“Cash has his chicks, Colt has the distillery and breweries, Lawson’s the marketing and sales genius that drives and tracks the revenue. And me? What do I have? A fledgling wedding business that could crash before it even takes off. This was supposed to be my thing. My stamp. But what if I… what if I suck at this? What if I can’t pull it off because I don’t even understand it? Mrs. Mayberry knew love; shelivedit with Mr. Mayberry. Even when he was gone, she kept his memory alive. Me? I’ve never felt that all-consuming, gut-punch kind of love that makes you want to stand in front of everyone and say, ’Yeah, I’ll pick this person forever. I vow to always love and protect them.Their dreams are my dreams now.’How do I sell a dream that I’ve never experienced?”
“Regan,” I say again, my voice dropping lower now, more gravel than words, a warning or maybe a plea for her to listen to me. I crouch beside her, close enough to feel the tension vibrating off her in waves, but she doesn’t even blink.
She clutches a crumpled sheet of paper in her fist, lifting it to the sky like it holds answers, like it might steady her spiraling thoughts. But it doesn’t. Not even close.
“And maybe I’ve bitten off more than I can chew,” she whispers, her eyes darting across the scattered words full of unchecked boxes. “We just moved in. The cottages aren’t even cleaned out. People will be walking through them like it’s some curated tour, judging every speck of dust that remains. The pond is murky. The barn’s still a disaster. Cash has the outdoor setup finished on the farmstead, but it feels like we’re holding this whole thing together with duct tape and prayer. Something’s going to slip through the cracks, I can feel it. And when it does I…” She trails off, her voice finally breaking, not into sobs but into heavy silence like she can’t form a coherent thought.
"Regan,” I say, my hand closing gently but firmly around her wrist trying to ground her to where she is. Her head jerks up, blue eyes snapping to mine, wide and glassy under the dim glow of the living room lamp.
“Good,” I murmur, holding her gaze. “I’ve got your attention now.”
She blinks, her breath catching, and for a second, all her spiraling thoughts seem to still as we gaze into one another’s eyes. She looks so damn pretty in the late evening light filtering through the window, her hair a tousled halo around her, the light catching the bits of red and making it look like it’s on fire, lips slightly parted from the rush of her rambling.
I’m bone-tired, muscles aching from my shift, but none of that matters right now. I’m off tomorrow. I can sleep then. Right now, she needs me more than I need rest. And if I’m being honest, there’s something endearing about watching her unravel—this woman who’s usually unflappable, now a mess of lists and worries. It makes me want to anchor her because I know what it’s like to spiral into the unknown. To feel like I don’t know where I’m going next and need someone to help guide you.
“Give me a list of five things I can help you with tomorrow,” I say, voice low, steady.
She shakes her head, biting her lip, the stubborn streak I’ve come to know flashing in her eyes. “No, I can handle this. You’ve been working all night,saving lives,and I don’t want you waking up to help me. I have my brothers. I can do this.”
I arch a brow. “I didn’t ask. I’m telling you to give me the damn list. I’ll check those things off tomorrow first thing when I wake up.”
She blinks again, surprised by my insistence. “Are you… are you sure?”
“We’re a team, Regan. The money that this property earns is business for both of us. It supports what I plan to do with the barn. Let me be part of your team.”
She hesitates, her resolve crumbling as she studies my face like she’s trying to find a loophole, an excuse to say no. But finally, she exhales, shoulders sagging just a little before she pushes to stand up. I meet her stance.
“Okay,” she whispers. “That would be really nice.”
“What are the five things you can assign to me?”
She glances down at the crumpled sheet of paper in her hand. “Um… let me see. I wrote this last night when I was in bed spiraling, so some of it might not make much sense.”
I smirk, waiting.
“I need the lawn here mowed. Cash is handling it at the farmstead.”
“Done.”
“Flowers… I placed the order with the florist, but they need to be picked up tomorrow morning. I know it’s two days early, but Scarlett and I will get the bundles together ahead of time for the tables. There are flowers for the venue next door and then for here, and the cottages.”
“Got it. What else?”
“The pond. I want to be sure it’s as clean as possible on the surface.”
I nod, stepping closer, the space between us shrinking with each beat of my heart. She notices—I can tell by the way her breathing picks up, the slight tremble in her fingers as she scans her list. I don’t stop. I like the way she feels my presence before I eventouch her. I like knowing that she can’t help reacting to me as much as I react to her.
“What else, Regan?” I whisper, my voice a soft rasp that seems to pull her gaze up, locking it with mine.
She swallows, her throat working as she glances back at the sheet, then at me again. “I… Oh…” Her cheeks flush red as her eyes scan over the list rapidly.
“What did you write?” I press. “What’s the next thing?”
The flush creeps down her neck and across her chest, a delicate pink spread that’s fucking adorable. She never gets embarrassed around me, which means whatever’s on that list is going to be good.
Before she can tug it away, I snatch the paper from her hand, my eyes scanning over her scribbles until I hit number thirty-five:
Give myself at least three orgasms so that I stop freaking out about how this is going to go and stop thinking about Hayes sexy face.
