He exhales slowly, leaning back further, his eyes shifting to the fire.
“This is a one-of-a-kind property. There’s nothing else like it in Whitewood Creek. Since retiring from bull riding, I’ve been missing something. Turns out, it’s this. Animals and riding. Residency sucked the life out of me, and my first job in Charlotte took away most of my free time. I moved here with a purpose, to be a big doctor in a little town, to slow down, and to own a horse farm with some stables. To get into riding and giving lessons but also to keep the thrill of being a doctor with a little less chance of dying each day I go to work.”
I nod because that makes sense. He saw a great opportunity and didn’t want to give it up. Just like me. Though this place has always held a lot of personal meaning to me given my relationship to Mr. and Mrs. Mayberry.
“And you were okay with marriage?”
He shakes his head, eyes meeting mine again. “No, not really. Not at first.”
“What do you mean?”
“I never thought I’d get married. But you… you were different. I didn’t understand it at the time, but you were… safe. I was okay with it, with it being you. I wouldn’t have done it for anyone else.”
“I… I see.” I wet my lips again, breaking his gaze because it’s too much. There’s something behind the words that he’s saying,something that makes my chest feel too tight. “So, you grew to be okay with our living arrangements?”
He nods, his fingers reaching for a strand of my hair that’s spread over the back of the couch, twisting it easily like it’s something he’s done a thousand times. “I was more than okay with it.”
Okay…what does that mean?
“The first time we got married at the courthouse, I was nervous. Terrified. And then the second time... I wasn’t nervous at all. I wassure.”He says it so confidently it shocks me.
Sure...sure about what? About us?
“Did we…” I pause, swallowing hard as I meet his gaze.
I already know the answer. He doesn’t have to say it—I can see it in the way he’s looking at me, like he remembers every second of whatever it is that I’ve forgotten. It’s in the way that he looked at me when I saw him out by the barn earlier today. His hazel eyes darken slightly but he doesn’t break our gaze and though the amount of eye contact we’re making right now should be overwhelming since we’re practically strangers, something tells me that we weren’t.
Aren’t.
But I need to hear him say it.
“Go on,” he says, his voice lower now, rougher. “Ask the question, Regan. I know you want to know, and I’ll tell you.”
I force the words out, my pulse thundering in my ears. “Did we have… a moment?”
He chuckles, low and deep. “We did.”
“More than one moment?”
His fingers tighten in my hair, tugging gently as if he’s holding himself back from touching me and this is the most he’ll allow. “Mhm.”
He doesn’t meet my eyes now, like looking at me might be too much. And I don’t blame him, because looking at him is too much.
The sharp cut of his jaw, the strength behind it. The firelight flickering against his skin. His chest, broad and solid against a tight, black t-shirt, rising and falling with each breath. His hand is still tangled in my hair, and my body is warm—warm from the fire, warm from something else entirely. He’s sitting close, way closer than friends would sit and if I shift just slightly, our bodies would be pressed against each other.
And despite the fact that I just got home from a date with Declan—my ex-boyfriend who I don’t remember ending things with—I can’t remember a single reason why what we’re doing right now is wrong. Because Declan isn’t my boyfriend. I broke up with him. I turned down his engagement. Put him in the past and I told him tonight there would be no do over.
Hayes is myhusband.
A thrill shoots through me. The weight of it settles deep in my bones, in the pit of my stomach. My husband. The man sitting inches away, looking at me like I hold every answer he’s ever needed. Like I’m the only thing in the world he sees. The man whose body I remember like a good story.
I don’t remember anything about our time living in this house together. And God, I want to. I want to know everything. Every whispered word. Every touch. Every sin we committed under this roof, but at least I remember that night seven years ago and for now, that’s enough.
“Where?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
His brows knit together. “Where, what?”
“Where werethemoments?”
