We’ve barely gotten inside when the doorbell rings.
Cormac’s standing there, all six-foot-something of him, a dusty pair of boots on my welcome mat and a weathered Stetson tipped low over his brow. Donovan’s leather jacket hangs over one shoulder, and his mouth quirks when he says, “Slate left this in my truck,” before stepping inside without being asked.
Ansel freezes mid-pour. “And you are…?”
“Cormac,” he says flatly.
“Cormac.” Ansel repeats it like she’s tasting it and isn’t sure if she likes it. “Sounds like a whiskey brand I wouldn’t drink twice.”
“And you sound like a headache,” Cormac fires back, dropping the jacket over a chair.
I lean against the counter, hiding my smile. Watching the two of them square off is better than reality TV, and I have a feeling it’s only going to get worse—or better—from here.
Ansel finally slides the mug of coffee toward me like it’s a peace offering. “Your friend here didn’t mention why he came barging in.”
“I did.” Cormac tips his hat back, revealing sharp blue eyes that look like they’ve spent too many hours squinting against the sun. “Brought Donovan’s jacket back. Thought Stella could bring it back to him next time she is in Virginia.”
“That’s very…neighborlyof you,” Ansel says, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“It’s called being a friend,” Cormac counters, leaning against the island like he owns the place.
I sip my coffee, letting them volley insults. “Are you two done, or should I make popcorn?”
Cormac ignores me, flicking a glance at the sketchbook on the counter. “Working?”
“Always,” I say.
Ansel props her chin on her hand, studying him with mock curiosity. “So, cowboy—”
“Rancher,” he cuts in.
“Cowboy,” she repeats with a smirk. “You gonna stick around or ride off into the sunset?”
He shrugs. “Depends. You plan on making more coffee or just an attitude?”
I set my mug down before it betrays my amusement. “Both of you—out of my kitchen before one of you ends up mounted on the wall.”
They drift toward the living room, each jab a little sharper, a little closer to hitting something vital. I follow with my coffee, settling into the chair opposite them. Cormac has claimed the corner of the couch, long legs stretched out, while Ansel perches on the arm like he’s prepared to make a quick escape if cowboy energy gets too close.
“You always just walk into people’s houses?” Ansel asks, swirling her iced coffee to annoy Cormac. “You always talk this much before noon?” Cormac shoots back. I sip my coffee, trying to hide my smile. “Play nice. Or at least don’t bleed on my rug.”
Ansel leans forward, ignoring the warning. “So, Stella tells me she’s flying out Friday.” Cormac’s head turns. “To see Donovan?”
“Surprise him,” I say, already bracing for the commentary. “Show up when he’s not expecting me.” Cormac tips his hat back, studying me. “Are you sure that’s smart? Guy’s got a championship game coming up.” “That’s exactly why it’s smart,” Ansel cuts in before I can. “Nothing like a morale boost before the big show.” Cormac snorts. “Pretty sure coaches prefer film and practice over… morale boosts.” “Pretty sure nobody asked you,” Ansel fires back.
The next morning, I’m ankle-deep in a pile of clothes that looks like my closet threw up. Silk, lace, denim, the sundress he once said made him forget what he was talking about—all tugged off hangers in search of the perfectI’ve been missing yououtfit. I toss half my closet onto the bed before settling on a dress that’s soft where it matters and dangerous where it counts, folding it between layers of tissue like I’m packing an alibi. The rest of my suitcase is an afterthought—a jacket in case Virginia pretends it’s still winter, perfume that clings like a second skin, and the black heels he’s always had a weakness for.
By the time I zip the case shut, my bedroom looks like a boutique after a clearance sale. The chaos doesn’t bother me. I’ll deal with it when I’m back—or maybe I won’t.
Morning comes too soon, coffee in a travel cup, and my phone clutched in the other hand as I slide into the back of the car. The driver takes one look at my overstuffed bag and says nothing, bless him. The airport’s a blur of rolling suitcases and sleepy faces, the kind of half-light where the world still feels private.
When the plane lifts, Agave Hills falls away in slow layers—desert, mountains, clouds—until all that’s left is the thought of him on the other side of this flight, completely unaware I’m coming.
The flight is quiet, just the steady hum of the engines and the occasional clink of ice in plastic cups. I pretend to read my eBook, but my eyes keep sliding to the window, tracking the slow crawl of the horizon. Ansel texted me last night from L.A., saying Theo had a last-minute work trip and she tagged along, which means the apartment will be quiet when I get there. Just him. Just us.
I think about the look on his face when he sees me—how his brow will lift first, like he’s making sure I’m real, and then that slow, wicked smile will take over. I think about the way he’ll smell when I fold into him—dark musk, the faint sweetness of plum, and that hint of tobacco leaf that lingers like the end of a kiss.
By the time we start descending, I’ve given up on reading entirely. My palms are warm, my chest tight with the kind of nerves that don’t feel like fear at all—just wanting. At least, that’s what I tell myself. I don’t know why my stomach won’t settle, why there’s this flicker of unease threading through the anticipation. Maybe it’s just been too long. Maybe it’s the surprise. Maybe it’s something I don’t want to name.
