Page 85 of Saddle Storm

It shuts her down every time.

Max’s father.

As if on cue, her head drops to our hands. “Silas, I—”

“What if I told you I don’t need to know who his father is?”

She looks up at me. A question there.

“Not now anyway,” I add with an honest grin.

She nods, her head dropping back to her hands, shaking now even under my grip on them.

Sucking in a breath, she meets my eyes again. “I want you too. But I can’t make any promises about my trust issues.” She swallows hard. “I um . . . I might need some work.”

The hopefulness, the raw honesty behind what she’s asking, makes my stomach dip. I brush my thumbs under her ears and press my forehead to hers. “You don’t scare me, Bumble Bee. But losing you again does.”

Her lashes fall and I feel another swallow. After a moment, she offers me a tired grin. “Coffee?”

“Sounds like I’m gonna need it.” I wink.

28

I’m standing in the cottage bedroom, tugging on a blue sweater I’ve already decided I don’t like. It’s clean and goes with my jeans, but it’s a little short at the waist—something I’ve never been self-conscious about. But this is dinner with the Thorne men—more like a clan now, with Rose, Willow, the kids. And . . . me, the hired help. Our local, reliable horse girl.

I shouldn’t be going.

Everyone will know Silas spent the night. It’s going to be awkward. There will be questions. Probably not judgement, knowing this family. And . . . I’m pretty sure Ginger’s told Connor who Max’s father is. And now that Silas and I are . . . something, will he ask me about it?

I catch Silas behind me in the mirror, pulling me from my thoughts. He’s leaning against the doorway, watching me with a grin.

He left reluctantly a little while ago, back to Wilder’s to change. Now he’s dressed in loose jeans, a white polo that hugs his arms, a fresh bandage at his bicep peeking out from under the sleeve.

“You’re overthinking it,” he says, reading me too easily.

“I am not.” I turn back to the mirror. “It’s a reasonable amount of thinking.”

He pushes off the door frame and comes closer, hands settling at my hips like they belong there now. “You forget, you fit at that table more than I do.”

I scoff, leaning back against his strong chest. “I fit in ranch life more than you do. Family dinner is a whole other language.”

“Fine—overthink all you want. Still not letting you bail.”

Before I can argue, there’s a hard knock at the door.

“That’s Chase and Pepper,” Silas tells me, tapping my hip before stepping out of the room.

I don’t have a chance to ask what they’re doing here. If they’re coming to dinner with us—which would be a relief, making tonight a lot less intimidating.

Other than on-screen, I’ve only seen Chase Reeves once here on the ranch—some time ago for an event. I remember him being tall, broad in that professional athlete way. Effortlessly confident. The kind you’d expect from a team captain. He strides in like he owns the place. His wife, Pepper, beside him. Glossy auburn hair and long perfect legs. I’ve never met her, but you’d have to be living under a rock to not know Pepper Woods. A few years ago, there was a million-dollar price on her head as the runaway bride of the president’s son. She ran off just before his election, and the man was getting his bride back—one way or another.

I’m not sure how she got out of that ordeal, but I know there was another wedding where she ended up running off again—on the back of Chase’s motorcycle.

“Brought your SUV,” Chase says, dropping the keys at the coffee table. “And your jacket.” He tosses Silas’s team jacket on the couch. It’s unmistakable. Red and white and printed with his last name and number. Pepper approaches me first, her pretty eyes scanning me, and it makes me want to tug on the hem of my sweater to cover exposed skin.

“You must be Storm.”

“And you’re Pepper,” I say, extending my hand.