Page 16 of Curvy Girl and the Grumpy Cowboy

I think about the Covington land, about the weight of legacy I've carried since my father placed it on my shoulders when I was barely twenty. About my brothers, all finding their own ways now, building their own lives.

"The ranch will always be part of me," I acknowledge. "But it's not all of me. Not anymore." I risk a small step closer. "Seven years is a long time to think about what really matters."

Sarah's eyes never leave mine, searching for something. Truth, maybe. Or proof that my words aren't just pretty promises that'll evaporate in the morning light.

"I can't do halfway again," she whispers. "If we try this—if we really try—I need all of you, Jackson. The good, the bad, the scared parts you don't show anyone else."

"All of me," I agree, my voice rough with emotion. "No holding back."

She studies me for another long moment, then slowly reaches out, her fingertips brushing against my hand.

"Coffee first," she says with a small, tremulous smile. "Then we'll see."

I turn my hand, gently capturing her fingers with mine. Not pulling her closer, just connecting. "I can live with that."

"Good." She squeezes my hand once before reaching for her mug again. "Because I make excellent coffee."

I laugh softly, some of the tension easing from the room. "I seem to recall you burned it every time at the ranch."

"Seven years," she reminds me with a mock glare. "I've learned a few things."

We move to her living room, navigating around paint cans and boxes. A sofa freed from its drop cloth offers the only properseating. We sit closer than necessary, the coffee warming our hands.

"What was Seattle like?" I ask, genuinely curious about the life she built without me.

Sarah's eyes light up as she talks about the city—the constant rain that eventually felt like home, the way the mountains met the water, the vibrancy of her hospital program. She describes children finding confidence on horseback, wounded veterans reconnecting with themselves.

"It was beautiful," she says. "Different from Cedar Falls, but beautiful in its own way."

I nod, trying to imagine it, but finding myself distracted by the way her lips move as she speaks. They're just as I remember—full and expressive, curving gently at the corners when she's holding back a smile. I remember how soft they felt against mine, how perfectly we fit together.

Seven years is a long time to forget the taste of someone, but some memories never fade. I wonder if she tastes the same—like sunshine and possibility and everything I was too afraid to reach for.

"You're not listening," she accuses gently, breaking into my thoughts.

"I am," I protest. "Seattle. Rain. Mountains."

She raises an eyebrow. "Then why are you staring at my mouth?"

Caught. I set my coffee mug on a nearby box and shift slightly toward her.

"Because I was thinking about how soft your lips always were," I admit, my voice low. "And wondering if they still are."

Her breath catches, eyes widening slightly.

"Jackson..."

"Put your mug down, Sarah."

She hesitates only a moment before setting her coffee aside, her eyes never leaving mine. "Why?"

I move closer, close enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume—something floral and light that suits her perfectly.

"Because I'm about to kiss you," I tell her honestly. "And I'm hoping to God I'm not making a mistake."

Her lips part slightly, and I see the pulse flutter at her throat. But she doesn't move away.

"Are you?" she whispers.

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