I don’t need to be told who she is. She’s tall. Stunning. Blonde hair pulled up, long legs in cutoff shorts and cowgirl boots like she stepped straight out of a country song. Confident in a way that feels earned, not forced. Maggie.
I hop out of the truck too, immediately heading toward the back to grab my bags, giving myself something to do. Something that looks productive. Something that doesn’tinvolve standing there while a family argument unfolds in the open.
“What the hell are you doing here, Maggie?” Cole snaps.
Oof.
“This is just as much my home as it is yours, Cole,” she fires back. “Now back off.”
“You didn’t want this place, remember?” he says, following her toward the house. “You wanted something else. Somethingmorefor yourself.”
The bite in his voice makes my stomach twist. John comes jogging out of the house, clearly alarmed.
“What the hell is going on?” he asks—then freezes. “Oh. Hello, Maggie.” His face softens instantly. “Good to see you, baby.”
“Hey, Daddy.”
Yep. I am absolutely being nosy as fuck. I slow my movements on purpose, taking my sweet time unloading groceries from the truck bed. If I’m quiet enough, invisible enough, maybe no one will notice I’m listening to every word.
“Tell him,” Maggie says, “tell him you called me and asked me to come help out. That Cole couldn’t handle all this on his own.”
“You did what?” Cole snaps.
Uh oh. I pause mid-bag.
Cole strikes me as the kind of man who prides himself on handling everything. Strong. Stoic. Macho. If John called Maggie and said they needed help at the ranch… yeah. That probably hit somewhere deep and ugly. At the same time, though, Cole is being a jerk. Help is help. And the ranch looks like it takes a lot of work to keep things going here.
I hoist my bags and start down the small path toward the guesthouse, hoping to slip away unnoticed. But no such luck.
“Who is that?” Maggie asks.
“Nobody,” Cole answers immediately.
Ouch.
John huffs. “She’s renting the guesthouse for six months. She’s from Seattle. Maggie, this is Layla.”
Fantastic.
My hands are full. Literally and emotionally. Everyone’s tense, voices raised, and here I am, standing there like a very awkward extra in someone else’s family drama.
I lift one arm as best I can and give a small wave. “Hello.”
No one waves back.
I smile anyway and hurry toward the front door of the guesthouse, the argument continuing behind me as if I’ve already disappeared.
The second I step inside, I drop every bag right where I’m standing. Groceries scatter. My shoulders sag. So, this is the family I just walked into.
I put my headphones on and let the music fill my ears as I put the groceries away, moving slowly, deliberately, trying to settle myself. I line things up in the fridge, stack snacks in the cabinet, already planning what I might make for dinner later—even though I’ll probably end up eating something quick and easy because writing always steals my appetite.
My brain, however, refuses to focus. Instead, it keeps circling back to one thing. Why does Cole hate me so much?
Maybe he feels like I’m intruding on his space. On his land. His routine. And the way he keeps calling me city girl, like it’s an insult, like I chose to grow up somewhere else just to personally annoy him.
I pause, leaning against the counter.
I wonder where the cows are. The listing said they had all kinds of farm animals. I glance out the window and spot a barn far off in the distance, red against the green land, almost unreal. Maybe I’ll take a walk later and look around. Get a feel for everything. Experience it, not just observe it. The horses roam free during the day and it's absolutely beautiful.
