“I had big dreams,” I say, eyes drifting back out to the snow. “Of becoming a serious reporter. Thought I had everything figured out.”
The memory pulls at me. My bright-eyed ambition, those early mornings with coffee and adrenaline, the way I used to chase live shots like they were gold.
“I moved up from a job in Oklahoma City to one in Denver. I was the morning reporter at the big station there. I was set to move up. National desk, field assignments, maybe even international stories if I kept climbing.”
But my voice fades as the memories turn heavier. The politics. The backstabbing. The burnout. The way I started disappearing inside the machine.
“I wasn’t cut out for that life,” I finish, shaking my head. “Too many rules, too many walls. So I dusted my butt off and went to LA to try entertainment reporting.” I glance at him. “Things took off. And, well, the rest is history.”
Sam’s quiet for a beat, but not distant. His eyes are still on me, steady and thoughtful.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he says gently.
I give him a half-smile. “Most people don’t think what I do is real journalism.”
“Most people don’t know what it costs to chase the truth,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that’s sharp around the edges that tells me he understands far more than he lets on.
“Yeah.” I pause. “Would it be okay if I go lie down? My head is hurting even more.”
“Of course. Need any help getting back?”
I shake my head, already putting space between us. “I’m fine.”
But the words hang in the air, almost transparent. Because I’m not fine. Not even close. The laughter, the quiet moment, the glimpse of something human between us should’ve been comforting. Should’ve made me feel closer. Safer. Instead, it cracked something wide open. Too many memories. Too much truth. Too many feelings I haven’t earned the right to have.
Sam doesn’t push. He just nods, eyes following me with that same unreadable expression that always makes me feel a little too seen even though we’ve just met.
I slip out of the room, each step feeling heavier than the last. By the time I reach the bedroom and close the door softly behind me, it’s not just exhaustion that makes me sink into the bed. It’s the weight of guilt. The pull of something I didn’t come here to find.
And the growing fear that when the storm outside clears the one inside me still won’t be over.
6
The next time I wake, it’s still dark. But it feels different this time. Not storm-dark, but night-dark. The kind that seeps into everything.
I roll onto my side and inhale instinctively. The pillow smells like cedar and something clean and masculine and undeniablyhim.
What the hell am I doing here?
This was a mistake.
All of it.
Tears sting the corners of my eyes before I can blink them back. I should’ve kept my distance. Should’ve stayed a stranger. Should’ve been smarter than this.
I press the blanket over my mouth and exhale, hard.
I need to avoid Sam. And Phern. Just stay in this room, stay quiet, wait until the roads are clear.
Then I’m gone. Gone from the ranch. Gone from this town. Gone from whatever this is trying to grow between me and a man I was never supposed to meet like this. I groan and bury my face in the pillow.
But then it hits me.
My purse. My phone. My wallet.
All of it was in the stupid Prius.
And the Prius?
