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“Afternoon.” She nods politely and steps right past us. Her gaze avoids us. Avoids me.

Then she’s through the stable doors, gone from view.

“She seems focused,” Joaquin remarks.

“She’s got a lot on her plate,” I mutter. “New job and all.”

But my stomach twists tight. An even worse sensation than the hot pain burning up my spine. It’s the awareness that Vivica Murphy wasn’t kidding.

Last night meant nothing, and she’s already moved on.

The problem is, for once, I haven’t. For once, it seems like I’m catching feelings…

FIVE

Vivica

My plan for my first full week at Silver Creek was simple: early mornings, long hours, animals that need me, and absolutely zero time to think about Rhett Dawson.

Turns out, that last one proves impossible.

You’d think it’d be easy to avoid one man on a six-thousand-acre ranch, but I’m quickly learning Rhett Dawson isn’t just any man.

He’s persistent, and a man who doesn’t quit easily.

At first it’s subtle.

I catch him watching me from across the pasture as I make my way between the stables and the cattle pens, his gaze lingering a second longer than it should before he turns back to whatever task he’s supposed to be doing.

Then it’s less subtle.

He’s in the horse stables almost every time I come in to check on Buttercup, greeting me with his teasing little nickname, “Miss Vivica,” and the slow grin that makes him even more handsome. It’s a grin flashed to someone he shares a secret with.

…and we do share a secret. That’s the problem.

I keep my responses short and professional. Basic, bare minimum replies like “Good morning,” and “have a good day.”

My tone’s clipped but still polite and toeing the professional line.

I hope it communicates what it needs to: that whatever happened between us last Friday night is a closed chapter, and I have no interest in revisiting it.

Rhett takes each dismissal in stride, never pushing or sulking about it. If anything, it seems to amuse him that I’m so standoffish with him. He simply nods and goes about his business, seemingly accepting that he’ll have to try again tomorrow.

When I make it home in the evenings, I’m relieved to be alone. I focus on simple pleasures like hot showers and settling into my new home.

There’re still a few boxes left to unpack from the move, and I tackle them after dinner with a glass of wine.

The last two boxes are from my vinyl collection.

I open the first one and start pulling records out, inspecting each sleeve for damage from the drive.

Tears for Fears, still pristine.

Nina Simone, a small crease on the corner that makes me wince.

TLC, perfect condition.

I line my eclectic collection up on the credenza’s bottom shelf and reach for the next stack.