Page 56 of Christmas at the Ranch
“I called your landline, the one from the phone book, and I think your mom answered. I asked if you were there, and she said you were at the library.” He smiles a little at this, but sadly. “I lost my nerve. I didn’t leave a message. I just got in my truck and drove back here.”
Now I step close to him again. I put my hand on his chest, and I can feel his heart racing as he continues to sit in my desk chair, looking up at me. “There’s more,” he says softly. “I used to go to the Royal Agricultural Winter Fair every year. I’d take as many horses, as many students as I could—so I could be there every day, just in case you happened to be there. Which you never were. I looked for you everywhere. I was convinced I’d see you in one of those fancy rich people horse show boxes you told me about.” He smiles up at me for a moment as I shake my head, filled with regret.
“My parents kept wanting to get a box at the horse show, the way we used to when I was younger, but I always told them no. Being around horses, after you, was too painful. It reminded me of us. But to thinkthat I could have seen you…” I trail off. Because there’s still more I need to know, so I can be sure, once and for all, that the safest place for me is in his arms. “Last night, though…When you got so upset with me.”
He sighs. “I don’t want to make excuses for myself, because I wasn’t fair to you last night. I know that. It’s just…losing my mom when I did, the way I did, was hard.”
“Of course it was,” I say. “Tate. I can’t imagine—”
He shakes his head. “Just let me finish, or I might lose my nerve now. When I saw you fall off Star, I was so afraid you were going to get hurt like my mom did. I know that’s not reasonable, that you were right when you told me, years ago, that just because something bad happened one time doesn’t mean it will again. But your fall triggered something in me last night that I think had already been opened up the first time you almost got hurt on Star, a few days ago.” He’s looking away from me.
“Tate,” I say. “Look at me. Please.”
He does. And I see so much pain in his eyes I can hardly stand it. I reach down to stroke his cheek.
“I’ve never cared about anyone this way, Emory. No one except my family.” He reaches up for my hand against his face. Stills it, holds it there. “And I never want to let you go.”
I don’t know if he can hear my heart from where he sits, but it’s officially galloping away from me now. There’s so much I want to say to him, but I can’t find any more words. Possibly because being so close to him, after so long imagining this, dreaming about it, iscompletely distracting. It’s starting to consume me, like I’m a piece of paper and he’s a lit match.
Then, suddenly, he’s letting go of me. I feel bereft for a moment without his touch, until he stands and our bodies become aligned. Mere inches of space separate us. All my senses are on high alert. I can smell him. Woodsmoke and saddle soap, pine needles and leather. The air between us is electric.
“I missed you so much,” he whispers. He touches a wisp of my hair. “I missed your hair. This color. Like the glossiest chestnut.” Now he looks down at me. “And your green eyes, and your smile. Like the sun. You’re everything I always imagined you would be, and more.”
“How often did you imagine me?” I find myself whispering. Our lips are so close now. I reach up and bury my fingers in his hair, pull him one inch closer. He lowers his hands to my hips.
“All the time,” he whispers back. “I dreamed about you, too.”
I want to press myself against his body, but I also want to take it slow.
“This feels like a dream right now,” he says.
“Do what you would do if it were,” I say.
He tilts my face toward his and kisses my mouth. And if listening to him talk sets my insides to boil, if looking into his eyes fills me with unimaginable longing, if touching him sends sparks through my body, then kissing him undoes me entirely. Both my hands are on his face now. His stubble is tantalizingly rough beneath my fingers. But his lips are the softest thing on earth.
We’re slow at first, and then our hunger for each other takes over.
“Come on,” I say, pulling him toward the stairs to my apartment, feeling suddenly urgent. “Come upstairs with me.”
We only make it as far as my tiny kitchen. I tug off his flannel, then his T-shirt. He pulls my sweater over my head as he pushes me against the counter.
“Emory,” he whispers as he leans back to take me in. “You’re so beautiful.”
I grab the waistband of his jeans and pull him close. I don’t want there to be any space between us, not anymore.
“Tate.” I say his name, over and over, like a wish I’m making.Because he’s all I want.
He kisses my neck, my shoulder, my collarbone. He gently pulls down my bra straps and kisses the tops of my breasts, then moves his lips lower as I moan.
“You’re perfect,” he says—and he does make me feel that way, like the most perfect version of myself. Every inch of my skin is tingling. I’m so filled with desire for him it feels like I can hear water rushing in my ears.
But then I hear something else.
A sound downstairs in the office. I didn’t lock the front door, I realize.
“Hello?” It’s a familiar voice.
The very last voice I want to hear right now. “Emory? Are you there?”
