My heart trips over itself as reality slams into me.I’m an idiot.
Mortification prickles beneath my skin. My teeth sink into my bottom lip as I stare out the window, replaying the moment on a loop and wondering how I could’ve misread it.
Great, Sadie. This is a great start.
My brain won’t stop spiraling. Did he notice? How red is my face right now? I try to swallow, but my throat is too thick.
In his absence, a pinch of disappointment flutters low in my stomach, persistent and impossible to ignore.
Did I actually want him to kiss me?
No, what am I thinking? Of course not.
I don’t want, or need, to complicate my life anymore than it already is. Thelastthing I need right now is a crush—or worse, some reckless summer fling with a cowboy.
Afteralongandthorough tour, I’m exhausted.
Emmett has been talking almost non stop—names, landmarks, rules, and endless stories. Somewhere along the way, his voice morphed into background noise.
The truck winds through a narrow dirt path, a sea of wildflowers spilling like paint across the hills. I roll down the window, and the warm breeze rushes in—sweet, floral, alive. Resting my head on my arms, I lean out the window, closing my eyes to take it all in.
Emmett slows to a stop, shifting into park. He turns to face me, his back leaning against the door. The air shifts and I straighten, suddenly aware of his eyes on me.
No—he’sstaringat me.
My pulse trips under his undivided attention.
Say something. Anything.
“I see where you got the name,” I blurt, waving a hand toward the endless florals surrounding us. “This place is…”
My words trail off before I can find the right one.
He doesn’t answer. His gray eyes remain locked on mine. My cheeks flush, and I nervously fidget with the hem of my shirt.
Panic squeezes my chest. What if my father told Heath why he sent me here last-minute—his version of the story—and now Heath’s sons think I’m...
The thought presses in, nearly suffocating, but I shut it down before it can spiral.
My gaze drops first, unable to hold his beneath the weight tightening around my ribs.
“My mom,” Emmett says softly, clearing his throat.
“What?”
“She picked the name. This was her favorite place. The inspiration for ...everything.“ His voice is warm and low, threaded with something heavier underneath.
I nod slowly, letting his words sink in. Thiswasher favorite place. When did it stop being her favorite? I open my mouth to ask, but he shifts back into his seat.
“We should head back,” he says softly, with a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He shakes his head once, almost to himself, then starts the truck.
Theroomissmall—smallerthan the one I have back home—but it’s cute.
Taking a deep breath, I inhale the scent of clean linens, fresh rain, and a lingering trace of cedar. A solid wood bed anchors the center of the space, a colorful woven wool rug stretching across the old floorboards. I delicately run my fingertips over the soft quilt before collapsing onto the bed and closing my eyes.
My mind replays the last twenty-four hours on a loop. I’m supposed to actually work here. Real, physical labor. I’ve never even had a real job before.
It’s only for the summer. I’m sure Heath and his sons have endured worse. But even as I think it, the knot in my stomach tightens. It’s not fair to be dragging them into my mess.
