Page 9 of That Moment
“Could’ve,” he agrees, but his eyes linger a second longer than they should.
My throat goes dry. This is exactly what Brooklyn and Milly meant. The game. The chase. If we ever crossed the invisible line, maybe it would all collapse.
He tips his chin toward the porch. “So, beer?”
The cooler sits there, lid cracked, a couple of bottles catching the light. Horses graze in the pasture, tails swishing. The porch looked awfully tempting.
It would be so easy to park, climb those steps, sit with him while the sun drops behind the ridge. So easy to let the worlddrift away as we fall into a casual ebb and flow or flirting and jabs.
So dangerous.
I hear Brooklyn’s voice in my head: "If you ever actually got caught, the fun would be gone.”
“I can’t.” I smile, aiming for casual. “Early morning.”
He tilts his head, not pushing, but the corner of his mouth says he doesn’t buy it. “Tomorrow’s Saturday.”
“I’m important.” I shrug like it’s a joke. “Places to be.”
His grin softens. “Yeah. You are.”
The way he says it, like it’s a fact, like it isn’t even up for debate, makes my chest ache. Because it’s what I want from the right man: to be non-negotiably important.
I lean back against the seat, trying for bravado. “So tell me. You actually fixing that Chevy or just pretending for show?”
“Belongs to Mrs. Ortega. She’s had me keeping it going since I was sixteen. Promised her I would make it last.”
The quiet stretches, thick and charged. I should look away. Instead, I drink him in. Grease on his skin, sweat darkening his collar, the steadiness in his gaze that makes me feel like he’s trying to get me to fold.
I swallow hard. “Well. Don’t let me distract you.”
“You always distract me.” He says it so quickly, I almost expect him to laugh, say he’s joking, but he doesn’t.
My heart flips. I mask it with a smirk and a joke. “Careful. People will start talking.”
“They already do.”
I grip the wheel tighter. “Then I'd better keep driving.”
He shrugs, his fingers dragging once across the edge of my window. “Suit yourself. Offer stands.”
I force myself to put the car in gear. “Goodnight, Scotty.”
“Night, Barbie.”
By the time I hit the end of his driveway, a stupid idea starts to take shape. The Mustang in Dad’s barn, my first car, the one Scotty helped me pick out when I was sixteen, still sits under a tarp collecting dust.
What if I asked him to help me fix it? It’s practical, harmless. Productive, even.
He likes projects, and I… well, I like reasons to be near him that don’t look like a confession. Maybe if we’re under the hood, I can keep whatever this thing between us is contained.
Chapter 2
Scotty
Before sunrise, the world belongs to me and my mares.
The sky is still black-blue, a few stars still twinkling while the mountains crouch against the horizon. The only sounds are the horses shifting in their stalls, the crunch of my boots against the earth, and the quiet creak of the old gate hinge I keep meaning to fix.
