“It’s Manhattan,” I reply.
He steps inside, his boots sounding too loud on the hardwood. The place suddenly feels smaller, his height and broad shoulders filling it up. He sets his hat on the counter, glances around once, then looks back at me.
“You pay how much to live in a closet?”
“Don’t ask.”
He chuckles, low and genuine. “I’ve had tack rooms bigger than this.”
“And I bet yours didn’t come with a city view,” I say, motioning toward the skyline slicing the night.
He walks to the window, fringe brushing his sleeves, and studies the sea of lights below. “Still feels like lookin’ down on a beehive.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
“Don’t want to,” he says softly, then glances back at me with a half-smile. “But I’ll try.”
He takes another look around, then lowers himself onto the edge of the couch. The leather creaks under his weight.
“You sure this thing’s safe to sit on?” he asks, testing it with one big hand.
“I’ve survived three years on it. You’ll be fine.”
He grins. “Reckon I’ll take your word for it.”
I start toward the bedroom, then pause. “You can take the bed if you’d rather. The couch isn’t exactly five-star.”
He’s already shaking his head. “My mama didn’t raise a man who takes the bed from a lady.”
“You’ll break your back.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” He chuckles, easing off his boots and lining them neatly by the door before settling against the cushions. “Besides, I’ve slept in barns less comfortable than this.”
“High praise,” I say, smiling.
He tips his hat back, eyes catching mine in the lamplight. “Guess we’re both learnin’ somethin’ new.”
For a moment, the city rhythm fills the silence between us—horns, sirens, a thousand strangers rushing somewhere else. But in here, it’s just us. Two people who never meant to be married, trying to make sense of a quiet night in a noisy city.
“Goodnight, Mrs. Callahan,” he says softly.
“Goodnight, cowboy.”
When I peek out a while later, he’s already asleep—hat tipped low, boots by the door, one arm draped over his chest. Somehow, the whole apartment feels safer for it.
Chapter 6
James
If there’s a polite way to describe Olivia’s family home, I haven’t found it yet. The elevator opens straight into the living room, all glass walls and art that looks like it cost more than my truck. I swear the air smells expensive.
Olivia moves through it’s normal with her heels clicking, and shoulders squared. But her hand still finds the back of my coat for one quick tug, like she’s sending a signal to just “get through this.”
I get it. But I feel like this is little adventure might be like walking on thin ice.
Her mother appears first, draped in something silky and dramatic, holding a martini like it’s an accessory. “You must be James,” she says, voice crisp enough to crack a hard potato. “Welcome to the city.”
“Ma’am,” I say, tipping my hat before realizing I should probably take it off inside. “Appreciate you having me.”
