Page 16 of Wicked Cowboy
“She’s perfect for you and you know it,” he says, sliding off the bench.
The crowd thins. The pumpkins burn low. I find Frankie at the fence line where we stood earlier, looking out at the field like she’s memorizing it.
“Hey,” I say.
She turns, smile soft and tired and real. “Hey.”
“Thanks for helping tonight,” I add, awkward and honest.
She shivers slightly, and this time I do what I didn’t let myself do earlier. I shrug out of my jacket and set it over her shoulders.
She sinks into it, eyes on mine. “Dangerous move, Carson. I might keep this.”
“Wouldn’t blame you, it’s a warm jacket.”
“It is warm, but it’s something else,” she says, voice low.
“What?” I ask, moving closer to her.
“You,” she answers as she wraps her arms around my neck.
I pull her closer by her hips, lower my head, and kiss her lips the way I’ve been wanting to all night. She whimpers and kisses me back. The best end to the night I could ever imagine. Having her in my arms is everything.
Chapter seven
Frankie
The house is too quiet after last night’s noise—the music, the laughter, the glow of the children’s faces. Through the window, mist threads low across the pasture, softening the fences we mended yesterday until they look like lines drawn in fog. The porch rail still wears a paper bat or two, limp from dew. A jack-o’-lantern on the step has slumped into a lopsided grin, as if even the pumpkins partied too hard at the Harvest Haunt.
My hair still smells faintly like bonfire smoke. My lips remember the weight of Rhett’s against mine.
Don’t be dramatic, I tell myself, tugging on jeans and another flannel that was left on my bed. It was a kiss, one kissed under the afterglow of a perfect night, sure, but a kiss isn’t a promise.
Downstairs, the kitchen clock ticks in a lazy rhythm. Martha’s humming something sweet at the stove when I step in. The air is warm with cinnamon and oats. Coffee sits in a carafe on the table like a gift.
“Morning, sweetheart.” She pours before I ask, slides a mug into my hands, the exact second my fingers start to ache for it. “How are things between you and my grandson after last night?”
I huff a laugh. “We’re starting there?”
“We’re women.” Her smile crooks. “We don’t waste time.”
I blow across the coffee, watching steam ribbon toward the ceiling. “I’m confused, thanks for asking. I’m supposed to be at my retreat, but I don’t want to leave here.”
“Good,” she says. “Confused means there’s something worth paying attention to.”
I ease onto a stool. “Was it that obvious? Last night?”
“Only to anyone with eyes.” Her spoon swirls lazy circles in the oatmeal pot. “You were bright, child. That boy hasn’t lit up during the Haunt in years.”
My chest does something tender and unhelpful. “He is kind, and steady, and when he looks at me, I feel it everywhere.”
Martha’s brows lift, pleased and unsurprised. “Rhett takes care of what matters. Land, family. The list’s short, but important.” She lowers her voice, gentler. “Lost his parents too young. Lost a love he thought would last forever. Sometimes the ranch isn’t what drove folks off, but it’s what he thinks will drive ’em off the next time.”
I swallow around a knot. “And you still want to toss me at him like confetti?”
“I’m not tossing anyone.” She tastes the spoonful, nods. “I’m noticing a thing growing where it’s wanted.” A beat. “And I’mtelling you what you already know. The spark is there, it’s just what you want to do about it that isn’t for sure.”
I trace the rim of my mug. “What if it sparks the wrong fire?”