Page 105 of Second Rodeo
“I’m so sorry,” I rasp, forehead to hers, eyes wet. “For every moment that I almost ruined us.”
She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to. Instead, she moves harder against me, rolling her hips and lifting them up on me, eyes fierce, lips trembling, giving me the only absolution I’ll ever need, her body and her trust. And it’s enough. For now. But I know myself. And I know this woman. Someday, I’ll ask her to remarry me. For real this time with vows and promises we both mean. No running. No fear. Just forever.
And when she says yes, I’ll spend every day giving her the family she’s dreamed about and the love she’s always deserved.
Chapter 44: Regan
When I wake up the next morning, there’s a soft, persistent buzzing somewhere in the distance. It fades in and out like a warning I don’t want to hear, the kind you only half register in that fragile space between dreaming and waking.?
I blink against the soft morning light, the air around me still warm with the lingering heat of him, and realize I’m in Hayes’s bed. Where he carried me last night. Where he made love to me like it meant something. Where he told me he loved me and then, without even trying, showed me that I’ve been in love with him too.
I don’t remember the last few months, not in the way I wish I could, but I’ve always trusted energy more than words. And last night? I could feel his. It was electric and steady and filled with this bone-deep ache that matched my own. Something about the way he touched me—like I was familiar and sacred and his—told me everything I needed to know to clear any lingering doubts. Ibelieve him when he says he told me he wanted more during our second wedding. And I believe I felt that same way, too at the time.
Because the way I feel right now isn’t some vague nostalgia for memories lost. It’s something much sharper. A craving. A longing not for the past, but for him. For who we are right now. For the space we’re carving out together in this soft, quiet beginning in a home we both love.
I tug the sheet around me, legs brushing against warm cotton as I swing out of bed, the scent of him and where he kissed, bit and sucked on my skin after we made love multiple times in the quiet of the night, still clings to my skin like perfume.
I pad down the stairs, the wood creaking under my bare feet, the morning light pouring through the old windows I’m sure we’ll need to replace soon in slow golden ribbons.
The buzzing starts again. Louder this time and I realize it’s coming from the kitchen’s coffee maker. I step into the room and find it already prepped, Hayes’s signature all over it. The carafe is full and ready. And there’s a note beside it that catches my eye. It’s written on a scrap of yellow notepad paper, his handwriting quick and masculine, a little crooked in places like he was in a hurry but didn’t want to skip a word.
***
Not sure if you’re ready to see these, but I wanted you to have the choice.
These are photos from our first and second weddings.
Molly got them developed and dropped them off while I was waiting for you to come home from the hospital.
I didn’t even know she took some of them.
You look beautiful in every picture.
I love you,
-H
***
My throat tightens instantly.
There’s a soft-bound photo book sitting beside the note, totally unmarked, no title or label. Innocent looking. Unassuming. But it feels heavier than it looks.
I take a deep breath and press the button on the coffee maker. The machine hums to life, and I pour a cup as the scent of dark roast curls up around me, grounding me.
The mug is familiar—one I must’ve brought from my childhood home when I first moved into the Manor. Pale blue with a crack near the handle and just the letterRengraved into it. It was the one my dad bought me when I got into drinking tea every morning before school.
I tuck the photo book under one arm and head into the living room, cheeks flushing as I glance at the couch and remember some of the things that Hayes and I have done here. The places he’s touched me, the way that I always melt into his rough hands when he touches me.
I sink into the cushions, legs folded under me, coffee warming my palms. And then, with a steady breath, I open the book.
The first image has me gasping, my heart thudding out of my chest. It’s one of Hayes and me, standing across from each other at the Whitewood Creek courthouse. He’s got a twitch at the corner of his lips, like he’s trying not to laugh. I’m in denim cutoffs and a white tee looking completely uncoordinated. He’s in a button-down white shirt and khaki colored pants, looking more dressed up than I’ve ever seen him.
We’re not touching but we’re looking directly at each other, and something’s there. Something’s between us that only a picture can capture. The officiant stands between us, reading us our rights, and my hands are twisted nervously in front of me. But Hayes—he looks happy. Calm. Not like a man being dragged into a sham. Like a man choosing something. Maybe not love. But something.
The next page is me outside the courthouse, fist pumping the air like I just won the damn lottery. Hayes is laughing at me, head tipped back, and something about the soft lines in his face, the crinkles around his eyes, makes it feel like this way always more than convenience.
I flip to another one, this one clearly taken by a stranger in the parking lot. Me, Molly, Colt, and Hayes all draped over one another outside the courthouse. Even my twin is smiling wide. Hayes’s arm is casually slung around my shoulder like it belongs there. And it does. God, itdoes.
