“You’ve shown your face. That counts for something. After your turn at the darts, we can head back to the inn.”
I kiss her knuckles, then step back and let her go. It’s fine that she’s playing darts with Beau. It doesn’t need to bother me, doesn’t need to make me feel possessive.
The only thing I should care about is whether she’s happy, whether she feels steady. That’s the part I’ll keep my eye on. Therest—his presence, the way he watches her, the easy jokes—I can live with that.
She doesn’t need my bruised ego on top of everything else.
While she throws, I drift into conversation with Reid Whitaker. He’s nursing a beer and telling me about the cracked window he sealed with duct tape, hopeful it’ll hold until spring.
“Goldie keeps asking when the bee puppies are coming back,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m in for it.”
We laugh, trade a few updates, but I keep glancing over.
And then—she’s gone.
I excuse myself and step into the hallway, assuming she’s headed to the restroom or stepped outside for air. I push the door open, already half-distracted.
Then I hear it. The door swinging open again, another set of footsteps trailing behind me.
Beau. Naturally.
“You enjoying yourself out there tonight?” he asks.
I sigh. “Hard to say. Air’s a little thick with bullshit.”
He smiles, all teeth and calculation. “Must be killing you, watching me with her.”
“If you’re using her to get a rise out of me,” I say, “don’t.”
He tilts his head. “She came to me. More than once. We’ve been talking about the sale. With the designation approved, there’s nothing holding her back. We’ve been hammering out the details.”
The words punch low. My gut tightens. “You’re lying.”
He shrugs, pulls out his phone, and scrolls like it’s no big thing. Then he holds it up.
Emails. Her name. Her words. My throat goes dry.
“Thanks for this, Beau,” he drawls, mocking her. “Really helpful stuff.”
The roar in my ears nearly drowns him out.
He tucks the phone away and smiles again, colder this time. “Fox doesn’t always win, you know. Sometimes the wolf gets the hen first.”
My grip tightens on the edge of the sink. I picture my fist meeting that smug face. For a breath, it’s all I want.
But then—her laugh, floating down the hallway, warm and unguarded. It pulls me back.
I release the sink and shoulder past him. He stumbles, hits the tile. I lean in close.
“Call her livestock again,” I murmur, “and we’ll find out what happens.”
He doesn’t flinch. “So sensitive.”
I leave him there, fists still clenched, heart pounding. He’s looking for a fight, but he won’t get one from me tonight.
29
ELSIE
