"Goes away," I finished. "If Dawson can prove his stock descends from Bad Habit, and Bad Habit was jointly owned, then the feud narrative doesn't hold. The horses weren't stolen or fought over. They were bred together."
She stared at the phone for another beat, then looked up at me. "This changes everything."
"Yeah."
The weight of what we’d uncovered settled between us. This wasn't just about fixing a permit issue or salvaging the rodeo expansion. This was proof that the story Mustang Mountain had been telling itself for a hundred years wasn't complete. And Claire had been the one to crack it open.
I set the phone down on the table, my hand close enough to hers that I could feel the warmth radiating from her skin. The kitchen was quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the soft rustle of wind against the window.
"You did this," I said.
She shook her head. "We did it together."
"Claire—"
She turned toward me, and whatever I'd been about to say died in my throat. The way she was looking at me wasn't careful anymore. It was open and direct and tinged with something that made my pulse roar in my ears.
"I keep telling myself this is a bad idea," she said, almost whispering.
"Which part?"
"All of it. Being here. Digging into things people want left alone." Her gaze dropped to my mouth, then came back up. "You."
I didn't move. Didn't let myself reach for her, even though every instinct I had was screaming at me to close the distance between us.
"And?" I asked.
"And I don't care."
The words punched through the last thread of restraint I'd been holding onto. I leaned into her, one hand sliding to her waist, the other curving along her jaw. She didn't pull back. Her hands came up to my chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt, and when I kissed her, she kissed me back with a kind of certainty that made the rest of the world fall away.
This wasn't like the kiss we'd shared earlier… careful, restrained, both of us testing the water. This was deeper. Hungrier. Her mouth opened under mine, and I groaned low in my throat, pulling her closer until there was no space left between us.
The soft sound she made when my hand slid to the small of her back nearly undid me.
I'd spent years telling myself I was good at keeping my distance. At staying controlled. At not letting anyone get close enough to crack the walls I'd built. But sitting at Claire's kitchen table with her pressed against me, her hands sliding up to my shoulders, I realized I didn't want distance anymore.
I wanted her.
The kiss deepened, and I lost track of everything but the way her body fit against mine. She was soft where I was hard, warm where I was rough. My hands slid down to her hips, gripping tight enough to leave fingerprints through the fabric of her dress. She made a sound against my mouth, something between a gasp and a demand, and that was all the permission I needed.
I got up, lifted her onto the kitchen table and stepped between her thighs. The wood groaned under her weight, but I didn’t care. My mouth trailed down her neck, my teeth grazing the pulse point just below her ear. She arched into me and dug her nails into my shoulders.
“Torin—”
“Say it again.”
Her breath hitched. “What?”
“My name. Say it just like that.”
She didn’t hesitate. “Torin.”
Fuck. The way she said it—low, rough, like she was already half-undone—sent a jolt straight to my cock. I kissed her harder, my hands sliding up her ribs, my thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts. She was warm and solid beneath my palms, and I wanted more. Needed more.
I pulled back just enough to meet her gaze. She searched my face like she was looking for hesitation. She wasn’t going to find it.
Her lips were swollen, her brown eyes dark with need. “Let’s go upstairs.”
