Page 105 of Saddle and Scent
Instead, I feel more alive than I have in years.
That's when Callum does something that stops my heart completely.
He strips off his flannel shirt—the one he was wearing over his t-shirt—and wraps it around my shoulders. It's warm from his body heat and smells like him, creating a pocket of intimacy even in the middle of the storm.
"Can't have you catching cold," he says, his voice soft despite the rain drumming around us.
The gesture is so tender, so protective, that it makes my chest ache.
Because this is the Callum I remember from before everything went wrong.
The one who noticed when I was cold or tired or upset.
The one who took care of me without making it feel like pity.
We're standing close now, close enough that I can see the water droplets clinging to his eyelashes, close enough to count the different shades of gold in his eyes. His hands are still on my shoulders, keeping the shirt in place, and I can feel the heat radiating from his body despite the cool rain.
The air between us shifts.
Becomes charged with something that has nothing to do with the storm.
His gaze drops to my lips, then back to my eyes, and I can see the question there. The same question that's been hanging between us since yesterday, maybe since the day I came back to Saddlebrush Ridge.
Maybe since we were teenagers and too scared to know what to do with the feelings that were too big for our young hearts.
He leans in slowly, giving me plenty of time to pull away, but I don't. I can't. Because this moment feels inevitable, like something that's been waiting to happen for ten years.
Our faces are inches apart.
His breath is warm against my skin.
His eyes are locked on mine with an intensity that makes everything else fade away.
We're about to kiss.
Finally, after all this time, we're about to?—
CRACK.
Thunder explodes overhead, so loud and sudden that I jump backward with a startled yelp. The moment shatters like glass, leaving us both standing there blinking in the aftermath.
Callum's lips twitch into a smirk.
"Scared of a little thunder, Bell?"
The teasing tone in his voice sets something competitive on fire in my chest.
Because that's exactly the kind of challenge I can't resist.
"Scared?" I echo, raising an eyebrow. "I'll show you scared."
Before he can react, I reach up and grab him by the collar of his soaked t-shirt, pulling him down until our faces are level. Then I kiss him—hard and deep and with every ounce of frustration and longing I've been carrying for the past decade.
He tastes like rain and surprise and something that's purely him.
His mouth is warm and soft and perfect against mine.
And when he responds—when his arms come around me and he kisses me back with equal fervor—the world tilts on its axis.
