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CHAPTER FOUR
COLE
It takes every ounce of discipline I’ve got to let go of Reine’s hand. My palm tingles where her skin touched mine, like she’s burned her name into my lifeline. If I had my way, I’d never let go at all, but there’s an audience, and I’m supposed to be here for work, not to get caught drooling over the seller in front of her grandma and a ton of cattlemen looking for a good deal.
Her eyes stick on me, wide and dark, just shy of panicking. She wants me. I want her. There’s a magnetic pull in the air between us, strong enough to flip the Earth’s axis.
I could milk this tension all day, but the old lady’s eyes are as sharp as flint. “Enjoy the auction, Cole,” Louise says, like she’s already plotting how to kill me in my sleep if I break her granddaughter’s heart.
I grin and tip my hat, “Yes, ma’am,” because nothing short-circuits a grandmother’s kill switch like Southern manners. I watch as she leads her granddaughter away, already planning my next move.
By the time I make it to the auction floor, Reine’s already seated, third row from the front, flanked by her grandmother and some guy in a suit. She doesn’t look at me. Not directly. But her eyes keep darting sideways, like she’s drawn to me.
The auctioneer is a walking cliché in a bolo tie and shiny boots. The room hums with the anxious energy of people about to spend or lose a shit-ton of money. I settle into a chair with a clear view of Reine, the perfect vantage to study every twitch of her mouth and the way she rolls her pen between her fingers when she’s nervous.
I know I’m supposed to be evaluating the competition and concentrating on my strategy, but I can’t help cataloguing everything about her instead. The way her hair keeps escaping the elastic, wild and stubborn. How she tends to nibble on her bottom lip. The small, furious lines etched in her forehead when her grandmother whispers something in her ear.
I’m so deep in my thoughts, I nearly miss my phone buzzing in my pocket. Fucking hell. My brother acts like this is my first goddamn time at an auction.
Huddie Poo
Do not fuck this up.
Me
Fuck what up?
Huddie Poo
The auction! Asshole.
Me
What auction? I’m getting a massage at the Pleasure Depot.
Huddie Poo
Stop fucking around and buy the goddamn horse.
I shoot him a quick eye-rolling emoji and snap a selfie of myself winking at the camera with the auction floor in the background before turning off my phone. Best idea I’ve had in days. That’ll piss the asshole off more than anything.
The first few lots are some decent broodmares and a couple of scraggly yearlings that I wouldn’t bid on with Hudson’s money. I let the opening salvos play out, eyes never leaving Reine. Her posture is military-straight, but the way she digs her nails into her thigh says otherwise. She’s tense. Desperate. This is more than just pride—she needs this sale.
I lean forward in my chair, elbows on knees, playing the part of the interested buyer but really just taking in the spectacle. The air in the barn goes thick as the auctioneer calls out the next lot.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, the main event. Lot Number 22—Thunderbolt, a once-in-a-lifetime breeding stud from The Rolling R Ranch!”
The buzz in the room cranks up a full octave. Every old-money rancher in a five-state radius is eye-fucking Thunderbolt’s stats on their phones, looking for a reason to outbid the Carringtons. I know what they’re thinking—if a horse is good enough for us, it must be worth twice as much for them.
I keep my face impassive, but my brain is running a mile a minute. If I buy Thunderbolt, I get to take home the biggest prize in the barn and a damn good excuse to see Reine again. If I lose, Hudson will bury my body under the south field, and Reine will forget I ever existed.
No fucking contest.
The bidding starts high and gets higher. Fast. Some joker from Oklahoma bumps it by five grand. A guy with a handlebar mustache in the next row throws in another ten. The numbers get stupid almost instantly, but I don’t flinch. I wait. I want them to sweat. I want Reine to look at me and know I’m the one who can save her.
She’s watching the numbers climb, lips pressed so tightly they’re white. Her grandma is whispering in her ear, but she’s not listening. She’s locked on the digits, calculating futures with every new bid.
My turn.
