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Eryn
The morning sun spilled into Gray's study, bathing the room in a soft, golden glow that made the dust motes dance like tiny flecks of stardust. I perched at his massive, oak desk that smells faintly of leather and wood polish, surrounded by a sea of blueprints and design ideas for Sunshine Acres.
Flipping through the pages, I couldn't help but let a smile tug at the corners of my lips. I envisioned the yoga studio with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the rolling hills, meditation gardens nestled among the wildflowers, and cozy cabins crafted from reclaimed wood, creating a haven of tranquility.
“This is going to be a paradise.” I whispered to myself.
The ring of my phone cut through the silence. Startled, I nearly knocked over my mug of chamomile tea, which had gone cold during the hours I’d poured over these designs.
Laughing at my own clumsiness, I swiped the speakerphone button with eagerness bubbling inside me, expecting it to be Enzo with an update from the farmhouse. Good news about the renovations is just what I need to keep the momentum going.
“Hello?” I chirped.
But the voice that crackled through isn't filled with approval or enthusiasm—it dripped with condescension thicker than molasses. My father's tone was unmistakable, like a shadow creeping across a sunny day.
“Eryn,” he began, and I can almost hear the frown in his words, “I hope you're not too busy playing architect to take a call from your old man.”
My heart sank into my boots—boots that Gray insisted I wear around the ranch, claiming they're practical, though I suspected he just likes the way they look on me. I let my mind wander to Gray because the alternative was dismal.
As much as I wanted to believe my Dad had some hidden well of encouragement he was finally ready to tap into, it's clear that this wasn’t the case today.
“Hi, Dad,” I replied, doing my best to sound upbeat despite the disappointment blooming like a thorny rose in my chest. I forced my fingers to stop their nervous dance over the blueprints; I wouldn't let him know he's getting to me. Not today.
“Vandalism, Eryn,” his voice sliced through the air, sharp as the edge of a well-honed blade. “Heard about it all the way over here in California. Can't say I'm surprised, though. This is what happens when you leap without looking.”
My fingers tightened around the edge of Gray's sturdy oak desk, the grain pressing into my skin—a stark contrast to the softness of the blueprints now forgotten beneath my other hand. The excitement that had been sparkling in my eyes moments ago fizzled out like stars at dawn.
“Things are under control, Dad,” I mustered, but the words tasted like dust, dry and unconvincing even to my own ears. My shoulders—bare beneath the straps of my sundress—slumped forward as if his disapproval was a weight too heavy to bear.
“Under control?” He scoffed, and I could picture him, probably sitting in a leather chair that cost more than most cars, shaking his head in that all-knowing way of his. “You don't know the first thing about running a business, much less starting one from scratch.”
Each word was a pinprick to my ballooning dreams, deflating them with such precision it was almost artful. “I'm learning . . .” I trailed off, the fight draining out of me like water from a punctured pail.
Just as the silence started to swell between us—a void filled with all the things I was too tired to say—Gray strode in. The door swung wide with his entrance, and it's as if he brought the very essence of the ranch with him; the scent of sun-baked earth and horsehair, the faint creak of leather from his boots echoing against the hardwood floor. His presence was a thunderstorm on the horizon, brimming with restrained power.
“Everything okay?” His voice was low, a rumble of concern that rolled through the room, and for a moment, I forgot to breathe.
“Fine.” It's all I can offer before my father’s voice barreled back in, a verbal bulldozer.
“Who's that? You got company?” There was a note of suspicion there, though everything had him suspicious of something.
“Nobody,” I lied, because explaining Gray's presence would only invite questions I had no desire to answer. Not to him.
“Listen to me, Eryn, you belong back here in LA. I don’t know why you think you can frolic around in some God-forsaken ranch town playing Business Barbie, but that’s a waste of your time.”
The words cut to the bone, but Gray appeared beside me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him. His eyes narrowed to fierce slivers of ice-blue, fixed on the phone like a predator eyeing its prey.
“Hey,” I whispered, meant for Gray alone—a plea for him not to escalate things further. But he was already a man decided, his jaw set in stone, fists clenched at his sides like hammers ready to fall.
I've seen him angry before, seen him wrestle down a spooked stallion with nothing but grit and willpower, but this was different. This was personal.
I grabbed the phone off the desk, meaning to just hang up on my dad. He wasn’t worth it, and I didn’t want Gray to get worked up over something that didn’t matter. But then Gray's large, calloused fingers pried it from my grasp.
“Blake,” Gray's voice was a low growl, the kind that sent shivers down my spine and made my heart skip a beat, and not in the good way. “I bet people cower to you because you have extra zeroes in your bank account, but I’m not one of them. I don’t give a fuck who you are. You don’t talk to Eryn like that. Not now, not ever.”
I watched him, this gruff mountain of a man who usually had little to say, standing up for me with a ferocity that's as unexpected as a thunderstorm on a clear day. I was frozen in place, caught between shock and embarrassment and an overwhelming rush of gratitude.
The way his jaw ticked, the fire in his ice-blue eyes—I'd never seen anything quite so . . . heroic.
