The words land somewhere low.
I toy with the stem of my glass. “I liked the parts where I got to design stuff. Color palettes, themes, table layouts. Tiny, pretty details that made people feel something when they walked into a room. But there was never time for that. Not really. It was all rush and polish and smile for the cameras.”
“And now?” he asks. “What do you want?”
That’s the question, isn’t it?
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I thought I did. I thought I wanted the life my father approved of. I thought I wanted… safe. Fancy safe. Respectable safe. And then I stood in that room in my wedding dress and realized I’d built an entire life I didn’t even recognize.”
I take another sip, the burn welcome.
“I want…” I try again. “I want to do something that feels real. That doesn’t just look good from the outside but actually is good. I want to use my brain and my creativity for something that isn’t just… a glossy brochure.”
He’s quiet.
Then, with a playful smirk, “You could run social media for the ranch.”
I blink. “What?”
He lifts a shoulder, like it’s no big deal. “We’ve been meaning to get better about that anyway. Nash keeps threatening to make a TikTok for the cows. Mom doesn’t know what a TikTok is, but she’s already against it.”
A laugh escapes me. “She should be. Nash plus the internet is a threat to national security.”
“Exactly,” he says. “We could use someone who knows what they’re doing. Someone who can make things look pretty and… what’s the word… marketable.”
I raise a humorous brow. “You want me to post pictures of you mucking out stalls with inspirational quotes?”
“I was thinking less of that and more… promoting the rodeos, the guest cabin, the seasonal events. The stuff that keeps this place running.” His gaze softens. “You know this town. Better than half the people in it. You know what makes it special. You could help show that off. In a way that actually fits you too.”
The idea hits me as a sudden shaft of sunlight.
I picture it: photos of Buckhorn Lake at sunrise. Stories of rodeo days and barn dances. Videos of Lila feeding a foal, of Ellie at the cookie swap, of Rusty stealing someone’s biscuit. Captions that don’t sound like press releases, but real people talking about a real place.
“People like that small town, cozy, ‘wish I lived there’ stuff,” I murmur, brain already whirring. “We could build a calendar of content. Seasonal posts, event highlights, behind-the-scenes ranch life, family spotlights. You could do collaborations with the bakery, the diner, the church, the motel…”
I catch myself mid ramble, cheeks heating.
“Sorry,” I say quickly. “I went full marketing goblin there. I know it’s a joke.”
Dallas is watching me, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face. Not the polite one. Not the guarded one. The one that hits me straight in the knees.
“Don’t apologize,” he says. “I like seeing your brain light up.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “It’s just an idea.”
“It’s a good idea,” he says. “And for the record? I didn’t say it all as a joke.”
“What?”
“The social media,” he says. “I was only half-teasing.”
I look down at my glass, fingers pressing a little too tightly around it.
Stay, the idea whispers.
You could stay.
You could build something here that’s yours.
