Damn, it’s been a long day. I say goodbye to Bill Douglas, my lead hand for the evening, and climb into my Ford F150. He's more than capable of wrapping up. All that's left is to restock the hay shed and he’s got the three ranch hands he pulled away from the cattle barn to lend a hand. The man's a competent, trustworthy, hardworking employee. He started off as one of my dad’s ranch hands close to ten years ago and barely missed a day of work for all that time. But I have to admit that for the past three days, it's been a heck of a lot easier to let him take the lead on these kinds of tasks.

I'm distracted, mostly because I've got more important things to worry about.

One thing.

My mind is on Lila. It's been three days since I saw her outside the bank, and she's all I can think about. She’s been gone for years, but now that I have the means to reach her, going for three whole days without hearing from her is a long, long time. Of course, I’m sure she’s busy settling into her new place, getting ramped up in her new job, catching up with her mother and local friends. But I’m greedy. I want some of that time and attention on me next.

So, I have questions. A lot of questions that start with the word 'when'. When will I see her again? When are we going to clear the air and talk? When can I take her in my arms and pull her close? When am I finally going to taste her lips and have her completely?

The sheer idea that she's in town, physically here, well, it's damn near impossible not to picture her. I can't stop wondering about what she might be doing at any given second of every single day. Has she moved into her new place? Does she have friends or family to help her? Has she gone in to work for her first day at her new job yet? Does she like being back in town?

And when my head hits my pillow at night, knowing she's lying in bed only a few miles from where I am makes my nights damn near unbearable. I want her beside me. To bury my nose in her hair and run my hands over all her curves, lines and hollows. To feel her, skin against skin, our bodies intertwined, our limbs all tangled up.

I start to regret the fact that I opened my damn mouth and left things open as to when we'll see each other again. Boldly demanding to see her on a specific day might not have been a nice way to kick things off with her, but hell, it beats waiting. I should’ve asked her out, or offered to make her dinner at my place, even if it’s for one of the only two dishes I can cook worth a damn: barbecue steak with grilled potatoes, or barbecue ribs with grilled veggies. Cooking is a skill that evades me, but I can try. For Lila, I’d put some effort into learning. Hell, I’d do pretty much anything for this woman.

Anything but waiting. That’s one thing I don't believe I can do for much longer.

Every damn part of me is itching to get next to Lila. Mind, body, and soul.

And that fact is the reason I alter my driving route home this evening. Instead of turning left from the hay barn at the edge of the ranch, I go right. A three-mile ride on the main road leads me to Hemlock Drive.

It's probably not a good idea to be here. Showing up without an invitation or even a conversation isn't good manners. It might be bordering on stalking. But the truth is I'm way past being polite. I did that outside the bank, and although it got me her phone number, I'm still waiting. Holding out for answers. Letting more time get between us.

Well, I tell myself, this is my second chance and I'm not going to squander it by sitting on the sidelines wondering if and when she’ll come to me.

Hell, no.

Within a minute I slow down. The crunch of my truck tires rolling over the gravelly sidewalk draws my attention. I'm here, outside the two-story brick and beam starter house I believe Lila's moved into.

This must be the place. There are only seven homes on this street and I know the townspeople living at six of them. She picked out a house in a nice part of town.

Mostly couples and young families live here.

It's quiet this evening, probably because of the time. I imagine people are in the middle of preparing dinner. Some might be sitting down around dinner tables to have a meal and enjoy some quality time catching up on how they spent their day. That used to be me, back when my parents were alive. Gathering together for family meals was a big deal to my mother. Mom would sometimes have to drive out to the cattle hold to remind my dad it was time to eat. She’d come find me in my room or wherever I was working on chores so we could all be together at least for that one time every day.

I can't remember the last time I had a sit-down meal at my place. The dining room in the homestead I inherited from my parents reminds me too much of them. Being alone in there doesn’t quite feel right. One man, one person, well, it does not make a family.

Maybe now, with Lila...

Shutting off the engine, I step outside into the cooler evening air and head up the stone walkway to her front door. Her Chevy isn’t in the driveway, though it’s possible she parked in the garage. She’ll probably be in the middle of unpacking her things, rearranging the furniture to her liking, or adding some pieces to make the décor just right. Lila always had an eye for color.

She’ll probably be shocked to see me show up like this.

I catch a glance of the inside of the house through a curtainless bay window. The living room has light cream walls and a bright floral sofa in the middle. Yes, this is Lila’s place, all right. It’s a lot like the home she always wanted. She used to tell me about her dream of cheerful colors greeting her as she walked into her own place, that she wanted her home to be a sanctuary.

My gaze trails along the long wide hallway leading straight to the back section of the house and lands on Lila. She is seated at one end of a rich red-colored wooden dining table, her hair flowing down past the top of the high-back dining chair made from the same material. Her torso leans forward toward the bowls and trays on the tabletop, and her head turns slightly. From my view of her back, I can tell she’s having a meal. She’s in conversation with someone just out of my narrow line of sight through the window. It could be her mother. Or a friend from town. I raise my hand, still debating whether to knock on the front door or use the doorbell. This may not be a good time for her, after all. It starts to make more and more sense to leave her to her meal and send her a text later. But then the person Lila’s dining with reaches for a salad bowl. Large hands grip one side of the glass and big forearms flex as the person picks up the bowl effortlessly. Then their figure slowly comes into view. A thick red beard. A blond, low haircut. Broad shoulders and muscular pecs showing through a tight T-shirt.

That is not Lila’s mother.

I freeze with my hand in a fist just inches from the door. Disbelief, then disappointment, then pure, red-hot anger fills my chest at the sight in front of me. A man I’ve never seen before is having dinner with my Lila.

Is this guy…Lila’s man?

Before I can talk myself down, crazy, possessive, jealous thoughts fill my head. The temptation to break down her front door, charge into the room and pound this guy into oblivion is overpowering. He’s not the guy for her. I am. There has to be a mistake. Lila never said anything about being unavailable. She never said she was single either. We barely talked outside the bank, but I felt that spark between us. The same strong connection from years ago was still bouncing back and forth between us three days ago.

It was.

Or did I make a huge mistake?

Unable to make heads or tails of it, I turn around without knocking on her door and storm back to my pickup truck. What I need to do is get out of here before I do something stupid that I can’t undo.

But somehow, I can’t leave. I make it to my truck, then pivot around and return to Lila’s front door.

I’m not leaving until she understands that I’ve always been the only man for her.