Page 39 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)
RAIN AND REVELATIONS
~JUNIPER~
M ini dates.
The phrase keeps bouncing around in my head as I watch Callum through the kitchen window, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he works on something mechanical in what used to be Aunt Lil's outdoor garage.
Wes had mentioned exploring each other's hobbies, getting to know the people we've become instead of clinging to memories of who we used to be.
It actually sounds like a good idea.
Terrifying, but good.
I'm still sticky from syrup and satisfaction, wearing nothing but one of Wes's oversized t-shirts and a pair of clean underwear.
My hair is damp from the quickest shower in history, and I can still taste maple sweetness on my lips.
The memory of what happened in this very kitchen makes my cheeks warm and my thighs clench.
Focus, Juniper.
There will be plenty of time to spiral into sexual chaos later.
Right now, Callum is elbow-deep in some kind of engine, and I'm curious enough about what he's discovered to venture outside. The man has always been magic with anything mechanical— cars, trucks, farm equipment, that ancient tractor that Aunt Lil swore was older than dirt but somehow still ran.
I slip on a pair of flip-flops and head out to the garage, which is really more of a three-sided shed with a corrugated metal roof that's seen better decades. The space is cluttered with the kind of accumulated detritus that speaks to years of "I might need this someday" thinking.
Aunt Lil was apparently a bit of a hoarder.
The more we discover, the more obvious it becomes.
There are boxes stacked to the ceiling, covered in dust and held together with hope and duct tape.
Old farm tools hang from every available surface, some of them so rusted I can't even identify their original purpose.
And in the back corner, partially hidden under a collection of tarps and what appears to be an entire dismantled chicken coop, Callum has unearthed something interesting.
"Is that a moped?" I ask, stepping into the relative shade of the garage.
He looks up from where he's bent over the small engine, hair falling across his forehead in a way that makes me want to brush it back. There's a streak of grease across his cheek and oil under his fingernails, and somehow he makes mechanical work look like art.
"1970s Vespa," he says with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts. "Your aunt had good taste. This thing is practically a classic."
I remember that moped.
Aunt Lil used to ride it to town when I was little, her hair flowing behind her like she was starring in some European film.
I always thought it was the most glamorous thing in the world.
"I haven't seen that thing in years," I say, moving closer to get a better look. "I didn't even know she still had it."
"It was buried under about fifty years worth of stuff," Callum explains, gesturing vaguely at the chaos surrounding us. "Found it this morning when I was looking for tools to fix your truck. The engine's in better shape than I expected."
Of course he's been working on my truck too.
Because that's what Callum does—he fixes things.
Always has.
I watch as he adjusts something with a wrench, his movements precise and confident. There's something hypnotic about watching him work, the way his hands move with such certainty, the quiet intensity of his focus.
"How long have you been out here?" I ask.
"Since about six," he says without looking up. "Couldn't sleep."
Six in the morning.
Which means he's been working for hours while I was unconscious in my perfect new nest.
The guilt hits immediately, followed by something that might be gratitude.
"You didn't have to?—"
"I wanted to," he interrupts, finally looking up to meet my eyes. "Besides, it's therapeutic. Working with my hands, fixing things that are broken. Reminds me that not everything is permanently fucked."
There's weight in those words.
Layers of meaning that go far beyond moped engines and truck repairs.
"Is it going to run?" I ask, deflecting from the emotional minefield we're both dancing around.
His lips curve into something that might be a smile.
"Only one way to find out."
He makes a few more adjustments, then walks over to what I assume is a gas can. The garage smells like motor oil and old leather, with an undertone of something floral that probably comes from the wild honeysuckle growing up the sides of the building.
It's not an unpleasant combination.
Actually, it's kind of perfect—mechanical competence mixed with natural beauty.
Kind of like Callum himself.
He primes the engine with practiced movements, then grabs the kickstart. The first attempt produces nothing but a wheeze. The second gets a reluctant cough. On the third try, the engine catches with a satisfying purr.
"Holy shit," I breathe, clapping my hands together. "You actually got it running."
"Told you," he says, but there's genuine pride in his voice. "Your aunt took good care of it. Just needed some attention."
Like a lot of things around here.
The moped idles smoothly, the sound somehow both powerful and delicate. Callum adjusts the throttle, listening to the engine with the kind of concentration most people reserve for symphonies.
"Want to take it for a ride?" he asks, cutting the engine and looking at me with something that might be hope.
A ride.
Just the two of us, on a machine that represents freedom and adventure and all the things I used to dream about when I was young and stupid enough to believe the world was full of possibilities.
"I don't have a helmet," I say, though it's a weak protest and we both know it.
"Neither do I," he says with a shrug. "We'll go slow. Stay on the back roads."
He's asking for a mini date.
This is exactly what Wes was talking about—exploring each other's interests, finding new ways to connect.
And honestly, the idea of being pressed against Callum's back while we cruise through the countryside sounds like the best kind of therapy.
"Okay," I say, before I can talk myself out of it. "But if we crash and die, I'm haunting you for eternity."
His laugh is rich and warm, the kind of sound that makes my chest tight with things I'm not ready to name.
"Deal."
Twenty minutes later, we're cruising down a back road that winds through farmland and forest, the late afternoon sun casting everything in golden light. I'm pressed against Callum's back, arms wrapped around his waist, the vibration of the engine thrumming through my body in the most pleasant way.
This is perfect.
This is exactly what I didn't know I needed.
The countryside around Saddlebrush Ridge is gorgeous in a way that makes you understand why people never leave. Rolling hills covered in wildflowers, old farmhouses that look like they've been here since the beginning of time, horses grazing in pastures that stretch to the horizon.
I'd forgotten how beautiful it is out here.
How peaceful.
How much like home it feels when you're not running from it.
Callum takes a curve with practiced ease, leaning just enough to make my stomach flip with excitement. I can smell his scent even over the wind and exhaust— pine and smoke and something fundamentally him that makes me want to bury my face in his neck and never let go.
Which is exactly the kind of thinking that got me into trouble this morning.
Focus on the ride, Juniper.
Focus on the moment.
Focus on anything except how good it feels to be this close to him.
We've been riding for maybe an hour when the engine starts to sputter. Callum pulls over to the side of the road, a frown creasing his forehead as he kills the engine and climbs off.
"What's wrong?" I ask, though I can already see him checking various components with the focused intensity of a diagnostician.
"Fuel line, I think," he says, poking at something near the carburetor. "Probably just needs a quick adjustment."
Of course.
Because nothing good can last without some kind of mechanical intervention.
I'm about to make a joke about Murphy's Law when I feel the first raindrop hit my nose. Then another. Then a whole scattered handful that makes me look up at the sky with growing alarm.
The clouds have rolled in while we weren't paying attention.
Thick, dark, pregnant with the kind of rain that means business.
"Callum," I say, pointing upward.
He follows my gaze just in time for the sky to open up and dump what feels like an entire lake on our heads.
Because of course it does.
Because the universe has a sense of humor.
The rain is immediate and thorough, soaking through my thin t-shirt in seconds and turning Callum's hair into dark, wet spikes. We both start laughing at the same time— the kind of helpless, ridiculous laughter that comes from being completely at the mercy of circumstances beyond your control.
"Well," he says, wiping water from his eyes, "this is a minor setback."
"Minor?" I shriek, though I'm still laughing. "We're about to drown standing up!"
But somehow, I don't care.
The rain is warm and clean, washing away the dust and heat of the day.
And there's something magical about being caught in a downpour with someone who makes you feel alive.
Callum abandons his mechanical troubleshooting and stands up, arms spread wide to embrace the chaos. Water runs down his face and drips from his chin, and he looks like some kind of rain god— wild and beautiful and completely unconcerned with anything as mundane as staying dry.
"Come on," he shouts over the sound of rain hitting pavement. "When's the last time you danced in the rain?"
Never.
Because I'm a practical person who believes in umbrellas and weather forecasts and not getting pneumonia for the sake of romantic gestures.
But looking at him now, soaked and grinning and holding out his hand like he's offering me the world?
Practicality can go fuck itself.