Page 74 of Ride Me Reckless
Then I opened the door to the second bedroom and stopped.
A second bed—full-sized, neatly made with soft sage bedding and a fluffy pillow. A small oak dresser sat beneath the window, and a simple wooden frame was resting on top. I stepped closer, heart catching in my throat.
It was a photo of my mom on horseback, taken years ago at the county fairgrounds. She was laughing, reins in one hand, sunshine on her face, looking like she hadn’t a care in the world.
“I found that in that trunk you left behind,” Colt said from the doorway, voice low. “Figured she deserved a space of her own. Even if it’s just for now.”
I turned to face him, throat thick. “You made her a room.”
He gave a small shrug. “She’s part of the package. Always was.”
There wasn’t anything more to say—at least not out loud. So I didn’t try.
I just took one more slow turn around the room, fingers grazing the quilt, the frame, the smooth corner of the dresser. Every detail had been chosen with care. Not flash. Not pity. Just quiet, steady thoughtfulness.
This wasn’t just about fixing up an old house.
This was about Colt making room—for her. For me. For a new kind of life, however temporary it might be.
And even though he hadn’t said it outright, I felt it in the way he looked at me. In the way he’d brought me here without pressure or expectation.
He was hoping I might not just settle in.
He hoped I might stay until things were finalized with Mom before the baby came.
And deep down, even if I wasn’t ready to admit it yet…
I was starting to hope the same thing.
Chapter Twenty
Where We Belong
Colt
Iheard her before I saw her.
A soft rustle of a drawer sliding open. The metallic clink of silverware being rearranged. The quiet hum she didn’t even realize she was making—that same low, distracted melody she used to sing under her breath when she was organizing something or lost in thought.
God, I’d missed that sound.
I leaned against the hallway wall for a second, letting it wash over me. It didn’t take much to imagine her in there—barefoot, sleeves pushed up, brows furrowed because I’d committed some kind of unholy sin by putting the spoons where the forks belonged.
I smiled to myself.
Of course, she couldn’t resist making this place hers. That was the whole damn point.
But it was more than the sound of her voice or the rhythm of drawers sliding open. It was something else. Something hotter. Deeper.
The kind of heat that stirred low in my gut when I thought about her, pregnant with my child, standing in my kitchen like she’d never left. She was glowing in a way I hadn’t known I needed to see again.
And damn if I didn’t want to feel her beneath me.
I pushed off the wall and headed toward the kitchen.
Tessa stood at the counter, facing away from me. The soft blue top she had worn all day hugged her curves as if it had been made just for her. She was muttering under her breath as she sorted forks from knives. Didn’t hear me come in.
I stepped behind her, swept her hair off her neck, and leaned in.
