“Yourteam,” he repeated quietly.
“Yes,” I said.
He raised that damn eyebrow again. “Three-quartersmine.” Then, softer—too soft—he added, “Six months is longenough for me to learn everything about what I’m selling,Cowboy. I’ve never been very good at staying in my lane.”
Then, he went back to his burned toast as if nothing had happened, knife scraping butter, attention deliberately elsewhere.
It made me furious. Irritated in a way that had nowhere good to go. He’d drawn the line, stepped over it, then sat back as though he hadn’t just rattled the whole damn table. I wasn’t distracted. Not by the way his shoulders relaxed as if he’d won something. Not by the single curl that refused to stay put and kept falling over his left eye.
I wanted to push it back.
I wanted to thump him.
I wanted to make him leave.
And worse than any of that—I wanted…
Fuck.
God knows what I wanted.
Chapter 9
Lucas
Itook the farm truck because it was there and because no one stopped me.
It smelled like dust, old coffee, and something faintly oily that I couldn’t place. The keys were already in it. That felt like permission, even though I knew it wasn’t.
I drove out past the barns, past the line of cottonwoods, all the way to the main road. When I reached it, I didn’t hesitate. I took a left, same as I always did when I didn’t know where I was going.
The road stretched out in front of me, gray and empty, the kind of quiet that wasn’t peaceful so much as unfinished. I rolled the window down an inch and let the cold air slap some sense into me.
There was enough signal by the time I reached the gas station with the faded sign and that one pump that always looked out of order. I parked anyway and went inside for coffee.
It tasted burnt and thin. I drank it standing up.
Rebecca called just as I finished.
“Hey,” she said. “Got a minute?”
“Of course.”
“Can you look at the funding spreadsheet again? I messed up the columns.”
“Sure, hang on…” I scrolled to the Sheets app as she talked numbers. Beds. And about how many young adults the charity had seen last week, and how many she’d had to place elsewhere. With the spreadsheet fixed, I focused back on what she was saying.Or wasn’t saying.
“We’re full,” she said, and there was a tired edge under the practical tone. “And winter’s not done with us yet.”
“I know.” I rubbed my thumb over the cardboard sleeve. “Any movement on funding?”
“Not enough.” A pause. “We might have to freeze intake for a bit.”
The words sat heavily in my chest. Freeze intake. As if people were a problem you could put on hold. Not that she meant that, but I took this personally. What if I’d turned up and there’d been nothing for me? I wouldn’t have lasted long without the medical care I’d needed and the safe space that was essential.
“Okay,” I said finally. “Let me email the funding agency and see what I can shake loose.”
She didn’t argue. That was worse.
