“I’m trying really hard not to, and I don’t want to complicate things for you. I know you’re only here for six months, and we’re almost halfway through that. I know you have a decision to make in October, and I don’t want to make this decision harder. But, well, it’s getting harder for me to pretend that I don’t—” He stops and shakes his head. “I’m not good at this talking about feelings thing.”
“Try,” I say softly, squeezing his hand.
He looks at me fully, and in the dim light spilling over The Rusty Spur’s windows, I can see a conflict in his expression.
“I like you, Eleanor, more than I should. More than is smart, considering you’re probably leaving soon. And I’m trying to be okay with that, with just enjoying whatever time we have, but tonight I’m watching you laugh and let go and just be yourself.” He swallows. “It’s getting really hard to keep my distance.”
My heart is pounding so hard I’m sure he can hear it. And I’m sure I should probably make an appointment for an EKG.
“What if I don’t want you to keep your distance?”
He looks me in the eye.
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Don’t I? Wyatt, I haven’t decided anything about this place, but I know that right now, right here with you, I’m happier than I’ve been in years, maybe ever. And I’m tired of overthinking everything. I’m tired of being careful and controlled and afraid of feeling too much.”
“Eleanor—”
“I’m not asking for promises. I’m not asking you to plan a future with me. I’m just asking you to stop pulling away every single time we get close.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me with those eyes, those big blue eyes, like he’s trying to read some answer on my face.
Then slowly, he reaches up and cups my cheek, his thumb brushing across my bottom lip.
“And you’re sure?” he asks.
“I’m sure.”
He leans in, and my eyes start to close. This is it. It’s finally happening.
His phone erupts in his pocket, a sound impossibly loud in the quiet night.
We both freeze.
He closes his eyes, clearly debating whether he should answer it.
“You should get that,” I say, even though every part of me is screaming at him not to.
He reluctantly pulls back and takes his phone out of his pocket, looking at the screen. “It’s a text from my grandmother,” he sighs. “Her toilet’s leaking again. She’s got water all over the bathroom floor.”
“Then you have to go.”
“I really don’t want to.” But he’s already standing. “But yes, I have to go. She’s in her eighties and shouldn’t be trying to fix plumbing at midnight.”
“Of course. Go.”
He pauses at the door and looks back at me. “Eleanor?—”
“Go take care of your grandmother. We’ll finish this conversation later.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
He disappears inside, and a minute later, I hear his truck start up and pull out of the parking lot. I sigh and fall back into my chair, staring up at the stars.
I sit alone on the deck behind The Rusty Spur, my lips still tingling from the kiss we almost shared and my hands still warm where he held them, or maybe still warm from where I held his. What am I doing? I’m falling for him. That’s what I’m doing. Falling hard and fast for a man who lives in a small town and has a plan to stay there, building a life I could never have imagined wanting.
