Page 56 of Lost in the Reins

His lips quirk. "And the hero never steps on her toes?"

"Not once." I tilt my head, smirking. "He also usually has perfectly styled hair and has never mucked a stall in his life."

"Sounds boring." His grip tightens ever so slightly. "So, is that what you've been writing up in your room?"

I blink, caught off guard. "What?"

"Emma says you've been holed up for days, barely coming up for air." His tone is teasing, but there’s something else there,too—curiosity, maybe. "Thought maybe you were crafting the perfect cowboy hero. One that never steps on toes and always has perfect hair."

I huff a laugh. "If I was, you’d be flattered, wouldn’t you?"

His grin is slow, knowing. "Depends. Do I get a happy ending?"

My breath catches slightly, but I recover, forcing a smirk. "Wouldn’t you like to know?"

Something flickers in his eyes, something unreadable but impossibly warm. "Maybe I would."

Before I can respond, Martha claps her hands. "Music! We need music!"

She bustles toward the ancient jukebox, leaving us frozen in this too-close moment. Wes doesn’t let go. His thumb keeps tracing those slow, distracting circles, his grip just a fraction firmer.

The music starts—a country tune, slow and easy, but I barely register it. Wes holds my gaze, his hands warm and steady against me.

“How’s the book coming along?” His voice is low, just for me, despite Martha still bustling around, giving instructions.

“Almost done,” I reply, focusing on our slow, deliberate steps instead of the weight of his eyes on me. “Maybe another couple of weeks.”

He nods, his fingers tightening slightly at my waist. “And then?”

“Then Manhattan.” The word feels foreign in my mouth. “Back to real life, I guess.”

He looks away, just for a moment, before asking, “Is that what you want?”

I hesitate. “I don’t know.”

“Seems like you should,” he says quietly, eyes fixed somewhere over my shoulder. “You’ve got a life there.”

“Ihada life there,” I correct, softer than intended. “Now, I’m not so sure.”

His jaw works, a muscle feathering beneath the skin. “This place...it’s not easy. Or simple.”

“I didn’t come here for easy.” I catch his gaze again, holding it. “And I’m not looking for simple.”

His expression softens just a bit. “You’re different than I thought you’d be.”

“And how’s that?”

“Less polished,” he says, almost smiling. “More real.”

A small laugh escapes me. “That’s what happens when you’re knee-deep in mud and wrangling chickens.”

His hand moves up, brushing a stray curl behind my ear. “You fit here more than you think.”

I take a breath, the air thick between us. “Maybe I was just waiting for someone to notice.”

For a moment, I think he might finally say the thing we’ve both been skirting around. But then his hand drops away, the distance returning as quickly as it had vanished.

“I’ve got work to do,” he says, voice tight. “The bank’s breathing down my neck. Bills piling up. And Emma…she deserves more than this uncertainty.”

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