Page 52 of Careless Hope
Walker reached out, his rough hand covering mine, stilling its nervous motion. “Everyone’s path is different. Doesn’t make yours any less important or fulfilling.”
“But there have been disappointments,” I continued, my voice laced with the remnants of past hurt. “Dates that ended with a handshake instead of a goodnight kiss. Moments when I thought there might be a connection, only to find out he was interested in anyone but the shy, nerdy med student.”
“Hey,” Walker said gently, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. “You’re not that girl anymore. You’re a brilliant doctor, Caroline. A woman who’s come back to her roots, ready to giveback to the town that raised her. And besides, if that’s all they thought of you, then they damn sure don’t belong in your panties.”
“Maybe. Yet here I am,” I countered, “asking for lessons in something most people figure out in the backseat of a car by their seventeenth birthday.”
“Nothing wrong with waiting, or with wanting to learn,” he replied with an ease that suggested he truly believed it. “Besides, I’ve seen you with your patients. You’re compassionate, attentive . . . If you bring even a fraction of that dedication to . . . this,” he gestured vaguely between us, “you’ll be more than fine.”
“Practice makes perfect, right?” I tried to joke, though my laugh sounded hollow to my own ears.
“Exactly,” Walker agreed, the twinkle returning to his eyes. “And I reckon I’m a patient teacher. But only if you really want this and are sure about it.”
We shared a look then, something shifting in the space between us—a mixture of anticipation and a newfound understanding. And under the steady gaze of those clear blue eyes, my fears began to dissipate.
“Caroline,” he said, his voice low and steady, “you’ve spent your life mastering things most folks wouldn’t dare touch. If you can navigate the human body, saving lives, then trust me, you can navigate this.” He gestured around my room, but the implication was clear—it wasn’t the room we were trying to figure out.
I sighed, tucking my hair behind my ear, feeling the weight of years spent in pursuit of a career—a calling—that had left little room for personal exploration. “But it’s different, Walker. Medicine is science; there are books, studies. This—” I paused, searching for words that wouldn’t betray the heat creeping into my cheeks, “—this is about feeling.”
“Maybe so,” he conceded, his gaze never wavering from mine, “but feelings ain’t foreign to you, Caroline. You’re one of the most empathetic people I know. And desire? It’s just another feeling—one you’re entitled to.”
I found myself studying the patterns in the weave of the quilt beneath me, tracing the lines and curves as if they might spell out a solution. “It’s just that lately, I’ve been . . . curious,” I admitted hesitantly. “I started reading some romance novels—you know, the ones with the bikers and mercenaries and,” I paused, feeling my cheeks redden, “cowboys who always seem to know exactly what to do?”
His chuckle was a rich sound that seemed to resonate through the room. “I reckon I’m familiar with the type.”
My eyes flicked up to meet his, and I saw not mockery but genuine amusement dancing in those light blue depths. “Well, they’ve made me feel . . . sexual, for lack of a better word. They’ve woken up parts of my imagination I didn’t even realize were asleep.”
“Nothing wrong with a little awakening,” Walker replied, shifting to sit closer, his movements deliberate yet unhurried. “And if those books got you thinking, got you wanting more, then I’d say they did their job.”
“Even if it’s a little late in the game?” My question was tinged with the vulnerability that came from revealing a piece of my inner world, one that had remained untouched for far too long.
“Caroline,” he said, and there was a reverence in his voice that made me look at him anew, “there’s no expiration date on discovering what brings you joy. So, tell me about these cowboy heroes of yours. What have they taught you?”
Laughter bubbled up from somewhere deep inside me, surprising in its lightness. “I don’t think you want to know.”
“Try me,” he challenged, a lopsided grin spreading across his face.
“Fine,” I relented, rolling my eyes in mock exasperation. “They’ve taught me that sometimes, the right person can make you feel alive in ways you never expected.”
“Sounds like a good lesson to me,” Walker murmured, his hand reaching out to gently tilt my chin upward, ensuring our eyes remained locked.
“And maybe that . . . being manhandled and fucked hard outdoors is what every woman needs sometimes.”
I chuckled but Walker didn’t. He breathed in deep like he was trying to stay in control.
“There it is. Desire.”
“Desire.”
The air between us was charged now, the kind of electricity that heralded a storm rolling in over the ranch—a storm that promised to change the landscape in its wake. And as I looked into Walker’s eyes, I realized that perhaps I was ready for a little thunder.
Outside, the moon cast a silver glow that crept through the curtains, adding to the surreal feeling that tonight wasn’t just any night. That I wasn’t just any version of myself.
“Are you cold?” Walker asked, his voice low and laced with an undercurrent of something new. It was concern mixed with the kind of anticipation that makes your heart beat in double-time.
“No,” I replied, my answer more breath than word. I’d felt my nipples harden, which is why he asked. But it had nothing to do with the temperature.
Walker’s fingers—those same hands that had soothed many a spooked horse—trailed along my arm with a tenderness that belied their roughness. He treated me like something precious, and it was both empowering and disarming.
