“To what?”
He gestures vaguely around the kitchen. “To the fact that you come with people. Most of the clients I’ve dealt with are pretty isolated. By design. Easier to guard one person than a whole ecosystem.”
“You say ecosystem like I’m a swamp,” I say.
“A very loud swamp,” he says.
“Rude.”
His mouth curves, just a little. The almost-smile does things to my insides I do not want to analyze.
Cotton claps her hands once. “All right. Logistics. Bran, you’re staying?”
He nods. “If it’s not a problem. You’re more secure out here, and there’s more space.”
“Perfect,” she says. “I’ll get you set up in the guest room. Twiggy, I know you’re going to want computer access, so I already set you up in the office. It has a couch you can sack out on when you need a nap.”
“You did all that in the ten minutes we were driving over?” I ask.
She flips her hair. “I’m an anxious over-prepper. It’s my spiritual gift.”
Something tight in my chest loosens a notch.
“Thanks,” I say, and I mean it in a thousand ways.
She smiles, soft. “Go work. Before you implode.”
Cotton’sofficeusedtobe a guest bedroom. Now it looks like something out of a Southern living spread for people with too much money and not enough things to spend it on.
One wall is all built-ins—dark wood shelves lined with leather-bound ledgers, framed photos of horses mid-flight over fences, a few crystal trophies catching the afternoon light. Another wall is floor-to-ceiling corkboard in sleek brass frames, covered in color-coded calendars and mind-maps that make my heart beat faster in the best way.
There’s a wide window overlooking one of the side paddocks, sheer curtains softening the view. A heavy antique desk sits under it, polished to a shine. Opposite that, a deep, overstuffed sofa with navy velvet throw pillows and a folded knit blanket waits under a brass reading lamp—Cotton’s “if you don’t nap I’ll kill you” solution, I’m sure.
“You can colonize that corner,” she says, pointing to a wide, gleaming partner desk she’s cleared along the side wall. “Laptop,notes, whatever serial-killer string board you need. Guest room’s made up if you want a real bed, but I know you—you’ll end up drooling on that couch between rabbit holes.”
She’s not wrong.
Bran stands just inside the doorway, too big and too dark for this pretty room with its horse paintings and scented candle that smells like vanilla and oak. His shoulder nearly brushes the frame, forearms crossed over his chest, taking everything in with that slow, tactical scan that makes my skin go hot and prickly.
“You’re enabling her,” he tells Cotton.
“Obviously,” she says. “Somebody has to.”
I set my bag down on “my” side of the partner desk and start unloading—laptop, external drive, my favorite mechanical pencil and pens sorted by color and nib width. Everything has a place. Everything slides into it like a little click in my brain.
Bran doesn’t move from the doorway. He’s not just looming; he’s radiating. I can feel him at my back, a solid line of heat even from across the room.
“You don’t have to stand there like Secret Service,” I tell him, glancing over my shoulder. “There’s an entire couch with your name on it. Or, you know, this very nice chair right here.”
I nudge the leather swivel chair beside me with my foot. It rolls an inch on the rug and then stops, obedient, unlike some people.
“I’m good,” he says.
“That’s what she said.” The words are automatic, reflex, born of countless hours in Gunner and Brodie and other men’s presence.
Cotton chokes. A very faint flush of pink traces Bran’s cheekbones, but he just looks at me, that steady, unimpressed stare that should be infuriating and is instead…grounding. Like he’s an anchor and I’m a balloon someone finally tied down.
“All right,” Cotton says, clapping her hands once. “I’m going to go start bread for dinner and pretend I don’t hear you two flirting like teenagers. Holler if you need me. Or if he starts brooding too loud.”
