Page 67 of That Moment
“Impatient,” she says. “Just like someone else I know.”
When she leans to hook the last bucket, her jeans stretch tight again, and I can’t stop the low noise that rumbles out of me.
“Those jeans should be illegal,” I say.
She looks back at me, teasing. “I’ve noticed you staring at them. I didn’t realize they were such a problem.”
“They’re a damn distraction.”
“Focus, Scotty,” she teases.
“Trying real hard.”
I reach around her, steadying the bucket, my chest brushing her back. She doesn’t move. My hand finds her hip, thumb sweeping the soft curve before I force myself to pull away. If I keep touching her, the horses are gonna get one helluva show.
She straightens, brushing hay from her shirt, pretending she’s composed. “You always this handsy with ranch help?”
“Only when they show up in jeans like this.” I grab two handfuls of her ass. “Just want to make sure you feel appreciated for your help.
“I must be very helpful then.”
“Too helpful,” I mutter.
We make a slow pass down the stalls, checking the feed, making sure the latches are secure. By the time we finish, the tension between us has eased into something quieter, steadier, but it’s still there, humming just beneath the quiet.
I hang the empty scoop and lean on the stall door, watching her wipe her hands on her jeans. The moonlight through the high window catches in her hair.
“Come on,” I say, nodding toward the brushes hanging on the wall. “They’re waiting.”
The sound of the brushes fills the barn, steady, rhythmic, almost soothing. The mares lean into it, tails flicking slowly, their breathing soft and even. Adrienne moves beside me, quiet, her sleeve brushing my arm every now and then.
She’s the first to speak. “When I said I didn’t know what I wanted anymore the other night…” Her voice trails off, almost like she regrets bringing it up.
“Yeah?” I keep my eyes on Rosa’s shoulder, but my pulse is already picking up.
“I meant it,” she says finally. “I love my job, but it’s not enough anymore. I want more. I want what my cousins have. A husband. Kids. A home that actually feels like one.”
Her tone softens. “It’s different for men. You get to take your time. For women, it feels like everything’s on a clock I can’t control.”
I stop brushing, lean on the stall rail. “You’re twenty-nine, Adrienne. You’ve got plenty of time.”
She shakes her head, jaw tightening. “It doesn’t feel like it.”
The quiet stretches. I study her profile in the low light; the way her hair falls over her shoulder, the determined line of her mouth. I can feel it, the weight of what she’s not saying. What I’m scared to ask.
I set the brush aside. “Adrienne.”
She looks up, eyes meeting mine.
I take a step closer, closing half the space between us, voice low and rough. “What do you want this to be?”
Her lips part, breath catching, but she doesn’t answer. For a long second, the air goes thick enough to drown in. Then—Headlights flash through the slats of the barn wall, bright and sudden, slicing right across us before fading down the road.
My gut twists.Axel.
The thought slams through me, sharp and cold, pulling me straight out of whatever that moment just was. I take a slow step back, forcing a breath, forcing distance.
I clear my throat. “Well,” I say, nodding toward the stalls, “that pretty much covers all the chores.”
