Page 43 of Lost in the Reins

I arch a brow. "Oh, do you? And what type is that? The kind that actually expresses interest without requiring a CIA-level decoder ring?"

"The kind that doesn't stick." His fingers curl into a fist against the table before he forces them open again. "He's not serious, Paisley. He just likes the chase."

I fold my arms, leveling him with a look that could strip paint. "And what if I'm not looking for serious? What if I just want a cup of coffee and a nice conversation with someone who doesn't avoid me like I'm carrying the plague? Novel concept, I know."

His jaw tightens. "That what you want?"

I hesitate, because no, that isn't what I want. I want him—his steady presence, his quiet strength, the way he looks at me like I'm a puzzle he can't solve but can't walk away from either. But he had walked away. Ever since that morning in the barn when I laid my heart out like a rookie poker player showing their hand too soon.

So I lift my chin, channeling every ounce of Manhattan attitude I've got left. "Maybe."

He makes a sound—something between a scoff and a sigh—and shakes his head like I'm the unreasonable one here. "He's not what you need."

Something inside me snaps like a rubber band that's been stretched too far. "And you would know what I need? What, did they start offering mind-reading classes at the local feed store?"

Silence stretches between us like an overworked metaphor, thick and charged and absolutely suffocating. Wes looks at me like he wants to say something, but whatever it is gets lost somewhere between his stubborn pride and that frustrating sense of duty he wears like emotional body armor.

Before he can answer, Martha appears with our plates, her timing both impeccable and infuriating. Like some kind of diner-based deus ex machina. "Here we go, kids. Eat up." She shoots Wes a look that could peel wallpaper before walking away, probably to go report this entire scene to her gossip committee.

I pick up my fork, my appetite having packed its bags and left for greener pastures about ten minutes ago. "You don't get to do this, Wes," I say quietly. "You don't get to push me away and then decide who's good enough to take me for coffee. That's not how this works. That's not how any of this works."

He doesn't answer right away, just stares down at his plate like those scrambled eggs might spontaneously rearrangethemselves into relationship advice. When he finally speaks, his voice is softer, rougher. "I just don't want you to get hurt."

Something in my chest squeezes, because for all his frustrating behavior, I know that's the truth. Wes Montgomery doesn't say things he doesn't mean. He's about as subtle as a freight train and twice as stubborn, but he's honest. Which, honestly, just makes this whole situation worse.

"I think that's my decision to make," I say, my voice matching his quiet tone even as my heart performs an interpretive dance of feelings I'm not ready to name.

Wes nods once, like he's losing some internal battle I'm not privy to. But he doesn't argue. And somehow, that's worse than any defense he could have mounted.

The clatter of silverware and low hum of conversation fills the space between us, but it does nothing to ease the weight pressing down on my chest. Wes has always been a man of few words, but the ones he chooses carry more baggage than a transcontinental flight. And these? These settle over me like a lead blanket of unspoken things.

He picks up his fork but doesn't eat, just pushes his eggs around the plate like he's conducting some sort of breakfast orchestra. I should let it go. Should focus on my own meal instead of hanging on to whatever silent war is playing out behind those unreadable eyes.

But I'm too tired for his half measures, too worn down by weeks of this emotional tango where we're both dancing to different songs.

"Why, Wes?" I finally ask, my voice quieter than I intend. "Why do you care?"

His fingers tighten around the fork like it's a lifeline. "You know why."

My heart trips over itself like a drunk sophomore at prom. "Do I?"

He lifts his head then, his gaze locking on to mine with something fierce and unguarded. It lasts all of two seconds before he exhales and looks away, shaking his head like he regrets letting even that much slip through his carefully maintained walls.

Frustration builds in my chest like a pressure cooker about to blow. "Because from where I'm sitting, it seems like you either don't know or don't want to admit it. And I've got to tell you, neither option is particularly flattering."

His jaw clenches, and for a moment, I think he's going to shut down completely and retreat behind that impenetrable fortress of stoicism he's so fond of. But then he surprises me.

"I'm not the man for you, Paisley." His voice is rough, like the words are made of gravel and broken glass. "That's why."

A sharp, unwelcome sting presses behind my ribs. "So that's what this is about." I laugh, but it's about as genuine as a three-dollar bill. "You think Luke's not right for me, but you're not, either? That about sum up this particular episode ofCowboys Who Can't Express Feelings?"

His gaze flicks to mine, something unreadable darkening his features. "Yeah."

I let out a slow breath, staring down at my half-eaten meal that's rapidly becoming a monument to awkward conversations. "You ever stop to think that maybe that's not your call to make?"

"I have to make it." His voice is barely above a murmur, but the weight of it settles deep in my bones like lead. "Because I can't—" He stops, shaking his head, like he can't even bring himself to finish the thought.

I wait, but the rest of the sentence never comes. It just hangs there, another unfinished thing between us.

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