Page 102 of Resisting Isaac

“I’ve never let anyone see this part,” she continues. “The one that wants to be able to count on someone else.”

I tip her chin up. “You can want that. You don’t have to give up everything else to have it.”

Her eyes search mine like she’s trying to find the lie.

But there isn’t one.

So, I give her the truth.

“All I want is you. Just as you are. Even if our baby wasn’t part of the picture…I’d still want you.”

She stares at me like she’s solving complex equations in her head. Then her lips part, and she says, “Kiss me sweetly, cowboy.”

So I do.

It’s not desperate. It’s not fast.

It’s slow. Reverent. Like she’s breakable. Like I’m afraid she’ll disappear if I get it wrong.

I’ve never been worried about much of anything or anyone other than this ranch and my family. But now there’s this woman. And this child she’s carrying. And it’s like my world has a new axis to spin on. The last thing I want to do is fuck up and throw it off.

When she moans into my mouth and curls her fingers into my shirt, I know I finally got it right.

We stay on that swing until her tea goes cold, her walls finally fall, and she lets herself curl into me.

When I carry her to my bed and I’m not thinking aboutsex—or at least, not only about sex—I know I’ve got a serious problem.

I’m not falling in love with her.

I’m already there.

When I wakeup the next morning, my bed is empty. It’s the hotel room all over again, except last night we only slept.

Well, we made out like horny teenagers for about an hour, then we slept.

We’ve barely been back enough time for her to get a few hours of sleep before she’s back at work.

A text from Wyatt is how I find out that the production crew decided since Elena was back and feeling better, they were going to start filming early today.

I’m back at work too but I’m not growing a human being inside me. Though Miss Lottie’s barbecue burritos sometimes make it feel like I am.

I spot her from across the barn—arms crossed, chin tipped up like she’s daring someone to challenge her. She’s in full armor: high boots, tight black jeans, some sleeveless top that makes me want to slip my hands beneath it, and that look on her face like she’d claw out the next person’s eyes if they breathe wrong.

She hasn’t eaten. I know it without asking.

She’s stubborn as hell about food, naps, and help in general. A walking contradiction. Pregnant, exhausted, snarky, and trying to pretend she’s made of iron.

I grab snacks out of my saddle bag and move in before I talk myself out of it.

“Elena.”

Her eyes flick toward me, slow and sharp. “What now, Cowboy Ken? Come to tell me I’m dismounting wrong again?”

She’s tired. I can see it in the faint tremble of her fingers and the way she’s blinking too much. Overstimulated. Over it.

Pretending she’s fine.

I hold up a protein bar, a bottle of water, and the most charming expression I’ve got. “You need to sit down, darlin’. Eat. Take five.”