Page 12 of Danger

Winnie blinks. “Oh?” She peers at it. “Who?—”

“Didn’t get a name,” Honey cuts in smoothly, already moving down the bar.

Winnie side-eyes me, lips twitching. “Well, well. Maybe there are gentlemen in this town.”

I snort. “If there are, they sure as hell aren’t sittin’ here.”

“Hey now,” Charming says, leaning forward with a grin like he’s been waitin’ for his cue. “Speak for yourself. Good to see you around here, Winnie.”

She laughs—soft, easy. “Hi, Charming.”

Rogue lifts his glass. “Good to see you, Winnie.”

And all heads turn as Trouble carries Sawyer through the door like they just got hitched. She squeals, and the bar cheers as they make their big entrance. Honey pushes people out the wayto hug Sawyer first and see the ring. The thing practically blinds the room—big enough to weigh her damn hand down. Then we all turn on Trouble like vultures.

“Well, guess she said yes,” Charming gets on him first.

“Consider me spoken for, brothers,” Trouble smirks.

“And yes,” Sawyer cuts in pointing a finger at us. “Every damn one of you has to wear a tux at the wedding.”

We all groan, and I take a pull from my beer.

“And you will all be at the engagement party and every celebration along the way. And I need you all to find some manners.”

“Thought this was the engagement party,” Charming says.

“It's an engagement celebration,” Sawyer corrects.

Rogue scratches his jaw. “That's just the same sentence wearing different boots.”

That’s when Trouble catches my eye. Serious. Too serious. “I need to talk to you.”

“What’s up?” I ask as we step aside.

“Why the hell haven’t you been answering my calls?” he questions.

“Because I’m a damn man,” I shoot back. “Busy. Text me like a normal person.”

“Busy my ass. I’ve been running around settin’ up this engagement, and there’s something I couldn’t put in a text. Tried and kept deleting it.”

“Then spit it out.”

“She’s in town. She came by the ranch a few days ago and… she just pulled into the lot outside the same time Sawyer and I did. So… she’s here. Right outside.”

“Who?” I ask, half-distracted, lifting my beer.

“Her.”

I open my mouth to press him, but the bar does it for me—goes quiet all at once, the way it does when everyone around youknows somethin’ you don't. When everything is about to change, and you don’t know it yet. Chairs scrape. Heads turn toward the door.

I follow their gaze.

And there she is, framed in the doorway like a fucking nightmare. Rylee Whitmore.

Even thinkin’ her name tastes like blood in my mouth. My throat locks. For six years I told myself I’d never see her again. Not after she walked out of this town. Not after she walked out on me. On him.

On our son.