My own wants, huh? A place of my own, a business, a dog, or a few cats.
Lucas.
It may be stupid to wish for, but I can’t deny that a big part of me still wants him. Wants toask.Wants totry.
Maybe this is his way of saying he wants to try again, too.
JENNY
Lucas has been on my mind nonstop for the past few days.
He’s been on my mind since I got home to find him working on the ranch, if I’m honest, but this is different. I haven’t been shying away from the thoughts of him or from the memories of both our good times and our bad. Fleeting ideas of what life might be like if we picked up where we left off.
If we did it right this time.
It’s hard to accept the possibility of anything happening between us after so long spent hating him. Hate isn’t the right word, though. I spent all those yearsmissinghim, angry that we weren’t together, but I never hated him.
It was just easier to think that I did.
Now, though, I can’t pretend that I ever stopped loving him. There’s no way it would be so easy to fall back into old patterns otherwise, step into orbit around each other like there was never any distance between us. I feel giddy every time I see him, my heart fluttering in the same staccato rhythm it used to at every stupid joke he texts me. He pushes a little further every day—sitting closer to me when we share lunch, wearing a hair tie on his wrist for when I inevitably lose mine. Small gestures thatmean the world to me, things that stick in my mind no matter how hard I try to ignore them.
I know it’s a losing battle to try to stay away from him, but a small, wounded part of me is terrified that this will go the same way as last time.
Lucas leaving me again would shatter me. I never got over him the first time, comparing everyone I met to him and always finding them lacking no matter how good of a fit we were. No one else washim.
It’s a mix of anxiety and excitement that has me walking to his trailer tonight. I didn’t even text him, too nervous to say anything beforehand and give him time to think, or worse, givemyselftime to think. We’ve both mellowed a bit since high school. Things will work out this time.Ifthis is going to work—if it’s going to happen at all—I need to see his face when I tell him.
That starts with telling him, unfortunately.
I knock on the warped metal door of his trailer with far more confidence than I actually feel. He opens it only seconds later, brows furrowed in confusion as he scrubs a towel through his hair. That handsome face splits into a grin when he sees me, and he straightens up to invite me in.
Thankfully for my sanity, he’s already dressed, a tank top stretched over his broad chest and black sweatpants slung low on his hips.
“Did we have plans?” he asks, stepping back and gesturing me inside without waiting for an answer.
“Nope,” I say, overly casual as I wander in to lean against the small counter that makes up his kitchenette. He arches a brow at me in silent question before tossing his towel carelessly back toward his bathroom. “Just… have some news. Wanted to tell you.”
I’m sure it’s not news tohim, actually. He’s probably just been waiting for me to come around to the realization. I shouldreally reward him for his patience. And for not laughing at the ridiculous way I’m going about this.
Is it really so hard to tell him I like him?
“I actually have news, too,” he says, his smile widening even further as he passes me to grab a bottle of water from his fridge. “I wanted to tell you first.”
He’s practically vibrating with excitement, which makes me pause for a second. I expected him to tease me about this a little if he already knew what I came to talk about, but he seems more thrilled than anything else.
It’s kind of cute, actually.
“Wait, I…” Whatever he wants to tell me about, it can wait. I need to get this out before anything else happens, or it’ll lodge in my throat and the words will stay stuck there. “Can I go first?”
Lucas chuckles awkwardly, but takes a seat on his bed and mimes zipping his lips shut. He looks unreasonably attractive, all long, thick legs and burly arms propping him up. His hair is still a little damp from his shower, curling at the ends with the weight of the water, and my hands itch to card through it.
The longer I look at him, the harder it is to find the right words. My carefully prepared speech slips from my mind entirely, and I’m left with nothing but a blush and the desperate need to have him again.
And, well, actions are easier than words.
I close the space between us, anxiously watching as his brows creep up his forehead. He must know what I’m doing, considering the way I stop between his spread thighs, not even half a foot of space separating us.
He still sucks in a surprised breath when I reach out a trembling hand to cup his jaw.
