Chapter 1
Vanessa
The third potential renter reeked of marijuana and asked if he could install a hot tub in the living room. Vanessa Baldwin closed the door behind him and leaned against it, fighting the urge to scream.
Three weeks since Hartwell's had called her into that sterile conference room and explained that rising import costs meant "restructuring opportunities" for half the buying department. Three weeks of watching her savings dwindle to $847 while she smiled through job interviews and pretended everything was fine. The mortgage payment—$1,200—was due in ten days. The electric bill glared at her from the counter: $156, stamped PAST DUE in angry red letters.
Her phone buzzed with a text from her sister:How's the renter search going? Any cute guys?
Vanessa deleted the message without responding. She didn't need cute. She needed responsible, employed, and capable of paying first month's rent plus deposit. Preferably someone who wouldn't ask about hot tubs or try to negotiate the price down because they had "good vibes to offer."
The doorbell rang again. She glanced at the clock—four-thirty, right on time. At least this one could follow simple instructions. She smoothed her black pencil skirt and tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear before opening the door.
The man standing on her front porch stole every rational thought from her head.
He was tall—easily over six feet—with dark hair that looked like he'd been running his hands through it and the kind of stubble that suggested he either hadn't shaved in two days or spent serious money to look like he hadn't. His eyes were brown, deep and focused, and when they met hers, her pulse kicked into overdrive. She forgot about the electric bill. Forgot about the mortgage payment. Forgot her own name for half a second while her brain scrambled to process why looking at a complete stranger felt like the ground had just shifted under her feet.
Then she noticed the crutches.
"Ms. Baldwin?" His voice had that slight rasp that came from too many late nights or too much whiskey, and it slid down her spine. "I'm Dustin Fleming. We spoke on the phone about the rental."
"Yes, of course." She stepped back, hyperaware of how the afternoon light was hitting her kitchen behind her, how her blouse clung to her curves, how long she'd been staring at him. Even on crutches, he moved with the kind of confidence that came from a body used to physical demands. "How's the ankle?"
"Healing." He leaned the crutches against the wall and tested his weight on the injured foot. "Should be good as new in a few weeks."
She led him toward the living room, trying to get her pulse under control. The space felt smaller with him in it. He wore faded jeans that fit him in ways that should be illegal and a blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms that spoke of actual physical work rather than gym memberships.
Get it together, Vanessa. He's here about a room, not a marriage proposal.
Except her traitorous brain was already imagining what those forearms would look like first thing in the morning, reaching across her kitchen counter for coffee. What his voicewould sound like saying her name when it was just the two of them and he didn't have to be polite.
"So this is the main living area," she said, falling back on the script she'd used with the other candidates. "You'd have full access to this and the kitchen. There's a half bath down the hall, and the bedroom is through there." She gestured toward the converted den that had once been her home office.
Dustin looked around, taking in her furniture, the framed prints on the walls, the stack of job search books she'd forgotten to hide. His gaze lingered on the bookshelf where her business degree sat in its frame next to a small collection of smutty romance novels she hoped he wouldn't notice.
"It's nice," he said, and she got the impression he meant it. "Clean. Organized. I like that in a place."
The simple compliment made her ridiculously pleased. She barely knew him. But there was conviction in the way he looked at her house—at her—like what he saw mattered more than it should after five minutes of acquaintance.
"The bedroom has its own entrance to the back patio," she continued, trying to focus on practicalities instead of the way his jaw looked in profile. "So you wouldn't have to go through the main house if you wanted privacy. And there's space for parking behind the house if you have a truck."
"I do." He turned back to her, and she caught a hint of amusement in his expression. "And a horse trailer. That going to be a problem?"
A horse trailer. Of course. She should have expected that from someone who'd mentioned needing to be close to boarding facilities. "As long as it fits and you're not blocking anyone else in, it should be fine."
"The horse is boarded about a mile from here. Figured I'd mention the trailer since some folks get nervous about that kind of thing."
Some folks. Like the kind of people who wore business suits to interviews and had never owned anything larger than a compact car. The kind of people like her.
"The rent is eight hundred a month," she said, "plus half the utilities. First month and security deposit up front."
He nodded like the money wasn't an issue, which was more than she could say for the previous three candidates. One had tried to pay her in cryptocurrency, another had offered to do "handyman work" in lieu of rent, and the marijuana enthusiast had suggested they work out a "trade situation" that made her skin crawl.
"Mind if I ask what you do?" The question slipped out before she could stop it. She'd learned the hard way that people who seemed too good to be true usually were.
"Rodeo." He said it simply, like it was the most normal job in the world. "Bulls, broncs, whatever's paying. Been doing it about ten years now."
Rodeo. Of course he did rodeo. She tried to picture him on the back of a bucking horse and instead got distracted by imagining those thighs gripping—
