She nods, manages a small smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“I’m leaving next week,” I tell her, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Texas for 8 days—horse show. You’ll have plenty of time to write then.”
“I won’t see you for over a week?” she asks, taking another sip. Her voice is quieter now, almost small.
I smile despite the ache starting behind my ribs. “You’re leaving me and won’t see me ever again after August, so what’s a few days, huh?” I laugh rough, forced—but it lands.
She rolls those pretty brown eyes, playful despite everything. “I better head down to the guest house. I’m sweatingout here. I need to get inside where there is air conditioning.” She leans in, kisses my cheek softly, lingering and then stands. “Would be nice to have a pool,” she teases over her shoulder.
I smack her ass lightly as she passes and watch her hips sway all the way down the path to the guest house, dress fluttering in the night breeze. Door clicks shut behind her.
And just like that, the clock’s ticking louder.
End of August. Ten weeks. Then gone.
Is God punishing me? I had plans, quiet ones I hadn’t even admitted to myself yet. Plans to make her stay. To show her this place could be hers too. To build something real. Now? Now I don’t know what the hell to do.
I chug the rest of my beer in one go, staring up at the night sky—stars sharp, moon fat and low. The idea hits like a lightning strike.
I’m going to build a pool.
I walk back inside. Everyone’s staring, mid-charades freeze-frame, beers paused halfway to mouths.
I’m looking down at the floor, pacing a slow circle in front of the couch.
“I’m going to build a pool,” I blurt.
Silence. Then Luke snorts beer through his nose. Maggie’s eyebrows shoot to her hairline. Dad just leans back, crosses his arms, and grins like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.
“About damn time,” he says.
Maggie sets her drink down. “For Layla?”
I don’t answer. Just keep pacing, mind already racing—backhoe rental, permits, timeline, where the hell to put it so she can see it from the guest house window. Something permanent. Something that says stay.
Because a couple days in Texas is nothing. Ten weeks left is everything. And I’m not ready to let her go without a fight. Not even close. Tomorrow I start digging and then I have ten weeks to convince her this place, including me, could be worth staying for.
Chapter 16
Diggin’ holes and taking names
Layla
It’s been three days since Tina’s call blindsided me with the new deadline, and I’m still reeling. The draft, my baby, my blood, sweat, and way too many late-night tears is due the first week of September now. I came out here to this quiet corner of nowhere specifically to finish it. Fresh air, open sky, no distractions. Inspiration was supposed to hit like a freight train, and honestly? It did. Just not in the way I planned.
Because the inspiration has a name. Cole Marshall. Grumpy, broad-shouldered, calloused-hands cowboy who’s been sneaking over to the guest house every single night like it’s his personal mission to ruin me for anyone else. We’ve fucked every night—slow and teasing one minute, frantic and desperatethe next. He pins me to the mattress, growls my name against my throat, and makes me come so hard I forget my own plot points for a solid ten minutes afterward. It’s the best stress relief I’ve ever found. Writing spicy scenes all day has me wound so tight that by the time he knocks, I’m already wet just thinking about him walking through the door. He knows it too—the smug bastard.
And then there’s mornings. He shows up before the sun’s fully up, smelling like coffee and pine, carrying a plate of eggs, bacon, thick-cut toast slathered in butter, sometimes pancakes if he’s feeling extra.
“Helps the brain stay fresh,” he grumbles, setting it beside my laptop like it’s no big deal.
In Seattle I’d chug black coffee and maybe choke down a stale muffin from the corner bakery. Here? I’m eating like a queen while he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me like I’m the most interesting thing he’s seen all week. It’s dangerously domestic. Dangerously good.
I keep asking him what the hell he’s doing out in that field. From my writing desk there’s this massive picture window—practically a movie screen to the world outside—and for days now I’ve watched tractors, backhoes, and half the ranch crew digging like they’re burying treasure. Or unearthing it.
Cole just smirks when I ask, says, “You’ll see soon enough,” and changes the subject by kissing me stupid against the kitchen counter.
Today, though, he promised I’d finally figure it out. A few more hours, he said. Whatever it is, it’s blocked off with caution tape and stakes so I can’t sneak a peek. The man’s a gentleman—grumpy as hell, but thoughtful in ways that sneak past my defenses.
