Page 93 of Ride Me Reckless
“She’s smarter than she looks,” he said, brushing a kiss over Charlie’s fuzzy head. “She’ll know to stay away from trouble when she sees it.”
I handed Wyatt back to Tessa with more care than I knew I had in me. He gave a sleepy sigh, still holding tight to my finger until the very last second.
Colt chuckled. “Guess he likes you too.”
I watched as they both tucked the babies into matching bassinets on the porch, Dalia appearing behind them with two warm bottles and a smile on her face that said peace had finally returned to her world.
And damn if that didn’t hit somewhere deep.
I took a long, slow breath, then looked at those twins again—one already dreaming, the other blinking up at the sky like he couldn’t wait to take it on.
Hell, if this ain’t the jackpot, I don’t know what is.
I wandered off to the edge of the back pasture, where the scent of fresh-cut lumber drifted on the evening breeze. A skeleton of a structure stood just behind the main house—new framing, a pile of siding waiting its turn. It wasn’t hard to guess what it was.
Guest house.
I took a slow sip of my second beer. Usually, I would have been on my third or fourth by now. But with those damn babies around I was taking it easy out of respect. Then, I let my gaze drift back toward the porch.
Dalia sat in one of the rockers, feet tucked under her, a sleeping baby monitor resting in her lap like it belonged there. She was smiling at something Tessa said, and I could see her nodding along, fully present, fully herself. Every now and then, someone would stop to chat—a neighbor, someone from the old days—and she lit up with recognition like her mind was stringing the pieces back together again.
That woman had walked through hellfire and came out steady on the other side.
Colt wasn’t just building her a guest house. Hell, no. He was building her peace. Putting up walls she could lean on when memory got slippery—giving her something permanent in a world that had taken too much.
I respected the hell out of that.
Most guys throw money at problems and call it love. Colt built homes. Held babies like glass. He watched Tessa like she was his North Star and didn’t mind who saw it.
That kind of loyalty… it stuck with a man. Made him take stock.
I ran a hand down my jaw, the rough edge of stubble catching on my palm, and let the moment settle.
Maybe I wasn’t built for that kind of devotion. Or maybe… I just hadn’t found the right reason yet.
I spotted her the second she stepped out of the house—could’ve been the sun catching that copper hair, or the way those jeans fit like sin stitched in denim. Probably both.
Callie Hart.
Talking to Art Whitson about his newest bull like she didn’t have a care in the world. Laughing a little too loud, standing a little too stiff. Like someone told her to play happy and she’d damn well win an Oscar doing it.
I let the crowd drift between us for a minute, sipping my beer, playing it cool.
But then she looked my way.
Didn’t smile. Didn’t frown either. Just that unreadable Callie expression I’d known for years—the one that always made me want to get closer, figure out what was going on behind those eyes.
So I walked over, all swagger and ease.
“Well, look what the wind blew in,” I said, tipping my chin. “You sure cleaned up nice since the last time I saw you. Even wore those heartbreaker jeans.”
She raised a brow. “You mean the ones I was wearing when you nearly set my trailer on fire, making moonshine in a crockpot?”
I grinned. “That was one time. And technically, it was an electric pressure cooker.”
Callie snorted. “You’re lucky Tessa didn’t string you up for that.”
I leaned in slightly to make her aware of how close I was without stepping over that line. “You didn’t let me near that trailer again before you sold it. Makes a man wonder what kind of grudge you’re holding.”
