Page 17 of Run to Me
The gavel falls and the auctioneer announces the end of the bidding war. I choose her.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her words imbued with wonder and a burgeoning trust.
“I can’t believe this is happening.”
My phone buzzes. My father, probably, wondering if his son will manage to impress him this time. But this time isn’t like the others. I won’t be the winner or the favorite or anything I thought I wanted to be. The ranch I grew up on, the legacy I tried to outrun—it’s his. Everything I thought I needed is a thousand acres away, and everything I need is sitting right here, fifteen feet from me, close enough to touch, close enough to lose.
I’m in the hallway, looking back through the glass as they shake Olivia’s hand, as they announce her victory. Everyone is too busy swarming her to notice me slipping away, everyone but her. I see her scanning the room, looking for something, looking for me. I don’t wait to find out if she cares enough to follow.
I’m halfway to my truck when she catches up. I thought I’d made it far enough that she’d let me go. Thought I was a big enough fool to let her. I don’t turn around when she calls my name, just lean against the tailgate and look at the sky like it might have something to say. It doesn’t.
“Not sticking around for the champagne toast?”
I let her question hang in the air like a breath on a cold night, then finally turn to face her. “Thought you’d be too busy celebrating.”
The auction house stands behind her.
“What if I’d rather be here?” she says, stopping a few feet short of me. She’s close enough that I can smell the soft scent of leather and something sweet, close enough that I know I’ll never be far away again.
“You could’ve fooled me.”
She crosses her arms, tips her head like she does when she’s figuring out a difficult business deal, like I’m the only thing she wants to get to the bottom of.
“I’m done,” I say, a little louder, gesturing back toward the auction house.
Her expression shifts, surprise slipping into understanding, understanding into something I can’t quite name. I can’t look at her and keep my distance at the same time, so I turn away again.
“We’re not through yet,” Olivia says, and I feel her taking a step closer. Her presence is a heat I can’t ignore, melting away my defenses. She’s right there, more solid than any ranch or land or promise of inheritance. She’s a future I can almost touch. I thought I’d walk away, let her keep everything. I thought wrong.
“I’m not good at letting go,” she says, reaching out like she might touch my arm. The space between us disappears one heartbeat at a time, slow and measured and unstoppable. “And I don’t think you are, either.”
Her fingers graze my skin, and it’s like I’ve been lassoed. There’s no use trying to break free. I turn to face her, feeling all the stubbornness draining away, leaving only what matters, what’s always mattered.
“Olivia, I’m tired of running. From this. From you.” My voice sounds raw, but it’s the truth, finally.
The look she gives me is everything—relief and surprise and want, so much want—and I don’t give her a chance to say anything else before I pull her close, before I stop pretending to be strong and just kiss her, deep and slow, like this is the first and last thing I’ll ever do.
The world fades. The parking lot. The auction. The weight of my own expectations. All of it dissolves, and there’s just us. Her lips, soft and insistent against mine. Her hands, finding their place on my back. Her heart, beating in time with this new, dangerous rhythm.
“We’ll take it slow,” Olivia says, a smile in her voice. “Reckon that’ll be hard for you.”
“I’m up for the challenge.”
I’ll never walk away, not once I’ve finally found my person. It just took me this long to finally realize that I’m hurting myself by keeping her at arms length when it’s always been her.
OLIVIA
Clipboard in hand, I survey the old barn. The wooden beams, weathered by seasons of neglect, groan beneath the weight of my scrutiny. Paint peels like shed skin, and I trace my fingers over it. Dust stirs beneath my boots, restless as my thoughts, as I bend over the worktable and map out a plan for salvation on the timeworn blueprint. Replace damaged siding, upgrade the lighting. There’s too much to do, but if I start somewhere, anywhere, I might just have a chance.
The blueprint sprawls across the worktable, a dusty road map to the barn’s resurrection. I mark sections with a firm hand, the scratch of the pencil a comforting sound in the silence. The wood beneath the paper is scarred and pitted, a history etched in every gouge. Like the barn itself, it’s a surface that has known hard use and harder times.
Every detail demands my attention, each line and note a piece of the larger puzzle I’m trying to solve. I can’t afford to miss anything. Not if this project is going to succeed. I move from section to section, my movements deliberate, like a surgeon performing delicate work.
The place has a stubborn will to survive. I can only hope that my own will is enough to match it. With one last look at thebeams overhead, I plant my feet, square my shoulders, and dive back into the work.
“I’m not sure I can handle all these repairs and renovations on my own,” I admit, the words falling like confessionals.
Serena steps forward. “We’ll tackle one thing at a time, just like fixing a fence—step by step.”
