Page 62 of Lost in the Reins

"I'm not good at letting people in," he whispers.

"I noticed." A smile tugs at my lips. "Although you're better at it than you think."

His other hand slides into my hair, careful of Martha's intricate work. "This isn't going to be like one of your books."

"Good." I grip his shirt, anchoring us both. "Like I said, I'm tired of writing fiction."

He cuts me off with a growl, one hand tangling in my hair while the other pulls me flush against him. The kiss isn't gentle or sweet or anything like what I write in my books; it's desperate and hungry and tastes like surrender. Like a man who's finally stopped denying himself what he wants.

I kiss him back just as hard, pouring everything into it—all the words I couldn't write, all the truth I've been learning since I first stepped onto his porch. His hands are rough on my skin, possessive in a way that makes my blood sing, and I arch into him like I'm trying to crawl inside his chest where all those carefully guarded pieces of his heart live.

When we finally break apart, the crowd erupts in cheers. Emma's voice carries over the rest, bright with triumph. "Finally!"

Wes rests his forehead against mine, laughing softly. "I think we just made Martha's year."

"Pretty sure she's already planning the wedding." I glance over to where Martha stands with her committee, practically glowing with satisfaction. "I have to admit, her matchmaking skills are impressive."

"Terrifying, you mean." But he's smiling—that real, full smile that transforms his whole face. "I suppose I owe her a thank-you."

"We both do." I brush my thumb across his jaw, marveling that I can finally touch him like this. "But maybe we should wait until after she's done crying happy tears into her clipboard."

He laughs again, the sound warming me more than any Montana summer. "You sure about this? About us?"

"I've never been surer of anything." I meet his eyes, steady and certain. "But I do have one condition."

His eyebrow arches. "Oh?"

"No more sunrise yoga scenes in my books." I grin up at him. "I think I've found something better to write about."

"Yeah?" His hands settle on my waist again as the music starts back up. "And what's that?"

"Reality." I stretch up to kiss him again, quick and sweet. "Turns out, it's better than fiction anyway."

Above us, the harvest moon bathes everything in silver light, and somewhere in the crowd, Martha is probably already planning our future. But right here, in this moment, with Wes holding me like he never wants to let go, I finally understand what I've been trying to write all along.

Sometimes the best stories aren't the ones we plan. They're the ones that write themselves, in early morning coffee and bedtime stories, in shared colds and square dances, in all the quiet moments between once upon a time and happily ever after.

And maybe, just maybe, this is only the beginning of ours.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Wes

The kiss leaves my lips burning, and I can't ignore it any more than I can ignore a broken fence line. Paisley presses warmly against my side as we stand under the festival lights. Everything looks different in the glow—the town square transformed by strings of bulbs and lanterns. Even the shadows seem softer tonight.

I push thoughts of the bank notices aside. They can wait.

"Ready for the couples' competition?" Paisley asks, with that same look Thunder gets before testing a fence. Martha stands nearby, clutching her clipboard and beaming. "I hear there's a three-legged race involved."

I glance at her sideways, suppressing a smirk. "That what you city folks consider entertainment?"

"Oh, absolutely." She leans closer, her fingers betraying her nerves as they twist in my shirt. "Usually we do it in designer heels."

"Figures." She fits against my side too naturally. I should step back. Should remember all the reasons this can't work. Instead, I tighten my arm around her waist.

"I'll have you know," she says, lifting her chin in that stubborn way she has, "I was the reigning champion of the Manhattan social circuit."

"That so?" I rest my hand on the small of her back. "Guess I’d better defend Montana’s honor, then."

---