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“Me too.”
“Really?” I bit down hard on my lip.
“Of course, why?” He looked puzzled.
“Because we’re technically still broken up, aren’t we? Friends, or I don’t know what.”
Wyatt sighed and dragged his fingers through his hair, his expression conflicted. He was quiet for a long moment, the only sounds the hum of the engine and the faint music playing in the background.
Finally, he spoke. “I don’t know what we’re doing, Kins.” He paused, swallowing hard before continuing. “I don’t know how to not love you, to not be in love with you.”
The words hung in the air between us, heavy with meaning. Time seemed to slow as I processed what he’d said, my heart pounding in my chest. I studied his profile intently: the firm line of his jaw, the furrow in his brow, and the way his fingers tightened on the steering wheel. His confession had stripped away his usual guard, leaving him raw and vulnerable. I could see the struggle playing out on his face, the desire to protect himself warring with the depth of his feelings for me.
I held my breath, afraid to shatter this fragile moment. My mind raced, replaying his words over and over. The intensity of his admission made my skin tingle, hope blooming in my chest.
Slowly, I exhaled, gathering my courage. “Wyatt,” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the rumble of the road beneath us.
He glanced at me briefly, his eyes dark with longing and uncertainty, before returning his gaze to the road. The air between us crackled.
I wished desperately that I could close the physical distance between us. My fingers twitched with the urge to reach out and touch him, to trace the familiar lines of his face and reassure us both that this was real. I wished the console between us would vanish so I could slide closer to him. Stupid fancy truck.
“We should have taken your truck,” I mumbled.
A low chuckle rumbled from Wyatt’s chest, surprising me. “Why?”
“Because it’s much more conducive to snuggling.”
He looked over at me, amused. He reached his hand over the console and rested it on my thigh, his thumb rubbing over the denim of my jeans.
As we pulled into the ranch’s long driveway, Wyatt’s entire demeanour shifted. An unease settled over him as he took in the endless fields, the mountains in the distance, and our family home, which was a large, rustic, lodge-style house. There were a couple of barns—one for the horses and a calving barn—a machine shop for the tractors, a bunkhouse for staff, a hay shed, and a little further down the road, my grandparents’ old house, which had been empty since they passed.
As soon as we stopped the truck, my parents came out of the house to greet us. I hugged them both.
“Wyatt, we’re so glad to see you again.” Mom pulled him in for a warm hug too.
“You too. Thanks for inviting me.”
“You’re welcome anytime,” Mom replied. She’d always had a soft spot for him. She was the nurturing type and seemed to sense he needed nurturing. I didn’t think she was wrong, even though he resisted it.
“Mr. Jackson.” Wyatt walked over to my dad and held out his hand. “Thanks for letting me bring my horse for a while.” I had filled Dad in on the situation with Drifter over the phone before we came. “I’ll pay for his upkeep, of course—”
“The horse is more than welcome to stay, but I don’t need your money.” Wyatt opened his mouth to speak, but Dad held up a hand to stop him. “What I do need is help driving the herd to another pasture. And some other chores done around here. Can I count on your help?”
“Yes, sir, absolutely.”
“Great. You two get settled in the house, and then we’ll have some lunch.”
“I have your room made up with fresh linens, Kinsley,” Mom said.
“Okay, thanks, Mom!”
We unloaded the horses from the trailer and put them into stalls in the barn to settle in and have a drink. After grabbing our bags from the truck, I eagerly dragged Wyatt into the house, navigating through the familiar hallways and up the stairs until we reached the sanctuary of my bedroom.
My bedroom was decorated in country chic style, with a soothing palette of blues and whites. The walls were adorned with framed photographs of my horses while a vintage-inspired quilt covered the plush, oversized bed. A weathered wooden dresser and nightstand completed the rustic yet elegant look.
As we stepped inside, a sudden realisation hit me, and I turned to him, a hint of uncertainty in my voice. “Did you want your own room?” My eyes searched his. “My mom kind of assumed—”
His response was immediate and unwavering. “No, I don’t.”
