Which is irrelevant. Completely irrelevant. I’m not here for that. I’m here to make the most of this insane situation.
I have a life waiting for me. A career. Just because my work centers around the environment doesn’t mean I want to own a ranch with a stranger. I have no use for it, and I don’t know the first thing about ranching.
I can’t milk cows—or handle the kind of large-scale operations that don’t pause just because someone’s learning on the job.
I can’t haul hay bales.
I can’t ride a horse to save my life.
I barely know how to drive a stick shift—and yet here I am, standing on a ranch I somehow own fifty percent of with the man now stopping a few feet in front of me.
I smooth my clothes, paste on a polite smile, and hold my hand out. “Gage Hollis?” I ask, not eager to insult him by mistaking the owner for a ranch hand. I can only imagine how wellthatwould go over.
“That’s me. And you’re late,” he says, taking my hand.
The handshake isn’t friendly. It’s firm. Purposeful. His palm is warm, calloused, the grip just shy of painful—like a warning delivered through skin.
Not friendly.
Not welcoming.
Measured.
Intentional.
Like he already knows exactly what he thinks of me… and he’s not planning to change his mind.
Well.
So much for Southern hospitality.
I mentally curse myself, digging into my purse for my phone. It’s only five minutes past twelve. I told him I’d behere by noon. “Only by five minutes,” I say, holding the screen up like evidence that should matter.
“First thing about ranching—if you’re not five minutes early, you’re late. If you’re five minutes late,” he says, already unlatching the gate, “well, hell, you may as well pack up.”
I stare at him, momentarily speechless. Is he serious?
“The longer you stand there,” he adds, swinging the gate open, “the more of my time you waste.”
Oh. He’s serious.
What the hell did I walk into?
I turn back to my car and climb inside, starting the engine and easing forward onto the dirt driveway. Gravel crunches beneath my tires as he closes the gate behind me, the metal clanging shut with a finality that makes my stomach dip.
For a split second, it feels less like an entrance and more like a lock clicking into place.
A scenic one. But still.
I park and get out, heading for the trunk to grab my bags. I pop it open just as he turns and starts walking away, leaving me to deal with my luggage on my own. To be clear, I don’t need a man to do anything for me.
I’ve taken care of myself my entire life—especially without my dad around enough to demonstrate that good mendon’t come with conditions. Still, this is rural Texas. Cowboys are supposed to be chivalrous, right? Rough around the edges but secretly sweet.
Gage Hollis is apparently here to shatter stereotypes.
Frankly, he's awful.
“Wow,” I mutter, wrestling my suitcase free, “thanks for the help.”
