“No, no, no, no, no,” I mutter, scrolling through the comments with mounting horror.
@RodeoQueen89:Tell me why I’d sell my kids to be that girl.
@AlphaRanchMom:“Pulls her out of danger” my ass—ten bucks says she faked the whole thing.
@BullRidersAnonymous:The way his hand’s on her ass??? Someone call the fire department.
@BarrelRacerJess:If Jake Dillon looked at me like that, I’d fake it every damn weekend too.
@OmegaRightsNow:Can we not romanticize near-death experiences? The woman clearly looks shaken.
@TeamDillon:Jake was doing his job, folks. Everyone’s safe—let’s keep it classy.
@SaddleUpBabe:Safe? Maybe. But damn if I wouldn’t trade places with her for five seconds.
Somebody tagged me on my personal account. I don’t even know how. You can’t see my face in the photo, but with me being tagged, it’s not hard to tell that the woman in the photo is me. Not too many people have the hair I have.
My phone vibrates nonstop as I turn notifications back on, and suddenly I’m drowning in a sea of reactions, retweets, and increasingly creative commentary about what exactly Jake Dillon was doing with his hands.
Another text from Josie:Don’t panic. My dads are handling it. Also, are you OKAY? That bull looked massive.
I tell her I’m fine and I’ll text her later. That girl will worry herself into a panic attack if she doesn’t hear from me.
It seems the quiet, sneaky homecoming I’ve been enjoying is suddenly over. I pull the thick wool hat Josie made me lower over my forehead and try to adjust it so the little pin—a pair of joined horseshoes—doesn’t scratch at my skin.
When she slipped it into my hand that first day I saw her, she reminded me that I’d given it to her when we were ten. I was still shocked that she’d kept it all these years.
Pulling the blanket tighter around my shoulders, I stare at the crisp, clear horizon. I really do love it here. Out of all the places I’ve been, I’ve yet to see a place more beautiful. Endless atmosphere and pastel shades that only exist in a Wyoming sky. I’ve missed this porch.
Even if my ass is starting to freeze off, watching my breath fog in the cold air. But I can feel the bubbling anxious sludge threatening to boil over. I take a sip of my rapidly cooling coffee.
How did not one, not two, but three apparitions from the past materialize in not only the same place but the same day? It’s not that crazy that I would have eventually run into Jake or even Beau. We work for the same organization, after all. Or even Charlie—being Caleb’s best friend, he was bound to be somewhere in my circle again at some point. But seeing them all at once has thrown me so far off my axis.
The sun climbs higher, warming my face, and I realize I’m shaking.
“Get it together, James,” I mutter to myself. “You’re a professional. You’ve got a degree, a career, and absolutely zero time for Alpha drama.” Maybe saying it out loud will convince my Omega to listen.
No Alphas, no more—and not them.
But I can’t ignore the goosebumps that pop up on my skin when I think of how the presence of Beau’s almost overwhelming… Alpha-ness? Is that a word? Whatever it is, it made my Omega sit up and want to beg.
A flush creeps over my face. Oh god. I squeeze my thighs together at the sudden flood of awareness and sensation at my core.
My stomach growls, interrupting my pep talk and backslide. Right. Food. That’s what normal people do when they’re having a crisis. They eat.
I push to my feet, take the blanket inside, and grab my keys. The corner store—or café—opens at six, and if I’m lucky, they’ll have fresh biscuits and gravy. And coffee. Lots of coffee.
The crew must’ve hauled my car back after load-outs; it was waiting in the driveway this morning, keys in the cup holder, andsomehow, miraculously, the damn thing actually starts. I can’t tell if the universe is nudging me toward something or…
No, I’m not goingthereagain.
Twenty minutes later, I’m pulling into the gravel lot of Sweet Buns, ready for a plate of Hattie Belle’s famous breakfast biscuits.
The bell chimes when I push through the door, and the warm smell of coffee and bacon wraps around me like a hug. There are only a few people here this early—a couple of ranch hands grabbing breakfast before heading out to work, and?—
Oh no.
There, sitting at the small table by the window, are Mabel, Dot, and Pearl. The Porch Committee. The three women who know everyone’s business before it even happens. There is no version of reality where they haven’t seen the photo or dived into all the comments.
