Page 13 of Oops, I Fell For The Ranch Hand Next Door

I lower my hand, turn away, and start walking back toward my cabin with my shoulders tight and my ribs aching with the effort of not closing the distance.

“Eli?”

Her voice stops me. I turn.

She’s standing in the doorway, backlit by lamplight, wearing that blue flannel and yoga pants that cling to curves I want to map with my hands and my mouth. Her hair is down, falling in waves around her face, and she’s holding the piece of oak I’d given her this morning.

“I saw you from the window,” she says. “Were you going to knock?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You needed space. And I’m trying to give you what you need instead of what I want.”

She steps onto the porch and closes the distance between us until she’s standing close enough that I can see the pulse hammering in her throat, the way her pupils have dilated in the dim light. “What if what I need and what you want are the same thing?”

My hands curl. Every instinct I have is screaming to reach for her, to pull her close and kiss her until neither of us can think. But I need to hear her say it. Need to know she’s choosing this instead of just accepting what I’m offering.

“What do you need, Jessie?”

She lifts the piece of oak and shows me the progress she’s made, the rough shape emerging from the wood, still unfinished but recognizable now. A bird. Wings spread. Learning to fly.

“I need to stop running,” she says. “I need to figure out my identity when I’m not reacting to emergencies or being heroic. I need—” Her voice cracks. “I need to know that if I stay, it’s because you want me here. Not because you’re trying to save me.”

I close the distance and cup her face in my hands, thumbs tracing the arch of her cheekbones. The bones are delicate under my palms, her skin soft and warm, and I can feel the flutter of her pulse beneath my fingertips. “I want you here. You make me remember what it feels like to show up for someone and have it matter.”

Her eyes go bright. A tear spills over, tracking down her cheek, and I catch it with my thumb.

“Stay,” I say. “Not because you owe me. Stay because this is where you want to be.”

She rises onto her toes and presses her forehead to mine. Her exhale ghosts across my lips. The scent of her, her soap and skin and the faint sweetness of Louanne’s honey biscuits makes my hands tighten on her face. “I’m scared,” she whispers.

“I know.”

“What if I can’t be what you need?”

“You already are.” I tilt her face up, holding her gaze. My thumbs stroke along her face in slow sweeps, learning the architecture of her beauty. “You’re exactly what I need. Just as you are.”

The light catches the highlights in her hair. For three seconds, we stand there on her porch, foreheads pressed together, her hands coming up to rest on my wrists. Her fingers are small and cool against my skin, and her pulse races beneath them where they overlap mine.

She leans in, stopping with her lips an inch from mine. Her breath comes faster now, shallow and uneven, and I can see the battle going on inside her head: want versus fear, staying versus running. “I’m not ready for everything. Not yet. But I’m not running.”

“Okay.” I brush my thumb across her lower lip, barely a touch, tracing the soft fullness there. Her mouth parts on a gasp, and her eyes flutter half-closed. The pulse in her throat kicks into overdrive. I want to press my mouth there, want to taste the frantic rhythm beneath her skin, want to press her against the cabin wall and let her feel exactly how much I need her to stay.

But she’s not ready. I’ll wait as long as it takes.

“We’ll go at your speed,” I manage. My voice comes out gravel-edged with restraint. “No pressure. No expectations. Just this. Whatever this becomes.”

“This,” she repeats. Testing the word. Her hands slide from my wrists to my forearms, fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt. “I think I can do this.”

I step back before I do anything stupid. The loss of contact makes my hands ache, but I force them to release her face. I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, fingers grazing her cheekbone. Her eyes flutter closed at the contact. Her lips stay parted, and the restraint required to walk away feels like physical pain.

“Get some sleep,” I manage. “I’ll see you at dawn.”

“With coffee?”

“With coffee.”