Page 35 of Oops, I Fell For The Ranch Hand Next Door

“I need a shower.” She pulls the hair from her clip, letting honey-colored waves fall around her shoulders. “Want to join me?”

The invitation sends want racing down my spine. I close the distance between us and pull her against me so she can register exactly what that question does to my body.

“Yeah,” I say against her throat. “I want to join you.”

Water pounds from the showerhead, steam rising to fog the mirror. I map her body with soapy palms, the curve of her waist, the swell of her hips, every inch of softness she used to hide. She’s stopped tensing when I touch her belly, stopped trying to redirect my attention toward parts of herself she deems acceptable. Now she stands under the spray, letting me worship her the way she deserves.

“Eli.” My name comes out breathless when I cup her breasts, thumbs circling nipples already tight. “We’re supposed to be showering.”

“We are.” I press my mouth to the curve where her neck meets her shoulder, tasting clean skin and the particular flavor that’s just her. “I’m very thorough with the soap.”

She laughs, actually laughs, the sound bouncing off tile and filling the space with joy I’ve spent four years forgetting existed. We stay in until the water runs cool, and I dry her with the kind of attention that makes her skin flush.

“We have two hours before dinner,” I tell her, settling beside her on rumpled sheets. “Want to take a nap?”

“I’m not tired.” But her eyes are drifting closed, her body going boneless against mine with the trust of someone who’s finally safe enough to rest.

I hold her while she drifts off, one hand stroking through her damp hair. The woman who couldn’t accept coffee without apologizing is sleeping in my bed, our bed, in the middle of the afternoon without guilt. The nurse who measured her worth by how much she could give is learning to receive without calculating the cost.

Cash texts asking if I’m bringing Jessie to the Horseshoe Friday. The entire town wants to meet her. I’ll ask tonight. She needs to be ready for that level of small-town scrutiny, for questions about where she came from and why she’s staying.

She stirs against me, face turning into my ribs. I tighten my arms around her.

An hour passes. She wakes slowly, blinking against the afternoon light slanting through the windows. The first thing she does is press her lips to my sternum, right over the scar. The gesture cracks me open every time, her particular way of saying I witness your wounds and I’m staying anyway.

“What time is it?” Her voice comes out rough with sleep.

“Four-thirty. We should get dressed.”

She groans but doesn’t argue, just rolls out of bed and pads naked to the dresser that’s now half-hers. I absorb her movement in the sway of her hips, how sunlight warms her skin, the unselfconscious way she exists in my space now. Our space. She pulls on underwear, jeans, and a green shirt I’ve never seen that makes her eyes sparkle.

“You’re staring.” She doesn’t turn around, but I can hear the smile in her voice.

“I’m appreciating.” I stand, crossing to press against her back. My arms come around to band across her stomach. “Big difference.”

She leans into me, head tipping back against my shoulder. “I love you,” she says to our reflection in the mirror over the dresser. “I know I say it too much. I just need you to hear it.”

“It’s never too much.” I kiss her temple. “Say it every day for the rest of your life and it still won’t be enough.”

Her hand comes up to cover mine where it’s splayed across her stomach. She squeezes once in acknowledgment, agreement. We’re building toward forever even if we haven’t named it yet.

We walk to the main lodge through golden hour air gone thick with approaching rain. The sky’s bruised purple to the east, clouds building over the hills in the particular pattern that means storms by midnight. The meadow glows in the western light, bluebonnets swaying in the same patterns they made when I found her standing in a meadow a month ago. She’d looked like someone who never knew she was allowed to breathe. Now she’s leaning into me, and the only thing she’s forgotten is how to be afraid.

The lodge is warm and cheerful when we enter. Cash and Sloane stand near the fireplace with champagne. Louanne emerges from the kitchen, and Rev sits at the far end with his sweet tea, weathered face creasing into a smile.

“There they are.” Cash raises his glass. “The couple of the hour.”

Jessie’s grip on my hand tightens fractionally. Her shoulders draw in half an inch, that old minimizing pattern surfacing for just a heartbeat before I press my thumb into her palm in our grounding gesture, reversed. Her spine straightens. Her shoulders drop. I guide her to the table with my palm on her lower back.

Louanne sets down the platter and immediately pulls Jessie into a hug that lifts her off her feet. “About time you made an honest woman of yourself. Sloane said you signed the paperwork.”

“I did.” Jessie’s voice is solid when Louanne releases her. “I’m officially staying.”

“Damn right you are.” Louanne turns to me with eyes gone suspiciously bright. “You did good, Eli. Real good.”

The words land heavier than she probably intended. Like finding Jessie and convincing her to stay was an achievement instead of just showing up when she needed me to. Maybe that’s what doing good actually means: being present when it matters, refusing to let someone shatter alone, building a life solid enough that deciding to stay feels safer than running.

We take our seats. Cash pours champagne for everyone except Rev, who sticks to his sweet tea with the stubbornness of someone who’s earned the right to his preferences. Plates are passed. Food is served. Conversation flows with the ease of family instead of coworkers, and I keep my hand on Jessie’s thigh under the table. It’s anchoring her, reminding her she belongs exactly here.