Page 49 of Resisting Isaac

Electricity pings between us. “It doesn’t feel brave most days. It feels exhausting. Like I’m constantly climbing uphill and everyone’s waiting to see if I fall.”

His thumb brushes my knuckles. “You won’t.”

The words land somewhere deep. Like I’ve waited a lifetime to hear them.

“I thought you were just a reckless cowboy that night we met,” I say, giving him a soft smile. “But out here, I see that you’re not. You’re a lot more than you let people see, Isaac Logan.”

He smirks. “Don’t go ruining my reputation now.”

“You’re steady. Grounded. You flew me out there like it was second nature. You train horses like you’re speaking their language. You make me nervous.”

He grins. “Because I’m so good looking?”

I roll my eyes. “Because you’re so modest.”

Silence settles again.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“For what?”

“For making me feel like I’m not just pretending.”

He squeezes my hand gently. “You’re not. You’re already the kind of woman little girls look up to. You just don’t see it yet.”

“I should get this mud off me before someone mistakes me for a ranch hand,” I finally say, breaking the quiet.

Isaac smiles, slow and crooked. “You’d look good in chaps. Matter of fact, just chaps and nothing else would be good.”

My brows lift. “That’s wildly inappropriate, cowboy.”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Never said I wouldn’t be wildly inappropriate.”

I laugh despite myself. And God, it feels good. The kind of good that reminds me I’m still young and alive and capable of falling headfirst into something if I’m not careful.

The quiet between us is heavier now. Buzzing with something unsaid. I want to say it. I want to ask what this is—if he feels it like I do, but I chicken out.

He steps closer—just close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him. His green eyes scan mine like he’s memorizing them.

“What would happen if I kissed you right now,” he murmurs.

The world would end. Or our worlds would at least.

My breath hitches. “Isaac…”

Before he can answer—before I can work up the nerve to either lean in or run for my life—we hear the unmistakable sound of Wyatt’s voice come through the walkie on Isaac’s hip.

“Isaac? What the hell is this mustang doing in here?”

Isaac steps back with a frustrated sigh and mutters, “Perfect timing.”

I turn my face to hide my smile. “Saved by the boss.”

“Me or you?” He arches a brow, challenging me to respond but I don’t.

Because the answer is definitely both.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN