The significance of his answer settles between us as we finally turn our horses toward home.
Chapter 18
Grant
My knuckles are bone-white on the steering wheel, like I’m trying to choke the truck into behaving. I’ve driven down this dirt road more times than I can count. I could close my eyes and still find every pothole, every damn tree. But today?
Today feels like the ground itself might shift under me.
Becauseshe’shere.
Mia.
In my truck. In my passenger seat. In my world.
She shifts beside me, one leg crossing over the other, and I swear I hear the fabric of her sundress whisper against her thighs—soft, subtle, dangerous.
“It’s just a little sundress.” She mentioned it offhand like it’s no big deal, like seeing her in that little floral sundress didn’t just hijack my entire ability to think straight, since the moment I set eyes on her.
The way it clings to her athletic frame, those toned legs on full display, the neckline dipping just enough to test my damn resolve...
Fuck me, this is gonna be one hell of a day of me starrin’ at her.
I glance over—just for a second—and it nearly wrecks me. Her dark hair is pulled back in that messy, sexy way that looks like she just rolled out of bed and gave zero fucks, even though I know better. There’s sunlight catching in the edges of hernaturally long lashes. Her soft pink lips are slightly parted. And that dress—fuck, that dress—is the kind of simple that makes a man think stupid, primal things.
Like how easy it would be to slide the straps off her shoulders.
How she'd look standing in my bedroom, back pressed to the door, that sundress bunched around her waist while I kissed her like I’ve been chasing the taste of her my whole damn life.
I bite down on that thought like I’m fighting for my life over here.
Fuck, Grant. Pull it together.
Eyes back on the road, cowboy. You’re not gonna be the man who introduces her to his mother with a hard-on and a sinner's smirk.
I shift in my seat and bite down the groan threatening to crawl up my throat. This girl’s got my blood pressure doing rodeo tricks. And worse, she doesn’t even know. Or maybe she does. Maybe that’s the whole damn problem.
“You’re quiet,” she says, her voice slicing through the heavy silence. There’s a softness to her tone, a curiosity laced with something that sounds like uncertainty.
I force my eyes forward, jaw tight. “Just thinking.”
“About how much you regret inviting me?” she jokes, but I hear it—the tiny flicker of doubt she tries to hide under her smirk.
Without thinking, I reach over and thread my fingers through hers. Her hand fits mine like it was made for it—warm, steady, real—and I feel her still beside me. Hear the way her breath catches in her throat.
I glance at her again, this time with no shame.
“About how much Idon’t.” My voice is low. My thumb brushes over her knuckles. Firm. “Though I should probably warn you again—my family is alot.”
She laughs, and I swear, I feel it right in the center of my chest. Like something stretching. Cracking open.
“You’ve mentioned that about seventeen times now. I think I get it.”
I shoot her a sideways glance, and there’s that smile—the one that makes it so fucking easy to imagine her sitting across the dinner table at Christmas or barefoot in my kitchen while I cook her eggs and kiss the back of her neck. The thought hits too fast, too real.
Because I don’tdothis.
I don’t bring women home. I don’t bring womenhere.This ranch? My family? It’s the raw, unpolished truth of me. It’s not a curated version. It’sme,inside out. And letting her see that—inviting her in, not just into the house but into the soil that shaped me—that’s not a small thing.
