Page 160 of Ride the Sky

He traces a finger over my cheekbone. “You’d be surprised.”

I rein back an eyeroll then scan my gaze around his trailer. “This is your home. Won’t you miss it?”

“This place ain’t a home,” he drawls. “It’s temporary.”

I brush the hair away from his eyes. “Where will you stay?”

“Maybe a cabin for the winter. Ain’t sure.”

“Stay with me.”

The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

He stares down at me. “You sure?”

I tilt my chin, refusing to feel embarrassed for the slip. “You’re already there. Might as well.”

“Temporary?”

I lick my lips. “No. Not temporary.” Every day I’m around him, I open my heart a little bit more. Almost there. Almost fucking there.

A grin blooms across his face. “Might regret it.”

Mouth curving, I flick a dishtowel at his ass. “I haven’t yet. Even if you do leave the toilet seat up.” Then, spinning around, Itoss old salt and pepper shakers into the box. Reach for a tin can of Folgers. Lightweight, it rattles in my hand.

Wyatt reaches for it. “I got it—”

“What’s in here?” I’m already peeling the lid back. I’m nosy as hell when it concerns Wyatt Montgomery.

“Fallon, don’t—”

I blink when I peek inside.

I don’t respond. I can’t.

At the bottom of the can are our rings from Vegas. The hammered gold bands with their unique, moss-like markings glint in the sunlight.

“Our rings,” I breathe, wide-eyed. “You kept them.”

He swallows. “I couldn’t get rid of them.”

Couldn’t.His words have weight. Have me suddenly breathless. Hopeful. Stupid.

What if—all these years—he’s felt the same way?

I shake them out into my palm. Heart pounding in my chest, I slide the simple band of gold on my ring finger. Flex my hand, make a fist. It’s heavy on my hand. A weight I like.

Eyes on me, Wyatt slips his own ring on. The ring on his tan, muscled hand looks better than I deserve.

Suddenly, all I want to do is just exist on this flying rock in space. Exist with Wyatt Montgomery. I could live happy. I could die happy.

Hell, Iamhappy. With this man whose communication is so on point it scares me. This man who’s been so calm, comforting, gentle, and patient. This man who never makes me feel fenced in.

“It looks good on you,” I say.

“You look good on me,” he says quietly, in that voice of smoke and flame. He moves toward me, reaching to grip the back of my neck. “You look good in every fuckin’ universe, in every life I have ever imagined for us.”

I press a hand to my aching heart. “Wyatt…”

---