"It's my photo. My life. You turned it into marketing."
She stands. The flannel slips off one shoulder. Brown eyes steady, chin up. "That's my job, Tucker. That's literally why I'm here. To tell the ranch's story. And you are the story. The man who runs it, who cares for it, who gave his life to it. That's the brand."
"The brand." The word tastes bitter. "Is that what last night was? Building the brand?"
Her face changes. Something flickers across it, hurt followed by anger. "Don't do that."
"You've been here ten days. In ten days you've photographed every inch of my property, posted it for strangers, gotten magazine people sniffing around. And somewhere in between all of that, you ended up in my bed."
"Tucker."
"Makes a great story, right? The rancher who didn't want to be seen, opened up by the photographer who saw him. Real visual storytelling."
The silence that follows is awful. Her hands are shaking. Not with rage. With something worse. She's hurt.
Good. Because so am I.
"Is that what you think?" Her voice is quiet. "That I slept with you for the brand?"
No. The honest answer is no. The honest answer is that last night she whispered I'm falling for you against my mouth while I was inside her, and it was the truest thing anyone's said to me in nine years. The honest answer is that I'm standing in this cabin picking a fight because in four days she leaves. Goes back to Sacramento, back to her clients, back to her real life. Takes theflannel and the sweet tea and the camera bag. Leaves me with eight hundred head of cattle and a website I never wanted.
"I think you're good at your job."
She flinches. Actually flinches, like I swung at her.
"Take them down."
"What?"
"The photos. Take them down. All of them. I didn't consent to having my face on the internet."
"The ranch photos were approved by Josie."
"My face wasn't. Take. Them. Down."
For a long moment she just looks at me. Those brown eyes that three hours ago were half closed in my bed while my name was on her lips. Now they're filling with tears she's refusing to let fall.
"Fine." She opens the laptop. Fingers moving over the keyboard. "Done. They're down. All of them. Not just your face. Every photo of Brant Ranch. The website mockups. The logo concepts. Everything."
"Lena."
"No." She holds up a hand. "You want the brand project killed? It's killed. You want me gone? Say it."
The word sits in my throat. Say it. Tell her to go. Four days early, four days late, what difference does it make? She was always going to leave. Sacramento is three hours away but it might as well be the moon. She has a career, a family, a life that doesn't include six a.m. calving or a man who communicates in grunts.
"Your contract runs through Sunday."
Another flinch. Contract. Like she's a hired hand. Like the past week didn't happen.
"I'll finish out the contract." Her voice is flat now. Professional. The warmth is gone. "But I'll stay out of your way. You won't have to worry about the camera."
"That's not what I."
"Please leave my cabin."
My cabin. The guest cabin on my property that she's calling hers because she's been living in it for ten days, putting her coffee mug in the same spot every morning, hanging her sundresses in the closet, leaving her vanilla lotion on the bathroom counter.
Dolly's waiting for me on the porch. She follows me back to the main house without looking at the guest cabin. Even the dog knows when to cut her losses.
