I look down at my hands, twisting the coat sleeves.
“You set the terms,” he says. “I agreed by bidding. I won’t cross them.”
I blink. Most men take rules as challenges. “You’re… okay with no physical expectations?”
“If you want a handshake, you’ll have to ask first,” he says, tone so flat it takes me a second to realize it’s a joke.
Relief loosens something in my chest. And—God help me—interest.
“You’re in the military,” I say. It’s not a guess. It’s in his posture, his awareness.
He nods. “Ex Navy SEAL. Discharged.”
The last word hits heavy, as though it wasn’t his choice, and still burns.
“I appreciate that you’re not… pushing anything.”
His eyes track over me—deliberate and thorough, reading me the way I read the room. “Figured you didn't need rescuing. Just... someone standing guard.”
That’s… exactly what I need. It feels dangerously easy to believe he could provide it.
But what doesheneed? Why did he bid on me?
“You hungry?” he asks suddenly. “I’m sure you’ve had a day.”
Understatement of the century. Sadie’s Day of Poor Life Choices deserves its own Netflix miniseries.
Before I can answer, his phone buzzes. He checks the screen, frowns, and then looks at me.
“Message from Tom at the ranch.”
“Who’s Tom? What ranch?”
“Tom Sutton. Havenridge Ranch. I live in one of the cabins there. Part of the veterans’ program.”
My breath stutters.
Havenridge.
Of all the places I could’ve landed?—
Of all the counties in Montana?—
Shay sent me straight to her home turf.
I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to bring danger to her doorstep. But apparently, Shay had other plans.
“So… you know Shay?” I ask carefully.
Wyatt’s eyes soften a little. “Henry’s wife. She said she needed a favor, so?—”
“I’m that favor,” I finish.
Why does that feel like a punch?
Because for one terrifying, fragile second on that stage, you let yourself believe he chose you.
He speaks again, jolting me from the spiral.
