It’s controlled.
Which somehow makes it worse.
Because it means this place doesn’t need me.
And judging by the way Gage hasn’t looked back once since grabbing my bags, it doesn’t wantme either.
A few ranch hands glance my way, curiosity flickering across their faces before they look back to what they’re doing.
Based on my warm welcome so far, I’m guessing I won’t be invited to any barbecues.
Inside, the blast of air conditioning feels like mercy. We’re in the middle of a heat wave, which is not ideal for someone whose idea of hard labor usually involves a laptop and strong coffee. Still, Gage carrying my suitcase feels like a temporary truce. Not peace. A ceasefire.
We climb the stairs, and he pushes open a door at the end of the hall. The room inside is bare-bones: a bed, a dresser, a night table with a single lamp. No frills. No personality. It will have to do.
I silently hope the mattress isn’t older than I am.
He sets the suitcase down and leaves without a word.
Well. So much for polite conversation.
I step inside and close the door, leaning back against it as I stare at the room that will apparently be my home for the next six months. Six months. The number echoes in my head, heavy and unreal. And underneath it, the real weight: if I bolt, he could lose everything.
Six months.
The number settles heavier the longer I sit with it.
Six months away from my office. My routines. My life. Everything I’ve built with careful, deliberate choices suddenly put on hold because of a decision I didn’t make.
This isn’t a visit.
It’s a disruption.
And worse… it’s one I can’t walk away from without burning everything down behind me. But, what about my work? My clients? My office? If I’m stuck here, I can’t exactly pop back to Austin whenever I feel like it.
Okay. Breathe.
This is legal. Technically. My job can’t fire me over something like this. And if I’m trapped, the least I can do is make sure this arrangement doesn’t derail everything I’ve built.
Not that I care what Gage Hollis thinks of me.
…Okay, maybe I care a little. Not because his opinion matters—because I want this to be survivable. If I can prove I’m competent, if I can actually contribute, maybe he’ll stop looking at me like I personally declared war on Texas ranching.
But first, I need answers.
I shut the bedroom door and pull outmy phone.
“Good afternoon, Sloane. Did you make it to the ranch all right?” Terrance Gerald answers, his voice bright—too bright.
Something isn’t right. I can feel it coiling in my gut.
“Yeah, I did,” I say, keeping my voice level, “but I think you forgot to inform me of a fairly important detail.”
There’s silence on the other end of the line.
“You knew I had to stay here for six months before I could sell, didn’t you?” I ask.
He exhales. “Your father told me to leave that part out. He knew you wouldn’t go if you had all the information up front, but now that you’re there, everything is set in motion. It’s only six months. Try to look at it like a vacation.”
