Page 21 of Wicked Cowboy

“I was wrong this morning,” I say, carefully. “About thinking distance was kinder.”

She holds very still. Doesn’t rescue me. Doesn’t push. Just waits.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I add, honestly, because lying has gotten me here and nowhere else. “But I—”

“Hey!” Luke yells from the yard. “Grandma’s cat-coyote is a masterpiece all lit up!”

Frankie laughs, bright and easy, and the moment breaks before it can make me say something I can’t take back.

We carry the pumpkins down and set them along the rail. The wind shifts colder, the candle flames stutter and then steady. The porch becomes a soft avenue of light. It feels like an altar. It feels like a start.

Grandma returns with a plate covered by a towel. “Biscuits,” she says, triumphant. “Eat while they’re hot.”

She passes one to Frankie, who tears it open and hisses when the steam burns her fingers. Without thinking, I take half, blowon it, and hand it back. Our fingers touch, and the spark I feel is electric.

“Thanks,” she says, softly.

“Yeah,” I say.

We eat and watch the candles burn low. Luke tells another story that has no ending because he likes the sound of his own voice. Grandma nods off in her chair and denies it when she wakes.

After a while, Frankie stands and gathers plates. “I’ll help clean.”

“You’re a guest,” I say.

“And I can help.”

We move around each other in the kitchen like we’ve done it a million times before. When the last dish is in the rack and the counters are wiped, she turns in the doorway and meets my eyes.

“Goodnight, Rhett.”

“’Night, Frankie.”

She goes upstairs. I stand in the dark a minute longer, listening to her steps, then to the quiet that follows, then to my own heartbeat arguing with old rules.

I make a decision and head up the stairs. I stand in front of Frankie’s door and battle with myself.

My knuckles hover, then tap gently against the guest room door. It’s late, the house is quiet, the only sound the faint creak of old wood settling and a distant owl outside.

The door opens slowly.

Frankie stands in the glow of the bedside lamp, wrapped in one of my flannels over her tank top and sleep shorts. Her hair’s loose, and her eyes search mine like she’s already guessed why I’m here.

She doesn’t say anything.

She just steps aside and lets me in.

The room smells like her. I close the door behind me and turn to find her watching me, lips parted, heartbeat visible in her throat.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I say, although the truth is I didn’t even try.

She nods. “Me either.”

I take a step toward her. “Frankie…”

She closes the distance. “You don’t have to say it.”

“I want to.”