I’m weightless against him. Lightheaded. And instead of scrambling off him, my stupid hands itch to touch him more while they’ve got the chance.
I release a shaky breath and say something quick so he can’t see right through me.
“Sorry, that was stupid.” I push to stand, but his strong grip wraps around my wrist, keeping me close. But it’s not intimate. It’s more laced with concern.
Deep blue eyes pin mine. “Why was it stupid?”
He holds my gaze, and I don’t want to break free. As awkward as this should feel, I don’t want to move. But I do.
Gently pushing off, I answer, “Because you’re right. It’s too important to make mistakes. And my pride got the better of me. You do it. I’ll .?.?. I’ll go grab coffee or something.” I pull strands of my hair out of my mouth.
He stares at me for a moment before nodding. “Good idea.” His voice is gruff as he adjusts in his seat.
“Do you, um, want anything?”
“I’m good.” His eyes drop to my midsection before he turns away. “You might want to .?.?. fix your blouse.”
I blink down and adjust my shirt—making a mental note to adjust my bra too after I walk out.
Then I think better of it.
What if someoneseesme adjust my bra outside his office? What will they think?
One thing I’ve never been issubtle. I’m as blunt and awkward as they come.
So when I toss my messenger bag over my head and try to reposition my bra in the same instance, I’m sure I look like a one-woman circus act.
But it gets the job done. Sort of.
When I look over at Wilder, expecting to find an annoyed cowboy, I’m shocked to find his hand lightly covering the smirk on his gorgeous face as he watches me.
“Yeah, well, you try wearing one of these,” I mutter on my way out.
The Shack is charming in a way that surprised me the first time Wesley showed me around. It’s not all rustic summer camp cafeteria like I’d expected. It’s more like a mountain ski lodge.
The kitchen is warm with sheer curtains to allow the sun to soak through and round oak tables that feel more personal and intimate for smaller groups.
The walls are filled with framed memories. I’ve spotted my brother in several over the last few days. I never truly understood why he loved it here so much until I studied each one. There’s life in his eyes. And best of all, he’s doing what he loves: cooking, baking, and .?.?. peopling.
One thing we’re both decent at.
It’s why I wanted to be a therapist. Still do. But how am Isupposed to look at people every day and tell them they’re going to be all right, when I don’t believe the same for myself?
It’s a lie.
Art doesn’t lie. It tells a story, lets you use your imagination. But I don’t want to make it my life. I want it to be something I do without the pressure of monetizing it. I want to paint when it feels right, not because it’s Monday morning and I need to sell seven pieces by the end of the week to make a car payment.
Maybe that’s not what being an artist is, but for a while, it might be. And I’m smart enough to know that I need to depend on something else.
Wes is one of the lucky ones. He found it instantly. And he found it here.
My brother storms out of the walk-in fridge with a fresh carton of eggs in one hand and a loaf of bread in the other.
I take another sip of my coffee. “You know I’m on the clock, right? Just toss me another one of those cappuccino muffins and I’ll be on my way.”
“You’re in my kitchen, you eat what I make you.” He winks with a smirk, then starts to move around with the kind of ease that comes from years of repetition. It reminds me of all the times he was back home from school, either for the summer or winter break, and showed off all the cool things he’d learned.
“Do you cook for events here too?” I ask, resting my chin on my hand as I watch him whip up some eggs. I’ve seen the ledgers with parties they book on the ranch. Rodeos, weddings, anniversaries, corporate retreats. I can’t imagine he caters them all.
