“That leaves us,” he says, “with the best thing that's happened to me in years. And I'd like to keep it for as long as I can. If you'll let me.”
I lean my cheek into his touch, feeling the warmth of his palm against my face.
“This is the best thing that's happened to me in years too,” I tell him. Possibly ever. I give him a shaky smile. “So let's not waste a single day of it.”
A half-smile in return, warm and a little sad. “That means it’s my job to give you a summer worth missing. And when you’re in New York, and the dazzle of the city lights ever feels a little too bright, you can close your eyes and come back here. To the mountains. The big sky. To the cowboy who loved every minute of being your first.”
My throat tightens.
“Deal?” he says.
I look at him for a long moment.
“Deal,” I say.
A flash of melancholy across his expression, and then infinitetenderness.
“All right then,” he says. “Let's do it. Watch every sunset from this porch and every sunrise from my bed.”
I feel the corners of my mouth pull up. “Drive on dirt roads with the windows down and music playing loud.”
“More midnight swims.”
“Take Jonah to the farmer's market. Let him pick anything he wants.”
His eyes soften even further at his son’s name, like always. “Then he and I will show you all our favorite trail rides. And I'll ask you to dance with me in the kitchen after he goes to bed.”
“Let’s sleep under the stars, at least once.”
“At least once. But I can’t guarantee how much actual sleeping will be going on when I’ve got you in my arms,” he adds, teasing.
I laugh, but it fades as he just looks at me, eyes gone warm and dark.
He kisses me again, deep and impassioned. His fingers curl against the back of my neck, pulling me in until there's nothing between us.
When we come back for breath, I look at this man I’m falling for. Who picked up his guitar this morning for the first time in two years because I teased him. Who burned the pancakes he was making for me because he was too caught up kissing me against the kitchen counter. Who is standing on his back porch on this little piece of paradise telling me he wants to hold my hand in public and wants me to chase my dreams at the expense of his own happiness.
“There's one more thing I want from you before the summer ends,” I say.
“Name it and it's yours,” he says instantly. “Shower you in diamonds? Done. New car? Let’s get it right now. I’ve been dying to buy you a new one anyway.”
“No, you crazy cowboy,” I laugh. “I don’t want diamonds and fancy cars.”
“What do you want, baby? I just wanna give you the world.”
“I don’t want the world. I just want you.”
Once more, I can tell I’ve taken him off-guard.
“Not too many people wanting ‘just me’ for a long time now,” he says. “Maybe ever.”
He says it simply, without any self-pity, and my chest tightens.
Fifteen years of being one of the most recognized faces in country music. Wanted by everyone, known by no one.
Everyone loving Walker Rhodes, the star. But no one loving the man who comes home weary after a long day on the ranch and fusses over his kid's sunscreen and swims laps alone beneath the moonlight.
He came back here because it was the only place where he was just a man and a father. The owner of a guitar he couldn't bring himself to play.
