Page 83 of Chasing Home

“Have you always loved horses?”

He extends an arm in front of him, calling me over, and I move without hesitation. His hand cups my waist and spins me so my back is to his chest before he’s wrapping his arm around my front, tucking me against him.

“You’re so curious, Rory,” he hums, running his nose along the shell of my ear. My breathing picks up. “I want to tell you everything. About me, my family, my life on the ranch. My future.”

“I wouldn’t complain about that,” I whisper.

“Ask me something first. Something you should have asked before I tied our horses up.”

My brows knit together as I try to remember what I forgot to ask but come up short. His lips on my ear and cheek and jaw don’t help me concentrate much either, damn him.

His laugh is low in my ear. “Ask me what I wished for when I was a kid, Rory.”

“What did you wish for?”

I can hear the thump of my heart in the night. Or maybe that’s his. Unable to help myself, I turn my head back to look at him. The affection in his eyes shifts the world beneath my feet as he speaks.

“You, Rory. I wished for you.”

28

JOHNNY

I know she heard me because she sways in my grasp, her small fingers burying themselves in my shirt. Her touch is hot, burning through my clothes. My blood rushes too close to the surface, making everything overly sensitive.

I’m one curl of her fingers away from tossing her over my shoulder and locking her inside my house for the next four to six business days. Shit, even that may not be enough time. Four to six months, then.

“How could you wish for someone you had never met?” she asks, sounding so damn dainty.

“I didn’t know I was wishin’ for you. Not yet. I was just a kid who was forced to sit on the ground in front of his sisters’ beds and listen to the fairy tales my moms read them every night. They always got to my books after, but it was hard not to listen to their stories, even if I tried to pretend I wasn’t. The princesses and Prince Charmings and their true loves’ kisses.

“I pictured myself as a prince more often than I did a race car driver or MMA fighter like my friends at school. Of course, I never told them that. They’d have strung me up a flagpole by my underwear if I did. I only told my moms about it. They told me that I could be the prince or the princess or the fucking frog if I wanted to. But I was adamant on which role I wanted, and everyone knew it.”

I bump her nose with mine, desperate to touch her more but not ready to take her mouth just yet. If I do, there will be no more talking.

“I wanted to be the prince. The one with the sword and armour that weighed a million pounds. A prince that sought out a princess. Not a damsel in distress or a sleeping beauty. A princess made of steel and iron that could help carry the weight of his armour if it grew too heavy for him. One that loved jokes, especially his, and could laugh with him. A princess that knew how to stand up for herself but allowed him to do so on her behalf when things got too rough. Who could support him yet knock him down a few pegs if he was thinking out of his ass.

“That’s what I wished for every night after I was tucked into bed, my moms leaving my curtains open so I could see the sky. See the stars as they shot across it.”

I cup her cheek in my hand and simply hold it, feeling the weight of it and how right it feels to touch her this way. Because that’s what it is. Right.

She tips her head back enough to look at the star-flecked sky, all so similar to the one from my memories. “I’ve never considered myself a princess before.”

“What about a dream come true instead?”

“That’s even less likely.”

“Look at me,” I murmur, guiding her chin down before brushing our mouths together. “That’s what you are to me. It’s why I was so drawn to you that first night and why I haven’t been able to stay away from you since. I’m a believer in fate and every cliché, cheesy thing that’s ever existed, and I’m not ashamed of it. It’s who I am on a fundamental level.”

“I love who you are, Johnny. But can you love who I am? Beyond everything you’ve just told me? Can you love my bitterness and social anxiety? My baggage?”

I glide my tongue along her bottom lip, taking a single taste. “What would you do if I said I already do?”

There’s no verbal response. Only her mouth on mine and nails clawing at my clothes.

“Inside,” I order absent-mindedly, too concerned with the sensation of her hands on me, tugging and pulling to stay out here.

The feel of her tearing open my shirt has a near savage sound escaping me. Her eyes are wide as she stares up at me, deep red blotches covering her cheeks. I puff out a breath and shake my head, having had enough of that embarrassment in her gaze.

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