Page 30 of Careless Hope

“If it’s too much, you can say no.”

“Deal,” he said after a moment.

“Really?”

He nodded, a smile playing on his lips as if he could read the nervous energy behind my words. “Anything else?”

“Discretion when it comes to my side of the deal,” I added quickly. “I mean, I’m doing this to learn, right? I don’t need people thinking I’m clueless when it comes to sex, even if it’s true. That defeats the whole purpose.”

“Got it.” His gaze held mine, steady and reassuring. “I never kiss and tell anyway.”

“Good.” I sighed in relief. “When do we start?”

Walker stood up and put his hat back on, tipping it and leaning down close to me. “As soon as possible, darlin’.”

10

Walker

As my bootstapped along the concrete path to Caroline’s front door, I couldn’t help but feel like a bull at its first rodeo. This was just another date, I told myself, trying to ignore that it was anything but your regular night out. My palms, usually as steady and dry as an old oak, were downright traitorous with their clamminess.

“Get a fucking grip,” I muttered under my breath, adjusting the brim of my hat for the umpteenth time. The nervous anticipation gnawing at me was a foreign sensation, one I didn’t take kindly to. It wasn’t even a real date, for crying out loud. Just a ruse to help Caroline get her dating legs and, selfishly, maybe show my family I could lead something more than a two-step at the local bar.

Maybe that was the reason for this nervousness. I was doing something new, is all.

I tapped on the door, the sound echoing in the quiet of the early evening. The door swung open, and I swear, time slowed down. There stood Caroline, beautiful as a mountain sunset, in a simple baby blue sun dress that fell just right. I’ve seen my fairshare of dolled-up women, sure, but nothing quite prepared me for this. Her auburn hair cascaded around her shoulders like autumn leaves caught in a gentle breeze, and those green eyes—clear as a wellspring—caught mine with an earnestness I hadn’t expected.

“Hi, Walker,” she said, her smile lighting up the porch like it had its own kind of sunshine.

“Caroline,” I managed to say, once I found my voice. It felt like I had to lasso it back from wherever it had bolted off to. “You look . . . wow, you look amazing.”

Her cheeks flushed a soft pink, and she laughed lightly—a sound that set my nerves at ease. “Thank you. You clean up pretty nice yourself.”

I glanced down at my attire, your standard issue jeans and black tee topped off with a starched shirt—hardly black-tie material, but it was my ‘nice’ pair of jeans, the one without any holes or stains. “Thanks,” I said, tipping my hat back slightly, feeling a smidge more confident. “Shall we?”

“Let’s,” she replied, stepping out onto the porch, closing the door behind her.

I led the way to my truck, thinking that if this fake date was going to be the start of something—an adventure, a new division on the ranch, or just proving I could be responsible—it was already shaping up to be one memorable ride.

We ambled down the path, our steps synchronized in an easy rhythm as if we’d done this a hundred times before.

“Nice evening,” I ventured, aiming for casual but feeling like a calf on new legs.

“Beautiful,” Caroline agreed, looking up at the sky painted with strokes of pinks and purples as the sun dipped below the horizon. “I’ve always loved the sunsets here.”

“Nothing quite like it,” I said, nodding. The truth was, nomatter how many times I’d seen the sun set over the fields of the ranch, it never got old. It was one of those constants in life, like the changing seasons or the way a good horse could sense your mood.

Reaching my truck, I stepped ahead and swung the passenger door open for her. It was an old habit, ingrained from years of watching my pa treat my mama like a queen. “After you, ma’am.”

“Such a gentleman,” she teased, the curve of her lips softening the edges of the day’s weariness.

“Only the best for our first . . . uh, pseudo-date.” I chuckled, feeling the word ‘date’ hang awkwardly in the air between us.

She climbed into the cab with the grace of someone who’d spent more time in heels than cowboy boots, and I couldn’t help but admire the way she navigated both worlds. Closing the door behind her, I rounded the front of the truck, the low rumble of the engine a soothing backdrop to the quickening beat of my heart.

“Whistle Stop Diner?” I asked as I settled into the driver’s seat, turning to face her. “I know it ain’t fancy, but it’ll get us seen, and we both like it.

“Perfect,” Caroline confirmed, her hands folded neatly in her lap. “Their chicken pot pie is the stuff of legends.”

---