Rope the Moon (Runaway Ranch, #2)(53)

Wildest dreams, right?

The man’s still as amazing in bed as I remember.

For one night, we went back. Uprooted everything. I should feel embarrassed about how I begged, how I lost it. But after two years of hell with Aiden, all I feel is relieved. My trauma is separate from Davis. Because he is not trauma. He is safe. Strong. Everything I haven’t had in so long.

I had sex. I orgasmed. I forgot I was pregnant, that everything in my life burned down.

One night won’t magically change anything between us, but it means everything to me.

My heart leaps as I scan my eyes over Davis. I reach for him, delicately tracing my fingertips over the steel muscle of his biceps, before dancing them through the dusting of dark hair on his chest. For once, the man looks peaceful in sleep. No nightmares.

The thought of it hits me like a punch in the gut.

Nightmares.

And I’m the cause.

He was keeping it close to his chest. Only tonight, seeing the taut lines of tension in his face, hearing his choked words…

He thought of me. He missed me. He dreams of me.

I roll on my back and glare at the ceiling.

Stop, Dakota.

I’ve got to stop adding hope to the mix.

I need my life back. And it doesn’t include Davis.

A hunger pain slices through my stomach. I hiss a breath and look down at the small bud of my belly. Note to self: skipping dinner for sex isn’t the best idea.

Even if it feels like it was.

I kick off the sheets and slip on an old T-shirt of Davis’s. In search of a midnight snack, I quietly pad down the stairs to the kitchen.

When I open the fridge and scour the contents, the recipe automatically assembles in my head. I’ve always seen it like a game of Tetris. But instead of blocks, images slide into place.

With only three ingredients, I could whip up soft-boiled eggs on Greek yogurt with a side of buttered sourdough. Instead, I settle for helping myself to a strawberry yogurt. One bite calms the hunger pains and a content feeling spreads through me.

It’s the witching hour. Prime baking time. I can feel it in my bones.

As I eat, I watch the moon through the window.

My gaze slides over the ranch, the large gate in the distance, the snow on the ground.

If Aiden’s in Resurrection, he won’t make my life easy, but I believe Davis. I trust him. If he says I’m safe, I’m safe.

What I have to do is get it together. I have so much to plan and prepare. Apartment. Job. Sanity. I can’t let myself—or my baby—down.

A shuffle of noise behind me has me turning.

Davis, wearing gray sweatpants and a furrowed brow I long to smooth out with my fingers, stands in the kitchen, Keena beside him.

“What’s wrong?” he rasps, voice thick with sleep.

“Nothing.” I smile and hold up my spoon. “Just hungry.” My gaze drops to my stomach. “Or should I say the baby’s hungry?”

He takes a tentative step forward, like some massive machine. The bullet wound on his shoulder is a constant reminder of the hero he is. “That’s not enough protein. You want something else?”

I drop the spoon into the sink. “No. This’ll do it. You were right about me taking care of myself. I’ll do a better job. And thank you.” Heat creeps into my cheeks. “For tonight. For everything.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”

I wiggle my fingers at Keena, reach for a box of dog treats. “You want one, girl?”

She looks at me, sniffs, then turns and exits the kitchen.

“Don’t worry about Keena,” Davis says, his arms folded across his mile-wide chest. “Sometimes she holds a temporary grudge because she’s dramatic.”

“And I thought Fallon was bad.”

He chuckles and crosses the kitchen to run his hands down my shoulders. “What else do we need?”

I blink at him. “What?”

His eyes drift over my face. “In this kitchen, for you to bake.”

I open my lips to tell him to stop it, but in his gaze, I see myself. I see him six years ago. Angry. Defeated. Broken. And I see what he’s trying to do. Not fix. Push.

“Knives,” I tell him.

“We have knives.”

I scoff and palm his chest. Revel in the feel of his hot, hard muscle. “Good knives, Hotshot. A knife so sharp I can slice an apple mid-air.” I return my attention to the kitchen. “And a mixer. A big one.”

“How about this?” Eyes lit with a wicked gleam, he opens a drawer to expose an ancient hand mixer.

I shudder and pin him with a stern stare. “That is an act of war, Davis Montgomery.”

The deep, velvet sound of his laughter fills the kitchen. It’s so beautiful, so earnest, it loosens the rock in my chest.

“I’ll get you all that and more,” he says, his smile fading. His eyes are now hard, commanding. “But first, I need to talk to you about what happened today.”

I bite my lip, hating to relive today. “I swear I saw him, Davis.”

He’s quiet for a long second, then he says, “I believe you. I put in a call to Richter. He’s going to pull security footage and see if we can spot him.”

“What if he’s in town?” I step closer to him, expecting him to pull away, but he takes me in his arms. “What if he comes to the ranch?”