I took a breath. Let it out as the decision settled in my bones, solid and terrifying and right.
“Somewhere that doesn’t have industrial lighting and open doors and surprise barnyard witnesses,” I said. “Your place, mine, I don’t care. Just… not here.”
Something like relief flashed across his face. Relief and want and something softer that made my chest ache.
“Mine’s closer,” he said quietly.
“Then yours,” I agreed.
We looked at each other for a beat. Standing in my almost-finished future, with a donkey pressed against my hip and sawdust in my hair, deciding to do the most reckless, hopeful thing I’d done in a decade.
Then I slid out from between him and Esmerelda, grabbed my bag, and tipped my chin toward the barn doors.
“Come on, Donkey,” I said. “Before your chaperone changes her mind.”
He laughed, that bright, delighted sound that always made something inside me lift. “Yes, ma’am.”
As we stepped out into the cool December air, side by side, our hands brushed. He laced his fingers through mine like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And for once, instead of yanking away or over-analyzing it to death, I held on.
SEVENTEEN
POWELL
The drive back to my place took seven minutes, but it felt like suspended time. As if the world outside the truck had blurred out, all cold air and Christmas lights, while every sense I had was tuned to the woman sitting in my passenger seat.
Jess didn’t talk. I didn’t either. But her hand stayed in mine on the console, fingers threaded tight, like she was afraid of breaking the moment if she let go. As if I even could. I was too afraid I’d find out I was dreaming.
By the time I parked outside my house, my pulse thundered in my ears. Jess sat there for a beat, thumb brushing once along the inside of my wrist. Barely a touch, but it lit a fire in my blood.
Slow your roll, Ferguson. Don’t make assumptions about where this is going.
I opened her door. She slid out, close enough that her shoulder brushed my chest, and the cold fogged around us. The whole block glittered—porch lights, holiday garlands, the big pine on the corner wrapped in white bulbs that blinked like falling stars.
Jess looked up at me, breath visible in the chilly air. “Powell.” She sounded decided, and I prayed I wasn’t reading this situation wrong.
I unlocked the door. Inside, the house was warm and dim except for the soft glow of Christmas lights from the street reflecting off the window glass, turning the living room into a quiet, amber cocoon. I wished I’d put my own tree on a timer so she could’ve come inside to a little more Christmas magic, but it wasn’t like I’d expected this.
Jess stepped in, stopped, and let out a shaky, almost disbelieving breath. Her back was to me, but I saw the tension in her shoulders. Nerves? Anticipation?
I closed the door gently behind us. “Jess.”
She turned, and whatever words I thought I had dissolved.
Eyes molten, she crossed the space between us in three steps. One hand slid into my hair; the other pressed warm against my chest, right over my heart. She rose onto her toes and kissed me, a slow, lingering claim that told me she was unquestionably choosing me.
Thank. God.
I kissed her back, my hands curling at her waist to keep from moving too fast, taking more than she might be offering. She made a soft sound into my mouth that hit every raw, hopeful place inside me.
When she pulled back, her forehead rested against mine, breath trembling. “I want you.”
Not a trace of teasing. Only truth.
My knees almost gave out. “Jess, I need you to be absolutely sure?—”
She cut me off by taking my wrist, lifting my hand, and pressing my palm flat against the warm skin beneath the hem of her shirt. That skin trembled faintly. A message written in touch.
