Me:He has spurs, Z. Sharp ones. And dead eyes.
Z:Lmao. How’s the exile? Have you milked a cow yet?
Me:No, but I shoveled enough shit to build a new island. Also met the locals. There’s a blonde bartender who called me pretty and invited me to trivia.
Z:PLEASE tell me you’re not going to sleep with the first local girl you met.
Me:Why does everyone assume I’m just trying to get laid? I am a man of substance.
Z:You’re a man of "daddy cut off my credit cards." And your track record is literally just "models and bad decisions."
Me:Rude. And untrue. Sometimes they’re actresses. Anyway, no. I’m behaving. Trying to, at least. Winnie, the ranch owner, thinks I’m useless.
Z:Are you?
Me:...Currently, yes. But I’m working on it.
Z:Character development. I love to see it. Just don't die, Beau. The paperwork would be a nightmare for me.
Me:I feel the love.
I tossed the phone aside and dragged myself to the bathroom. The hot water was erratic—Winnie had warned me it was "temperamental"—but when it finally kicked in, I nearly moaned aloud. I scrubbed away the dirt, the sweat, the smell of horse, and watched the grime swirl down the drain.
When I looked in the mirror after, toweling off my hair, I paused. I looked... tired. But there was color in my cheeks that wasn't from a tanning bed. A smudge of dirt on my jaw I’d missed. I looked a little less like a Sterling heir and a little more like... just a guy.
Huh.
I threw on clean jeans—my last clean pair of "casual" jeans that cost $400—and a white t-shirt, then headed downstairs.
The smell hit me first. Fried chicken. Gravy. Biscuits. My stomach gave a roar that could have rivaled a lion.
Pops was at the stove, and Winnie was setting the table. She’d showered too, her hair damp and loose around her shoulders, softening the sharp angles of her face.
"There he is," Pops said, turning with a grin. "Thought maybe you’d dissolved in the tub."
"Considered it," I admitted, limping toward the table. "Smells amazing, Pops."
"Chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes, green beans with bacon, and buttermilk biscuits." He set a platter on the table that looked like a magazine cover. "Figured you earned a real meal."
"I could kiss you," I said solemnly.
"Save it for the girls at the Rusty Spur, son. Just eat."
The first bite was a religious experience. The crunch of the batter, the tender meat, the creamy gravy... I closed my eyes and let out a sound that was probably inappropriate for a dinner table.
"Good?" Winnie asked, looking amused.
"Good doesn't cover it. This is the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth. And I’ve eaten at Michelin-star restaurants in Paris."
"Flattery will get you everywhere," Pops said, passing the biscuits.
We ate in a comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the clinking of forks and my occasional groans of appreciation. It felt... easy. Domestic. In Dallas, dinner was a networking event. It was stiff conversations about stocks and mergers, checking watches, being seen. Here, it was just food and people.
"So," Pops said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "How many white t-shirts you got in that suitcase, Beau?"
I paused, fork halfway to my mouth. "Uh... that was the last clean one. Why?"
"‘Cause unless you plan on doing laundry every night, you’re gonna run out. And those fancy shirts ain't made for ranch work." He gestured to my chest. "You need proper gear. Wranglers. Pearl snaps. Boots that can handle mud without cryin' about it."
