Page 36 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy (Wild Hearts Ranch #1)

I kick the door shut behind us, and only then does she squirm gently. “You can put me down now,” she mumbles, clearly flustered.

I do, slowly and carefully, trying not to think about the softness of her against me. But it’s already burned into my skin. The feel of her breasts pressed close. The way her breath caught when I lifted her. The quiet tremor I wasn’t supposed to notice.

She flicks on the hall light, brushing back her hair, and starts toward the living room. I follow, more out of instinct than invitation. It’s been months since I’ve set foot inside the guesthouse. Since it was just a quiet shell for temporary stays.

But now?

Now it looks like someone lives here.

Her boots are kicked under the side table, jacket tossed over a chair.

A mug with the words “I Do What I Want” sits beside an open book, bookmark wedged in at an angle.

The barn cats trail her like ducklings, meowing their complaints.

She hums under her breath—off-key, relaxed. Like this place belongs to her now.

And hell, maybe it does.

I pause as I pass the library nook, something drawing my eye.

She’d just stepped in to grab something, but it’s what she’s built in there that stops me cold.

The hanging chair is nestled in the corner, but it’s not empty.

Blankets piled high, pillows arranged with care, a perfect dip in the center like a hollowed-out nest. Two side tables dragged close, one with water bottles and tissues, the other with snacks and books stacked high.

A battery-powered lantern glows a soft amber in the corner, casting everything in a warm, golden hush.

Textbook nesting.

She turns and catches me looking. “What?” she asks, feigning casualness. “It’s just cozy.”

I cock a brow. “It’s a nest.”

Her blush is immediate. “It’s not. I just like being comfortable. And the cats like the blankets.”

“Mm-hmm.” I lean against the doorway, trying not to grin. “They teach you to lie that badly in the city?”

She huffs, marching over to retrieve her laptop. “Do you want a drink, or are you just here to judge my interior decorating? I’ve got water, juice, maybe coffee. ”

I don’t answer. I’m still staring at the space she’s carved out, instinctively or not. My chest tightens.

Her heat is coming. Probably sooner than she realizes. And that knowledge settles like a hot brand in my gut.

Because it won’t be me she turns to when it happens.

“I’m serious,” I say finally. “You’re nesting, Sophia.”

“I’m not,” she insists again, but softer this time. Less sure. She marches into the living room, fluffy cats on her heels.

I push away from the doorway, shaking my head, joining the trail. “You don’t have to pretend. I get it.”

She flops down onto a couch, and something flickers in her expression. She watches me for a moment, then sets her laptop down and leans on the edge of the couch’s arm, bare feet tucked under her, hair falling loose over one shoulder.

No words exchanged.

That damn nest flashes in my mind. A cozy, perfect mess of comfort and instinct. No matter how many times she denies it, the truth is right there in front of me. Her body knows what’s coming. She’s preparing.

Not that anything I say will change her mind tonight. She’s stubborn as hell. I admire that about her, just not when it’s working against me.

But it’s not my place, is it?

“You gonna join me?” she asks suddenly, chin tilted with a hint of challenge. “Or are you going to keep lurking in the doorway like some cowboy-shaped shadow?”

A smile pulls at the corner of my mouth, helpless and unwanted. “I should let you rest,” I say, voice lower than it should be. “You’ve had a long night.”

She arches a brow but doesn’t argue.

I take a step back. Then another.

And still, it guts me to leave.

I’m fooling myself, thinking I can keep this distance. Thinking I can watch her build a life here, watch her nest, watch her laugh, watch her turn to someone else when the fire hits, and just smile through it.

But what choice do I have?

She deserves the absolute best. A match who can scent her needs before she speaks them. One who can anchor her in the storm she doesn’t even realize is coming. Not someone who’s already broken. Who won’t ever be able to offer her that bond.

Even if I want to. More than I’ve ever wanted anything.

“Night, Sophia.”

I leave her there on the couch in a tangle of cats, a little uncertain and a little beautiful and absolutely not mine.

And still, I’d fight the world to keep her safe.

As I step off her porch and the door clicks shut behind me, I realize something strange—my hip doesn’t ache.

Not the usual tight pull in my joints, not the dull throb that follows me like a shadow.

It’s just… gone. Like I’m walking on air instead of scar tissue.

I pause at the edge of the path, glancing back toward her window, the soft light glowing inside.

I woke up this morning the same way—no pain, no stiffness.

Just a calmness in my body I hadn’t felt in three years.