Every possessive instinct I’ve got is screaming that she’s mine to claim, even if she doesn’t know it yet.
Even if she’d probably knee me in the balls for thinking it.
I’m heading toward trouble I can’t avoid any longer.
Because Ethan’s right—I’ve got it bad.
And Delaney Phillips is about to find out exactly what happens when a Sutton man decides a woman is his.
Chapter 3
Delaney
Spur and Spoon is pure small-town Montana—pie case spinning cherry, apple, and something drowning in meringue, burnt-orange vinyl booths that probably rocked in ‘74, and industrial coffee pots brewing a thousand secrets.
It’s also full of locals who clock every newcomer like it’s a competitive sport.
The bell jingles when I push through—bright and welcoming, even if the stares aren’t. I lift my chin and paste on a smile because I’m meeting my sister for lunch.
Nothing to see here.
Kitty’s already in a booth near the back, and the sight of her makes my ribs squeeze tight. She’s radiant—the kind of glow that comes from being loved well and sleeping soundly and not worrying about whether the electricity will get shut off before payday.
It’s a radiance I couldn’t give her, despite the years of making sure she ate before I did, slept in the better bed, and wore thewarmer coat. Ten years of being the wall between her and every edge the world tried to throw at us.
“Laney!” She waves as if I might not have seen her, as if I haven’t been spotting her in crowds since she was eleven years old and I was suddenly, terrifyingly responsible for keeping her alive.
I slide into the booth across from her. A mug of black coffee is already waiting because Kitty knows I take my caffeine: strong, with no frills. “Thank you for ordering for me.”
My sister grins, and God, she looks sohappy. “How’s Stoneridge? How’s the job? How’s?—”
“Breathe, Kit.” I wrap my hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into my fingers.
She sighs. “I know, but I don’t see you as much now I’m living at the cabin with Tom. I miss your face.”
“I miss your face too.” I reach across to squeeze her hand. “But Stoneridge is good. The job is good. Everything is good.”
Kitty frowns. “You said ‘good’ three times in that weird flat voice. That’s your tell.”
“I don’t have a tell.”
“You have seven tells, and that was number four. Masking.”
I lift my mug in a small salute. “Congratulations. You’ve pierced my armor. Should I just surrender now?”
Her mouth twitches. “Sarcasm. That’s number one.”
“I prefer to think of it as damage control,” I say lightly.
She laughs, the sound easy and familiar. “Uh-huh.”
I take a sip of my coffee. “So. What’s new with you?”
She leans forward, elbows on the table, chin in her hands. “Tom’s teaching me to ride. Properly, not just hanging on.”
I smile. “Look at you. Ranch wife in training.”
She has a husband who adores her, a home, and a future that doesn’t rely on counting pennies and chanting prayers to get the car to start.
