I turn in the circle of his arms, and we're so close I can see the flecks of blue in his gray eyes. His hands settle on my waist, thumbs brushing the strip of skin where his shirt has ridden up.
This time, when his mouth finds mine, it's slower, more deliberate. He kisses me like he has all the time in the world, like he wants to memorize the taste of me. I melt into him, my hands sliding up his chest to tangle in his hair.
The kiss deepens, growing more heated, and I find myself pressed back against the kitchen counter. His hands roam my sides, relearning the curves he discovered in the barn, and I arch into his touch.
"We should stop," he murmurs against my lips, even as his hands slide higher.
"Probably," I agree, but I don't pull away.
His phone buzzes on the counter beside us, breaking the spell. We spring apart, both breathing hard, and he checks the message with shaking hands.
"Matty," he says. "Checking to make sure we're both okay."
The reminder of the outside world, of all the reasons this is complicated, brings reality crashing back. I step away, wrapping my arms around myself.
"I should go to bed," I say. "Early morning tomorrow."
He nods, though his eyes are still dark with unfulfilled desire. "Sleep well, Emmy."
As I lie in the guest bed later, listening to the storm rage outside, I wonder how I'm supposed to sleep knowing he's justdown the hall. Every time I close my eyes, I feel his hands on my skin, taste his kiss on my lips.
This is dangerous territory, falling for a man like Wyatt Callahan. But as lightning illuminates the Christmas tree visible through my doorway, I can't bring myself to regret being here.
Even if it might break my heart in the end.
Chapter 5
Wyatt
Snow fell hard overnight, blanketing the ranch until the fences looked like charcoal sketches against white paper. The cattle huddle near the windbreaks, restless with the cold snap that followed yesterday's storm. I've been up since before dawn, checking water lines, breaking ice, keeping my hands busy so my mind doesn't drift where it shouldn't.
But it does anyway. To her.
To the way Emmy felt in my arms in that storm-dark kitchen. The soft sound she made when I kissed her neck. How she looked wearing my clothes, like she belonged in my house, in my life. Then this morning she was gone, back to town before I even woke up, leaving nothing but the faint scent of her shampoo on my flannel shirt.
I should be relieved. Should focus on the ranch, on the mounting bills, on anything except the way she whispered my name like a prayer.
Instead, I find myself loading grain samples into the truck, along with the pain medication Emmy said the foal would need. Business, I tell myself. Nothing more than taking care of my livestock.
The drive into Hope Peak takes longer than usual. Christmas shoppers clog Main Street despite the early hour, their arms full of packages, breath visible in the frigid air. Red ribbons flutter from every lamppost, and the Salvation Army bell ringer stamps his feet to stay warm. Normal people doing normal holiday things, while I sit in my truck like an outsider looking in.
The clinic's windows glow warm and golden, strung with white lights that twinkle cheerfully in the gray morning. Through the glass, I catch a glimpse of Emmy moving around inside, her hair catching the light as she tends to something I can't see.
My pulse kicks up just watching her.
The bell above the door jingles when I push inside, followed by a rush of warm air that smells like coffee and antiseptic and something sweet. Christmas music plays softly from speakers tucked between the holiday decorations, and a miniature village spreads across the reception desk, complete with tiny ice skaters and snow-covered shops.
Emmy's voice carries from the back room, gentle and soothing as she talks to a worried pet owner about medication schedules. When she steps into the reception area a few minutes later, those hazel eyes find me instantly, and her step falters.
"Wyatt." My name leaves her lips like a sigh she wasn't planning to make. She smooths her hands over her green sweater, the gesture nervous. "What brings you here?"
I lift the box of supplies. "Grain samples for analysis. Pain meds for the foal. You said she'd need more."
Her expression softens slightly. "You didn't have to make the trip yourself. I could have had Matty pick them up."
"Didn't say you couldn't."
We stare at each other across the small space, tension crackling between us like static electricity. She's wearing jeans that hug her curves and that soft sweater that makes me want torun my hands over the fabric, see if it's as soft as it looks. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, and I remember how it felt tangled in my fingers.
