“I’m not staking anything,” I mutter, frustrated as fuck, whilst shooting Connor a glare that could torch fields. “She’s just… not the kind of girl you talk about like that.”
Connor raises a brow. “Like what?”
“Like she’s an option.”
Connor smirks at me and I want to punch his head in.
There’s a pause.
Then Dad chuckles low and slow. “Boy, you’regone. Hook, line, and sunk.”
I shove back from the table just slightly, needing space I can’t find. Mia's not mine. I know that. But just the idea of another man—especially one of my own brothers—asking about her like that?
It makes my blood run hot.
And I don’t like the way that feels.
Mama pats my hand as I collect her plate. “Alright, honey. We'll stop embarrassing you.” She pauses, then adds, “But I expect to meet this mystery woman soon, like for my birthday soon.” She gives me a wink and taps the side of her nose like some matchmaking, date arranging gangster.
“There's nothing to meet,” I insist. “She's leaving town as soon as she sorts out her travel issues.”
A momentary silence falls over the table, and I immediately regret my words. I've revealed too much—that I know about her travel troubles, that there's an expiration date to whatever this is between us.
“Well then,” Dad says finally, his voice uncharacteristically gentle, “maybe you should make the most of the time she's here.”
Thankfully, the conversation shifts to safer topics—ranch business, the upcoming festival, Christian's latest mishap with the tractor—but Dad's words linger in my mind long after we've finished the lunch.
Chapter 13
Grant
The early morning air clings cool to my skin, thick with dew and the quiet promise of another blistering day. The saddle creaks beneath me as Midnight carries us deeper into the quiet. The sky’s just beginning to blush, all pinks and golds bleeding across the eastern horizon like a slow burn.
Midnight’s hooves make soft, deliberate thuds along the dirt path, her breath visible in the crisp dawn. She doesn’t need much direction—just a loose rein and my weight leaning slightly to the left. She knows these trails like muscle memory as we set off to patrol the fence line, checking each fence post and strand of barbed wire for breaks or sagging lines along the ranch’s perimeter.
We pass the cottage across the road from my ranch house.
It's the kind of place you don’t notice until you do—and then you can’t stop staring. Weathered white wood and soft green shutters, the kind faded perfectly by time. A wrap-around porch hugs the frame like it’s holding the house together, its railing dotted with rusted lanterns and wildflower pots in mismatched ceramic. Morning mist curls through the garden, making the lavender and foxglove shimmer like something out of a damn fairytale. It shouldn’t feel magical, not this close to my own place—but it does. Like the land itself is holding its breath, waiting for something.
I give Midnight the lead, trusting her to follow the trail while my thoughts wander freely. They inevitably circle back to Mia—to the way her body felt pressed against mine, to the surprisingsoftness of her lips, to the close to panic in her eyes before she fled.
The path ahead forks, and I automatically guide Midnight to the right, away from the river. I haven't ridden the trail on the left since Jake died eight years ago. The realization hits me deep in my chest and I physically rub the spot—I'm still avoiding that water, still running from that pain.
Just like I've been running from anything real with women for the last eight years.
I've kept it casual, fun, temporary. No one gets close enough to see the guilt I carry, the fear that lingers beneath my confident exterior. No one except maybe Mason, who was there the day we pulled Jake's body from the water. Who watched me fall apart and never mentioned it again.
But Mia saw something. I could tell by the way she looked at me, like she was peeling back layers I didn't even know I had. It terrified me and strangely exhilarated me all the same.
“What the hell am I doing?” I mutter to Midnight, who flicks her ears as if to say, “finally asking the right question, dumbass.”
The saddle creaks beneath me as Midnight carries us deeper into the quiet. Dawn spills pink and honey gold across the horizon, turning the grassland into something soft and surreal. But I don’t feel calm. I feel like I’m losing my mind.
I shift in the saddle, dragging in a breath like that’ll help me settle. It doesn’t. The morning air is cool, but my skin feels hot—tight with tension, like I’ve been pulling a rope I should’ve let go of long ago.
Why her?
There have been other women—easier, simpler, safer. But none of them ever made me feel like I’d forgotten how to breathe. None of them ever looked at me and made me want to be better just so I didn’t disappoint the idea of me they seemed to see.
