I turned to see him standing in the doorway. He was wrapped in his coat, a beanie still pulled low over his curls, gloves on, and two crocheted blankets wound around him, bundled up enough to look breakable despite the attitude. He was leaning, favoring one side, looking cold, stubborn,and irritated—all sharp edges dropped into the quiet wreck of a kitchen—and about as out of place as a city guy could get. I scanned him from head to toe, irritation flaring at how slight he was, and cut the thought off when he grimaced.
“Eyes up here, cowboy,” he snapped, and I winced. He leaned further to one side, his expression taut with pain, then he set his jaw, as if he’d rather be a prick than let anyone see he was out of his depth.
“I wasn’t looking at you,” I defended. Fuck. Why did I say that?
Pointing at the flask on the counter, he narrowed his eyes. “Coffee. Food. How.”
I waved at the stove, and he peered down at the ancient burners.
“Instant?” He asked but didn’t wait for an answer. “It will have to do, because I need coffee, and I’m starving,” He was already turning away, opening cupboards without asking, rummaging as if he owned the place, pulling out a packet of pasta and holding it up with a scowl. “Carbs,” he muttered, as if it were a slur. He found a can of tomatoes next, then kept going, opening and closing doors, clearly hunting for something I couldn’t see.
“I suppose even dried herbs are a step too far for you?” he said with a sigh, as if the ranch, dried herbs, and probably me, were beneath him, but he’d make do. He gathered everything on the counter, filled a saucepan with water, and then stopped, glaring at the stove.
I hesitated, just long enough to know I shouldn’t get involved, then moved anyway, stepping in despite his pricklyattitude and my own better judgment to keep my distance. I reached past him and lit the front burner.
“And that one,” he said immediately, adding a clipped “please,” and pointing at the other burner without looking at me. I waited half a second, long enough to register the order for what it was, then reached out and lit it anyway.
I backed out to the kitchen door. “Don’t burn shit down,” I warned.
He waited until my back was turned, then muttered something that sounded an awful lot likefuck you, quiet but pointed, as if he wanted me to hear it and also wanted deniability.
Well, fuck him right back.
Chapter 5
Lucas
Iwoke, rolled in blankets, twisted in on myself as if I’d tried to disappear sometime in the night. For a few seconds, I lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet. No sound of anyone else in the house. I extricated one arm and glanced at my watch, six a.m. I unwound myself and sat up, spine protesting as my feet hit the floor. The room was cold enough to snap me awake properly. I did some stretches, swallowed a pill, grabbed my clothes, and limped out into the hall looking for the bathroom, following instinct and half-remembered extra doors from the night before.
The bathroom wasn’t fancy or new, but the sink was wiped down, the mirror clear, and the shower curtain plain and functional. I let out a breath of relief—whatever else this house was, at least I could get a shower.
I stood there for a moment, taking inventory.
“No towel,” I muttered, and opened one cupboard.Cleaning supplies. Another held spare bulbs and a battered first-aid kit with a use-by date in the nineties. The third was a big built-in that groaned when I pulled it open.
Sheets! Win! And towels stacked neatly, thick and serviceable. I picked one up and inhaled. Not fresh cotton scents like at home, but soap and something faintly utilitarian. Ranch-clean, I decided, whatever that meant.
The water pressure surprised me. Strong and steady, hot enough without coaxing. I used the shower gel I’d brought with me, citrus cutting through the lingering smell of sleep and stress, and stood there longer than I needed to, letting the water hit my shoulders until the tightness eased.
By the time I shut it off, I felt halfway human.
Yesterday, I’d been exhausted, rattled, running on adrenaline and bad decisions. Yesterday, I nearly burned the house down while making coffee.
Today would be different.
I dried off, dressed, and caught my reflection in the mirror. Still pale. Still tired. But steadier, given that the strongest meds I had were working. The house seemed warmer—propane-fired central heating, according to the audit list I was working my way through—I brushed my teeth, foam and mint grounding me, and paused with my hands on the sink. Should I shave? Did I need to? This was a ranch in the middle of nowhere, who would care if I shaved?
“Of course I should,” I muttered. Why was I even thinking no? I was put-together. Presentable. That mattered. It wasn’t as if it took long, but I felt more in control.
My hair was another issue. Naturally curly, prone todoing whatever the hell it wanted if left alone. I opened my wash bag and lined things up on the counter by habit—curl cream, a smoothing serum, something lightweight for hold. Too much, and I’d look overdone. Too little, and it would frizz and rebel. I worked the products through, fingers scrunching, coaxing the curls into something intentional. Controlled. Like the rest of me.
“Today, I will act rationally,” I said to my reflection. “I won’t touch anything that could explode or catch fire. I will not plug my hairdryer in.”
In hindsight, the whole incident was almost funny. Me, half asleep, nearly burning the place down because I wanted coffee. I could spin that if I needed to. Fake a persona that was self-deprecating, harmless, maybe even… cute. I wasn’t above using my apparent pint-sized cuteness as a weapon if it helped. Jesse was taller than me, all muscle and glare, but size didn’t equal leverage. Men like him tended to think in straight lines. I was faster in my head. Better with angles. If I had to soften him up first, make him underestimate me, I could do that too.
Then, I would explain to Jesse—calmly, logically—why selling was the best option. For the land. For the ranch. For everyone involved. I squared my shoulders and turned off the light—why were the electrics okay up here but not in the kitchen? This house was a mess.
“Focus.”
