Page 20 of Trying Not to Need You

“Dinner,” I repeat, like I’m testing the word. He asked me to dinner.

“Dinner,” he confirms, his tone filled with what I can only describe as hope.

I can do this. I can agree to dinner. Not just to put some space between us now, but also, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to hear this story of his. “No promises,” I warn.

“Wouldn’t ask for them.”

“No expectations.”

“None,” he agrees. “Well, except your agreement that I get to be the first one who gets a shot at stealing this,” he says, lifting one arm from the stall door and placing it over my chest again. The move has his body completely aligned with mine, my back to his front, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t melt into his touch. My heart stutters. This is the last thing I need—a fling with Macklin—but this man, damn if he’s not tempting.

“Okay,” I hear myself say. “Dinner.” The words are past my lips before I can stop them.

“Yeah?” he asks, his warm breath coasting over my cheek. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“No, I’ll meet you.”

“My place, then. Seven.”

“I’m not so sure your place is the best plan.”

“No funny business. I respect your need for time. But it’s private, and I think we need that for my story.”

“Okay. I’ll be there at seven.”

“You know where I live?” he asks. His other hand drops from the stall door, and he grips my hip.

“Magnolia Ridge is a small town.”

“You’ve been gone a long damn time, Baylor.”

“I know where you live, cowboy,” I tease, trying to break the tension that’s threatening to set the stables on fire.

“Okay.” He chuckles.

And just like that, something shifts. It’s small, almost imperceptible, but enough that I feel it settle under my skin. No matter how hard I try, my lips betray me with the faintest hint of a smile, and I’m grateful my back is still toward him.

I wait for regret to come, but all I feel is… curiosity, and excitement. It’s likely because it’s been too long since a man has wanted time with me. I’m deprived. That’s all this is. I’ll have dinner with him, hear his story, and then this weird conversation will be put behind us.

That’s what I tell myself, but this moment already feels as if we’re barreling toward something I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop, or if I even want to.

Six

Macklin

I press the piece of tape to the top of the sign, then step back, admiring my work. I smile at what I’ve written with a Sharpie on the piece of paper I grabbed out of the printer on my desk. If your name is Baylor, come on in. Everyone else, get lost. I’m making dinner for my girl. Satisfied that the sign won’t blow off the front door, I head back into the house and get started on dinner.

I’m making her favorite, and I don’t want to screw it up, hence the reason for the note on the door. I don’t want to walk away to let her in and burn dinner. That’s not how I want this night to go. Honestly, I don’t have any real expectations outside of telling her my truth and letting her know I’m here. I don’t mind waiting—hell, it’s been this long—but I do need her to understand that I’m not holding back.

I respect the wait, but I won’t make it easy on her. I’m bringing every ounce of swoon, charm, whatever the hell you want to call it. I don’t know if it will get me the girl, but in the end, no matter the outcome, I’ll know I gave it my all.

Grabbing my phone, I pair it with the Bluetooth speaker on the counter and get to work. I’m making fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, and corn. And for dessert, I have everything we need for ice cream sundaes, something else I know that she loves.

I get lost in my task, singing and dancing to each new song that plays. I enjoy cooking. On the circuit, I ate out far too much, so any chance for a home-cooked meal, I’m all over it. Even better when I’m cooking for more than just me. Besides, I’ve made this meal several times. It also happens to be one of my favorites. Not the healthiest, but it’s damn good. My girl has excellent taste.

I’m pulling the chicken out of the skillet when I look up to see Baylor standing in the kitchen watching me. Her cheeks are rosy. I’m not sure if it’s from the cold winter air or the fact that she’s here, standing in my kitchen. She’s in a light blue sweater that makes her eyes sparkle, a pair of black leggings that cling to her curves, and blue socks that match her sweater, all of which pull me in. She looks casual and relaxed, standing here in my kitchen as if she belongs here, and in my eyes, she does. This is where she was meant to be.

With me.