Page 46 of A Forever Kind of Rancher

You.

He couldn’t stop thinking about that. Couldn’t stop turning it over and over in his mind. Damn that woman.

Getting up this morning and heading to work felt like a farce because he was living for that afternoon break. He was living for their agreed-upon meetup. He didn’t care about anything else. He lost the ability to do it. He just wanted her.

He had waited all this time for her. And then last night she had...

She had managed to stick a ruthlessly sharp knife blade into that wound, and the painful cut had let out some of the poison.

He didn’t know how she had done it. How she’d so incisively given him a truth he needed, even if it wasn’t what he wanted.

He didn’t need for her to understand him in addition to being the hottest sex he’d ever had.

He didn’t actually need for her to be anything, and yet, she was doing her best to be everything.

You.

And by the time the afternoon rolled around, his blood was thundering.

He practically tore the door off its hinges when he got into the house, and when he saw her standing in the kitchen, barefoot and wearing a sundress that came up well past her knees he just about wrote poetry. Or perhaps a prayer of thanks to whoever had invented the sundress.

It was a magnificent work of art. The creation he had never fully paused to consider or appreciate until this moment. Until he had beheld the glory of one on Wendy.

And he was done playing. He was done waiting.

They’d set their boundaries, and he’d made it very clear what he was doing, and what he wasn’t doing. Because of that, he felt like he didn’t need to waste time with pleasantries now.

“You look pretty. I want you on your knees.”

“Here?”

“Yeah. Here.”

But because he was a gentleman, he went over to the stove and took down a tea towel. Then he put the folded-up fabric onto the floor, cushions for her. Because he didn’t want her discomfort. He just wanted a little obedience. He just wanted...

This was a fantasy he hadn’t let himself have. And now he wanted it. And he wanted to hold on to it. Tight.

Slowly, she sank down to the floor, her knees coming down to the center of that folded-up towel.

In his kitchen.

Holy hell.

All this trying to stay clear of domesticity, and he was doing a great job twisting and perverting some kind of housewife fantasy.

But he liked it. He couldn’t help it.

What did he want? Just from his life in general. What had he ever wanted? Past the glory of the rodeo. Past being the one who picked up the slack for people who let go of their responsibilities.

What was left for him?

Was he going to live alone forever?

The years, the long lonely years, stretched out before him, and he realized why he never thought past the rodeo. Why he had put off retirement. Why he had put off this—buying a house. Making a life outside the rodeo.

Because he was clear-eyed. Because he wasn’t an optimist. Because he didn’t do hope, or dreams, and that meant the future was...

He could hardly even see it.

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