Page 61 of Lost in the Reins

He makes a sound low in his throat—defeat or desire or maybe both. "Paisley..."

"One dance." I'm not above begging, not when he's looking at me like that. "Let's have one perfect moment before reality crashes back in."

"Ladies and gentlemen!" Martha's voice carries over the crackling tension between us. "Take your places for the Pine Ridge Fall Festival dance competition!"

Wes moves toward me with a fluid grace that still makes my heart stutter. His hand settles on my waist like a brand, and I try very hard not to think about how this will feel tomorrow when it's just another memory of something I can't keep.

"I have to admit, it's an improvement over the manure incident."

A laugh escapes before I can catch it. "High praise indeed. I notice you're not wearing those fancy dress boots Emma mentioned."

"Some risks aren't worth taking." His lips twitch, and for a moment, I catch a glimpse of the man who spent three days on his couch with me, arguing about terrible TV shows and sharing tissues.

The music starts—a slow, sweet melody that has couples moving into position. Wes's hand finds my waist, warm and steady, while the other clasps mine like it belongs there. We move together as the first notes fill the air, and just like that, the rest of the world fades away.

"You're better at this than last time," he murmurs as we turn.

"Amazing what can happen when you're not actively dying of plague."

His chest rumbles with silent laughter. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"Better than admitting we spent three days watching terrible reality TV and arguing about soap operas."

"I still say that woman should have picked the rancher."

"She picked the neurosurgeon because he had actual emotions and could express them using words." I meet his eyes, challenging. "Unlike some people I know."

His grip tightens slightly as we turn again. "Some things are harder to say than others."

"And some things," I counter softly, "are worth saying anyway."

The music shifts, faster now, and we move with it. His hands are sure and strong, guiding me through steps that feel more natural than they should. We're closer than strictly necessary, my skirt brushing his legs with each turn, his breath warm against my hair.

"I can't give you what you deserve," he says suddenly, his voice rough with something darker than regret.

I nearly miss a step. "What?"

"A future. Security." His grip tightens on my waist almost painfully. "The ranch is drowning, Paisley. The bank's ready to take everything."

"I know." I meet his eyes, steady despite my racing heart. "Jake told me."

He exhales sharply. "Of course, he did."

"Did you really think I'd run?" I challenge, brave or stupid or maybe both. "That knowing the truth would send me racing back to Manhattan?"

"You should." His jaw clenches, but he doesn't let go. If anything, he pulls me closer. "You should run as far and fast as you can."

"Too bad I've never been good at doing what I should."

His eyes darken, something primal flashing there. "This isn't one of your stories. I can't promise you anything except complications and hard choices and probably heartbreak."

"Good thing I'm tired of writing fiction." I fist my hands in his shirt, anchoring us both. "I want reality. Even if it's messy. Even if it hurts."

"Paisley." His voice cracks on my name. "I've been fighting this so hard."

"Then stop fighting." I press closer, feeling his heart hammer against mine. "Stop being so noble and just?—"

The music fades, but we don't move apart. The crowd around us has gone quiet, or maybe I just can't hear them over the pounding of my heart. Wes's eyes search mine, like he's looking for something he's afraid to find.

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