He smiles—crooked, cocky, and just this side of wrecked—and backs toward the door.
“I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”
“What are you going to do?” I ask, my voice cracking like my composure.
“Take a cold shower,” he says, already disappearing, “and hopethisgoes down before my annoying sister starts running her damn mouth.”
The door clicks shut behind him.
And I’m left standing there hot, flustered, and entirely ruined for any man who isn’t Sam Stone.
8
My pulse thrums in my neck as I pad down the hall, Sam’s flannel hanging loose around me like a secret I shouldn’t be wearing. The scent of coffee hits me first, and I pick up my pace.
Phern’s at the stove when I walk in, her back to me, flipping something in a cast iron pan like it owes her money. I think back to what Sam said about angry baking. Is that what this is?
“Good morning,” I say, trying to sound casual. Normal. Not like I just made out with her half-naked brother ten minutes ago.
Without turning, she says flatly, “Did you sleep with my brother?”
I freeze halfway to the counter. “I—what?”
She hums, unbothered, finally turning to face me.
My lips part, and the truth fumbles on its way out. “Not like that.”
One eyebrow arches, skeptical. “So a little bit like that?”
I press my lips together. “We didn’t… you know…”
Phern narrows her eyes, arms crossing, spatula still in hand like she’s not above using it as a weapon.
“Look. I’m not here to judge your life choices. Sam’s a grown man. But if you hurt him…” She steps closer, her expression sharper now. “I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt because, for some strange, unknowable reason, he seems to like you. Really like you. And he hasn’t liked anyone in a long damn time.”
The weight of her words settles over me. Unexpected. Heavy. Honest.
I don’t say anything for a beat. Just meet her eyes.
Then, quietly, “I don’t want to hurt him.”
“You better mean that.”
“I do.”
She stares at me a second longer, like she’s deciding whether to believe me.
Then she turns back to the stove. “Good. Now grab some plates. If you’re going to be here, you’re helping with breakfast.”
And just like that, I’m either part of the pack or on probation. Hard to tell.
Phern scrambles the eggs like she’s got a personal vendetta against them, the spatula clinking sharply against the pan.
“After we eat,” she says, not bothering to glance at me, “we need to check the horses.”
She finally looks over her shoulder. “What size shoe do you wear?”
“Ten,” I reply.
