I do believe in love. Saw it in my parents before they died—that all-consuming, ride-or-die devotion that survives everything. Wanted it for myself since I was old enough to understand what I was seeing.
I found it three years ago when I looked at Nicole and realized she wasn't just Colt's friend anymore. She was *the one*. The woman I'd been waiting for my whole life.
And I've spent three years hating myself for it.
"Love's worth believing in," I say instead of any of that.
"Have you ever been in love?"
Yes. Right now. With you.
"Once," I lie. Well, half-lie. I dated someone seriously years ago. Thought it might be love. Then she fucked a close friend and I realized what I'd felt was just a pale imitation of the real thing.
"What happened?"
"She cheated. Decided I wasn't exciting enough." I shrug like it doesn't matter. It doesn't, really. Not anymore. "Worked out for the best."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. Taught me to wait for the right person. No point settling for someone who doesn't give a shit about keeping their promises."
"Is that what you're doing? Waiting?"
My heart pounds. "What do you mean?"
"You never date. Colt jokes about it all the time. How his big brother could have any woman in three counties but never brings anyone around."
Because none of them are you.
"Haven't met the right person yet," I tell her. "When I do, I'll know."
I already know. She's sitting right next to me, hand in mine, wearing jeans that should be illegal and a tank top that's going to fuel my fantasies for weeks.
We pull up to my cottage, a small log structure on the east side of the property, far enough from the main house for privacy but close enough to hear if anyone needs help. I put the truck in park but don't let go of her hand yet.
"Home sweet home," I say. "Nothing fancy, but it's clean and safe."
She looks at the cottage, then at me. "Thank you. For everything. For coming to get me, for protecting me, for... for being you."
Don't look at her lips. Don't think about how close she is. Don't imagine what it would feel like to lean across the console and—
I clear my throat and release her hand, immediately missing the contact. "Let's get you inside."
I come around to help her down from the truck. She's shorter than me by a good eight inches, and when I grip her waist to steady her, my hands span almost the entire width of her body.
"Sorry," I mutter, releasing her too quickly. "Didn't mean to—"
"It's fine." Is her voice breathier than before? Or am I imagining it? "I'm fine."
We're both liars.
I unlock the cottage and hold the door open for her. She steps inside, looking around with obvious curiosity. I try to see it through her eyes. The worn leather couch, the wood stove, the simple kitchen. Books stacked on every available surface because I read to quiet my mind. Horse tack hanging by the door because I can't seem to leave work at work.
"It's nice," she says. "Very you."
"Very me meaning what?"
"A little rough around the edges but warm underneath."
