Page 24 of Her Steamy Cowboy

Chapter Eight

LINDSAY

"That'sthe fifth time you've checked your watch in the last minute.” Jace appears at my side, pressing a glass of red wine into my trembling hands. “He’ll be here, baby.”

"I'm that obvious, huh?" I try to smile, smoothing my free hand down the silver sequined dress that had been hanging in my closet for months.

"Only to someone who knows you as well as I do." He leans against the windowsill beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch.

The New Year's Eve party is in full swing around us – couples dancing, champagne flowing, and the steady tick of the clock moving us closer to midnight.

"Want to talk about it?" Jace asks.

The crystal catches the light from the strings of fairy lights woven through pine garlands, throwing prisms across his black dress shirt that fits him perfectly, highlighting the broad shoulders I've become intimately familiar with these last few days. His dark hair is styled just enough to look effortlessly tousled, and the shadow of stubble along his jaw makes him look like he just stepped out of a magazine.

I take a sip of wine, gathering my thoughts. “What do you even say to someone after ten years? 'Hey Dad, how was prison? I graduated college, got a job, and oh yeah, I'm dating my best friend now?'"

"Well, when you put it that way..." Jace's gentle teasing draws a genuine laugh from me. "But seriously, sweetheart. You don't have to have it all figured out. Just start with hello."

"Easy for you to say, Mr. Emotional Intelligence."

"Hey, I earned that emotional intelligence the hard way – primarily by spending years trying to figure out how to tell my best friend I was in love with her without ruining everything."

I turn to face him fully, my heart doing that familiar flip it does whenever he talks about us. "And how's that working out for you?"

"Still waiting to hear if I've ruined everything." His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, and I resist the urge to trace the laugh lines with my finger.

"Not even close," I whisper, and his expression softens.

Before Jace can respond, headlights sweep across the driveway, and my breath catches. The familiar outline of Dad's old Ford pickup comes into view.

"That's him." My fingers tighten around my wine glass. "Jace, I–"

"Go." He kisses my temple. "I'll be right here if you need me."

My legs feel like lead as I make my way to the front door.

Ten years of memories flood through me – birthdays and graduations he missed, letters I couldn't bring myself to read for years, the slow process of forgiveness that brought us to this moment. I was fourteen when they took him away, still wearing braces and learning who I was. Now I'm twenty-four, and sometimes I catch glimpses of that girl in the mirror, wondering if he'll recognize me at all.

When I open the door, time seems to stop.

My dad stands there, one hand raised to knock. His hair is more gray than brown now, swept neatly to the side in a way that suggests he made an effort for tonight.

He's wearing a pressed blue button-down shirt and khakis that hang a little loose on his frame – prison having stripped away the broad-shouldered build I remember from childhood. Deep lines map his face, especially around his eyes, but those eyes – my eyes – are exactly the same warm brown they've always been.

"Hi, Dad." My voice barely carries over the muffled sound of music and laughter from inside.

"Lindsay." He clears his throat, his hand dropping awkwardly to his side. "Thanks for having me tonight. I wasn't sure if–"

"I'm really glad you came." The words tumble out before he can finish, and I mean them with my whole heart.

We stand there for a moment, the weight of ten years stretching between us. Then, before I can overthink it, I step forward and wrap my arms around him.

He stiffens for a split second before hugging me back, and suddenly I'm surrounded by that familiar scent of pine and motor oil that somehow hasn't changed. Tears prick at my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall.

"You look beautiful," he says as we pull apart, his voice rough. "Just like your mom."

The comparison catches me off guard – no one's compared me to Mom in years. "You think so?"

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