Page 5 of Oops, I Fell For The Ranch Hand Next Door

“Flash flood warning just came through. Bluebonnet’s in the low section—it’s going to take water.”

Jessie blinks. “Bluebonnet?”

“Your cabin,” Sloane says. “We’ll need to move you for tonight. Eli, your place is on high ground—”

“She can take my spare room.” The words are out before I’ve thought them through, but once they’re spoken, I don’t want to take them back. Jessie in my cabin. Jessie in my space. The idea sits in my chest with the weight of inevitability.

Jessie’s eyes snap to mine. “I can sleep in the lodge. I don’t need—”

“The lodge is booked,” Sloane cuts in smoothly. It’s not, but I’m not about to argue. “Eli’s place is the best option. I’ll grab your bag from Bluebonnet before the water rises.”

“I can get it.” I’m already standing.

“No.” Sloane waves me off. “You get her settled. I’ll bring the bag to your cabin in twenty minutes.”

The rain starts before we make it off the porch.

It comes down in sheets, the kind of Texas storm that turns the world into water and noise. I grab Jessie’s wrist and pull her close, shielding her body with mine as we run across the yard toward my cabin. She’s short against me, the top of her head barely reaching my shoulder. The rain soaks through our clothes in seconds. Her ribs rise and fall rapidly beneath my arm. When lightning cracks overhead, she flinches into my side.

My cabin sits at the edge of the property, backed by cedar trees and elevated enough that flooding’s never been a concern. I get the door open and pull her inside, into warmth and dryness and the cedar-smoke smell that’s seeped into the walls over four years.

She stands dripping on my floor, shivering, her clothes plastered to her body. The wet fabric clings to breasts fuller than her shirt was made for, nipples peaked against thin cotton. The yoga pants mold to hips and thighs that make my hands ache to grip and hold. My teeth clench hard enough that a muscle jumps in my temple. The sight of her stirs my cock behind my zipper. I pull myself away and grab two towels from the bathroom.

“Here.” I press one into her hands. “Bathroom’s through there. There’s a dry shirt on the back of the door.”

She nods, teeth chattering, and disappears into the bathroom. The door clicks shut behind her. I strip off my soaked Henley, drying myself with the second towel before starting a fire in the stone fireplace. The kindling catches quickly, flames licking up around the logs, and I feed it until the fire’s roaring. The cabin warms. Rain pounds the metal roof in a steady percussion that drowns out everything except the crackle of burning wood.

I’m crouched by the fireplace when the bathroom door opens.

She emerges wearing my sleep shirt, an old gray cotton Henley that hits her mid-thigh, and nothing else. Her legs are bare. The shirt pulls across her chest in a way that makes my blood run hot. She’s toweled her hair, but it’s still damp, curling at the ends. When she steps into the firelight, I can see straight through the thin fabric to the shadow of her body beneath. Soft belly. Full hips. The dark triangle between her thighs.

I stand slowly, fingers itching to reach for her.

She stops in the narrow hallway between the bathroom and the main room. Three feet separate us, close enough to see the water droplets still clinging to her collarbone, the way her nipples have peaked beneath the shirt, the pulse hammering in her throat. Close enough to smell rain and soap and her skin underneath.

“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For this. For earlier. For—”

“Stop thanking me.”

Her lips part. “I don’t know what else to do.”

“You could just exist here. Take up space. Let yourself be taken care of for one night without turning it into a debt you owe.” The words are rougher than I mean them to be, but I’m tired of her apologizing for taking up air.

She stares at me. Her pupils dilate. Her lips part on an inhale that stutters halfway through. I see the moment the words land in her body, the way her shoulders drop fractionally, the way her hands unclench at her sides, the way her whole frame softens as though I’ve given her permission for the first time in years.

The air between us changes.

Her gaze drops to my bare chest and tracks the scar curving around my ribs, the muscle that comes from years of ranch work. Her lips stay parted. When her eyes come back to mine, they’re darker, hunger mixing with uncertainty.

My hands are fists. I want to touch her. Want to close the distance and taste the rain still clinging to her skin. Want to back her against the wall and show her exactly how much space I think she should take up. But she’s exhausted and vulnerable and standing in my cabin wearing my shirt because a storm forced her here.

“You should sleep,” I manage.

“Where?”

“Spare bedroom’s through there.” I nod toward the door behind her.

She turns to look at the bedroom doorway, and the movement makes the shirt ride up. I catch a glimpse of the curve of her ass, the back of her thighs, before I force myself to look at the fire instead.