Reece
The steaming black coffee in my mug knocks away some of my sleep fog, but it does nothing for the tension in my spine. I meant well last night. McKenna should not have to sleep on that monstrosity of a couch or my recliner, but I don’t think I can either.
I could probably let her sleep another half an hour, but what’s an early morning without stoking a little flame? Besides, the sooner I can catch her under the mistletoe, the better.
“Rise and shine, princess. We gotta beat the rooster.” A knock on the door pushes it open, revealing the already-made bed. A surprising jolt of panic hits from deep in my gut before I spot her bag still on the floor.
Good. She’s still here.
After checking the bathroom, front porch, I circle back to the kitchen, I glance out the window above the sink.
There, in the predawn light, is my girl working through a series of stretches. Yoga, maybe. A quick glance at the clock on the stove says it’s four-thirty, and the sweat glistening off her back and arms suggests she’s been out there for a while.
How did she sneak out without me hearing?
Better question—why can’t I take my eyes off her? The world outside is still tinted blue, the kind of stillness you only get before sunrise. Frost dusts the fence rails, catching the porch light like sugar. Steam curls off my coffee as I watch her move, and for a minute I forget about everything else—the chores, the chill in the air, the thousand reasons I should keep my distance.
As I debate whether or not I can get away with sneaking glances through the window without her noticing, she stretches for her toes then slowly rolls her body up until her arms reach high above her head. The tension in her shoulders dissipates as she exhales, her arms dropping by her sides.
When her blue eyes meet mine, I’m struck by the awe I feel at her beauty.
These feelings are far from new, but that talk I had with myself last night about wanting her? It’s like admitting it to myself gave me permission to push forward.
I tell myself it’s just curiosity, that I’m making sure she doesn’t slip on the frozen ground, but the truth sits heavier. I want her. I always have. The problem is figuring out what wanting her costs. McKenna is about to find herself under every doorframe I can trick her under. I just hope Jace was serious about the mistletoe.
***
“This is Butterbean,” I say, tossing the rope over the hitching post. The big mare blows through her nostrils as she launches into her usual full-body peppermint search. The barn smells like cedar shavings and molasses feed, warm air fogging with every breath. McKenna edges closer, cautious but curious, the same way she used to handle a classroom full of toddlers—soft voice, firm boundaries, ready to dodge if something kicks.
“She’s huge,” McKenna says, awe lacing her tone as she takes in the big beauty in front of her.
“She’s a Belgian cross. Came out of a kill pen a few years back. It took a lot of work and trust building, but she came around after a while.”
“And she’s going to pull a carriage? Like, Cinderella-style?”
I chuckle at McKenna’s wonderment. It’s easy to forget she doesn’t have the same equine background that most of us in Havenwood have. “Not quite. She and her partner are a semi-retired driving pair. Now, we hook them up for wagon rides a few times each year. The rest of the time, they get spoiled. Alfalfa, green pastures, grooming days, and occasional exercise days to keep their minds sharp.”
“So, no offense, but what exactly do you expect me to do? I’m all for spoiling animals, but I can’t say equine pampering is on my resume.”
“You, blue eyes, will be responsible for manning the line and making sure people don’t get up underneath the horses’ hooves.”
A look of relief washes over her as she sighs, her cheeks turning an adorable shade of pink. “Oh, good.”
Butterbean nudges my hand as I pause mid-scratch. “Did you really think I’d give you a task you weren’t comfortable with?”
“Kind of, yeah.” Her shrug hurts more than it should. For someone who jokes about everything, she’s serious now, eyes fixed on the horse’s neck instead of me. The fact that she doubts me stings more than it should. I did that—I taught her not to trust what I say.
“You know me better than that, Kenna.”
She hesitates. “Do I?” The air between us shifts. It’s not heavy, just charged—the kind that makes a man forget the right thing and remember every wrong one he wants to repeat. She takes a step forward as if to placate me but doesn’t know what to do with her hands. Instead, she tentatively runs her fingers over themare’s neck, scratching just under her mane. “I mean, isn’t it what we do? See how far we can push before the other one flips?”
I shrug, feigning indifference. “If I ever did something that you were completely against, I hope you have enough self-preservation to tell me no, McKenna Monroe. I like to get under your skin and watch that vein tick up by your temple or get snarky responses from you, but I’ve never had the goal of pushing you too far.”
“No, I know. It’s just…you kissed me like it meant something, Reece. And then you acted like nothing happened.”
I stay silent as I set about cleaning Butterbean’s hooves.
“When Jett moved here last January, we agreed nothing else could happen between us.”
