Page 11 of Ghosted Cowboy
But I didn't pull away.
"Yeah," I managed. "Spooked."
"Someone's trying to scare you." His jaw was tight, barely controlled anger in every line of his body. "This isn't random."
"No kidding."
He slid his touch down my arm, fingers wrapping around mine. The touch sent electricity through me—unwanted, yet undeniable. This was the problem. Every time he touched me, every time his gaze met mine, heat that made my stomach flip—I forgot why I was supposed to hate him.
Was this real? This pull between us? Or was I so deep in Evangeline's headspace, so consumed by playing a woman who couldn't let go of her lost love, that I was confusing fiction with reality?
"I need to know you're safe," Ransom continued, his thumb stroking the inside of my wrist. "Let me drive you home tonight."
"I can walk. I always walk."
"Not tonight you don't."
Vivian climbed onto the stage, examining the mirror. "We need to figure out who did this. This is sabotage. This is—" She turned to face the cast, her red hair practically standing on end with indignation. "This is unacceptable! But you know what? We're not going to let some coward ruin our production." She straightened, channeling every ounce of her Broadway past. "The show must go on. We continue rehearsal. We shall not be deterred! Tomorrow I will contact the authorities. Tonight, we work."
A murmur went through the cast—some agreement, some uncertainty. Brooke waited in the wings, her mouth set in a grim line. Darcy lowered her phone, biting her lip.
Ransom still held my hand. I should've let go. Instead, I held tighter.
"From the top," Vivian commanded. "And this time, let's remember we're artists, not victims. We create magic. We don't let fear win."
The rehearsal continued, but my focus scattered. Ransom's presence dominated my awareness—the way he moved through the shadows in his ghost costume, the white makeup making his features stark and dangerous. The way he watched me, protective and predatory all at once.
During a break, he found me by the prop room. "Rainey—"
"Don't." I held up a hand. "Don't ask if I'm okay again. Don't offer to protect me. Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you still care."
The words hung between us. He stepped closer, crowding into my space in a way that should've made me uncomfortable but instead made me ache.
"I never stopped caring," he said quietly. "Not for one single day in five years."
This close, I could smell him—soap and something earthy, masculine. I could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the stubble along his jaw, the thin scar on his forearm from that rodeo injury.
This close, I wanted things I had no right wanting from a man who'd shattered me.
"You don't get to say that," I whispered. "You don't get to come back and just—"
"I know." His hand came up, cupping my cheek. "I know I don't. But I'm saying it anyway."
The world narrowed to this moment and my breath hitched. If he kissed me right now, I wouldn't stop him. If he pushed me against the wall and took what he wanted, I'd help him.
God, I'd beg for it.
"Places!" The director’s voice shattered the moment. "Let's run the finale!"
Ransom stepped back, but his eyes promised this wasn't over.
I went back to my mark on unsteady legs, my body wound tight with want, my mind spinning. Was I losing myself in Evangeline's story? Was this yearning to be touched, to be wanted, just an echo of my character's grief?
Or was it simpler than that—was I still completely, stupidly in love with Ransom Hollis, and terrified of what that meant if he was really staying this time?
