He turns toward the hallway, and—hell—the way his ass fits in those jeans is pure perfection.
“You’re ridiculous,” I call after him, still breathless.
He pauses just past the doorway, and—hell—the man has the audacity to glance over his shoulder with a cocky grin. “Darlin’, if being ridiculous gets me that kiss and a front-row seat to that bikini? Then buckle up, ‘cause I’m about to win gold in that damn event.”
A cackle escapes me as he walks down the hall.
Then he turns—without looking back—he tosses over his shoulder, “In fact, I’m gonna spend the rest of the day imagining how fast I could untie that bikini with my teeth.”
I shake my head and chuckle as his footsteps fade, and moments later I hear his truck rumble to life outside.
And just like that, the house feels too quiet.
Since our night together in the shower, there's been a shift between us—a delicious, terrifying intimacy I can't quite name.
Sighing, I decide to abandon my search for a decent swimsuit or my spare one and I wander into the kitchen instead, open the fridge, stare into it like it might offer life advice. It doesn't. Just leftover brisket, a turkey sandwich and a suspicious jar of pickled jalapeños.
With a groan, I shut the door and lean on the counter, unable to think about eating food right now. I should write. I should swim. I should do anything besides stand here thinking about the way Grant's lips felt on mine and his calloused hands on my waist.
I bite my lip.
Distraction. I need a distraction.
Grant mentioned he’d tucked away some of my things in his office when he cleared out the cottage. Not just my spareswimsuit, but maybe also my camera tripod, or my bag of travel adapters, which, yes, I still mourn the loss of like fallen comrades.
Maybe I can dig out the adapter and charge my recorder for once. That’s as good an excuse as any, right?
I pad down the hall and hesitate at the doorway to his study. I've never been in here alone. It feels invasive somehow, crossing a boundary. But he did say he put some of my things in here, so...
I step inside, half-expecting alarms to go off. None do. The room smells like leather and cedar, like worn books and faint cologne, and something purelyhim. The desk is stacked with paperwork, notebooks, a cowboy hat perched on one corner like it's supervising.
The office is meticulously organized—surprising for a man who leaves his boots in the middle of the hallway like landmines. Everything here has a place. Labeled binders. A color-coded calendar pinned to the corkboard. A worn leather chair tucked just so behind a broad wooden desk that screams authority, history,him.
My gaze drifts back to the edge of that desk, and heat rushes to my cheeks before I can stop it.
Two days ago, I wasn’t just standing here.
I was bent over that desk, his hands on my hips, his breath hot at my ear, the paperwork on the floor like forgotten confetti. I can still feel the faint sting of his stubble against my skin, the low growl in his throat when I whispered his name. It plays in my head like a fever dream, vivid and unrelenting.
I press my fingers to the edge of the desk now, tracing the woodgrain, and my legs threaten mutiny at the memory.The desk is warm from the morning sun flooding in through the massive windows behind it, the same ones that overlook the west pasture. It’s all so scenic, sopastoral, and I had the audacity to fall apart right here, with that view stretching wide behind me.
The thought sends a shiver down my spine.
This room holds more than ranch ledgers and rodeo schedules now. It holdsus. A version of us I didn’t see coming. A version ofmeI didn’t know existed—desperate, aching, so utterly unguarded it terrified me.
I force myself to breathe and shake my head, looking over the rest of the room.
One wall is lined with framed rodeo photos, and another holds a rack of medals and a vintage Portree fire brigade jacket. Many of the photos feature a young boy who must be Jake—his grin wide, mischief written all over his face. But it’s the photo nestled near the back that stops me cold. Grant and Mason, both in sharp suits and masquerade ball masks, caught mid-laugh at what looks like a charity gala. My knees wobble like a baby deer on ice.
Because damn. Grant in a suit?
It should be illegal to look that good in formalwear. Broad shoulders straining against crisp fabric, that confident tilt of his jaw—even with half his face hidden behind a mask, he’s unmistakable. Rugged cowboy by day, undercover James Bond by night.
I open the closest drawer, finding only office supplies.
“This is ridiculous,” I tell myself. “Just text him and ask.”
But my phone is charging in the kitchen, and honestly, how hard can it be to find a bag of chargers and a swimsuit?
