t happen again.” His voice is low and rough, and he’s not looking away. “I meant it when I said it.”
“And now?”
His hand lifts from his thigh and his fingers find the strand of hair that’s fallen across my jaw. He tucks it back slowly, the pad of his thumb grazing my cheekbone on the way. The touch is so careful it makes my breath hitch.
“Now I’m sitting in my own truck tryin’ my damnedest to remember a single one of my reasons.”
My pulse is hammering. His hand is still on my face, his thumb tracing a line just below my ear, and I can feel the heat of him across the console, close enough to taste.
“Maybe they weren’t very good reasons,” I whisper.
“They were excellent reasons.” His thumb stops moving but doesn’t pull away. “I had a whole list.”
“Tell me one.”
“Can’t think of any, Daisy-girl.”
I lean into his palm. His breath catches, and I watch his control fracture in real time, the careful steadiness giving way to something raw and hungry that makes my stomach swirl with anticipation.
He leans in, and I meet him halfway. His mouth is a breath from mine, so close I can feel the warmth of it, and his hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck and—
A truck horn blares from the driveway loud enough to shatter the moment clean in half.
We spring apart, Wyatt’s hand flying back on the steering wheel so fast it’s like it was never anywhere else. Through the windshield, I see Colt’s truck pulling up to the barn, one arm hanging out the window, palm still on the horn.
“Wyatt!” Colt’s voice carries across the yard. “Got a problem with the water line on the north pasture. Need your eyes on it.”
Wyatt closes his eyes, takes a deep breath through his nose, and opens them.
“Your timing,” he mutters under his breath, “is goddamn biblical, brother.”
He opens his door and steps out. I follow on legs that don’t feel entirely steady, and Colt is already climbing out of his truck with that easy grin, his eyes flicking between us with an interest he’s doing a terrible job of hiding.
“Afternoon, Daisy,” Colt drawls, slow grin in place.
His eyes flick to his brother. “Y’all look… busy.”
“Don’t start with me today, asshole.”
He tips his hat in response and looks back at me. “So, how was town?”
“Productive,” I deadpan, and leave it there.
Colt’s grin widens. He knows something happened in that cab the same way a dog knows there’s food on the counter. He can’t see it, but he can smell it.
Wyatt comes around the truck and positions himself beside me, close enough that his arm brushes mine, then he looks at Colt expectantly.
“Walk Daisy to the house first.”
Colt’s grin fades. He reads the shift instantly, the way all the Hartleys seem to, and nods once.
“Yes, sir.”
Wyatt turns back to me, and the hunger is still there on his face, banked but burning.
“We’re not done.” His words are quiet, meant for my ears alone.
My breath catches. His eyes hold mine for one more second, dark and steady, and then he turns to Colt like a switch has been flipped.
“And you lay on that horn one more time and I’ll tell every person in this county what’s on your birth certificate.”
Colt goes pale beneath his tan. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
I look between them, completely lost, but Wyatt is already heading for his truck, and whatever just passed between them is filed under Hartley business that I’m not cleared for.
Colt offers me his arm with exaggerated formality, the grin sliding back into place, though it’s missing some of its usual wattage. “Shall we?”
“What’s on your birth certificate?”
“Absolutely nothin’ worth discussing. Ever. With a damn soul.” He steers me toward the porch. “Let’s talk about literally anythin’ else. Weather’s nice, ain’t it?”
I push down on a chuckle as I let him walk me to the door, and when I glance back, Wyatt is standing by his truck watching us. He doesn’t move a muscle until I’m safely inside.
Then I close the door and stand there with my back against it, breathing hard in the silent foyer, while every nerve ending in my body is still humming from the memory of his thumb on my skin.
We’re not done.
God help me, I hope not.