Five-thirty AM didn't arrive; it ambushed me.
One minute, I was dreaming about a yacht in the Mediterranean and a mimosa that refilled itself; the next, reality slapped me awake. I genuinely considered faking my own death to get out of it—staging a pillow suffocation, perhaps, or claiming a sudden, localized bout of leprosy. But then I remembered Pops saying he was proud of me last night, and Winnie’s voice echoingyou wouldn't last a week, and somehow that was enough to drag my sorry ass out of bed.
I pulled on a pair of jeans that were only slightly less stiff with dirt than the alternatives, tugged on the last clean white T-shirt I possessed, and tied my boots with fingers that felt like sausages. When I stumbled downstairs, Winnie was already in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with two mugs of coffee ready, looking way too awake for an hour that was technically still night.
"Mornin', sunshine," she said, her voice bright enough to cause physical pain.
"No," I croaked.
"No what?"
"Just no. To everything. This time should not exist. It is a conspiracy by the morning people to oppress the rest of us."
She laughed—a sound that was irritatingly pleasant—and handed me a mug. "Drink your coffee. We got mornin' chores, then we're goin' to town."
The coffee was strong enough to wake the dead, which was fortunate, because I was currently deceased. We did a condensed version of yesterday's torture—fed the horses (who were surprisingly judgmental at this hour), checked water levels, skipped mucking stalls because apparently even God needed a break (thank you, Jesus)—and by the time we finished, the sun was actually up. I felt marginally human. Maybe 40% human.
"Go shower and change," Winnie said as we headed back to the house, wiping her hands on her jeans. "Meet me back down here in twenty."
"Yes, ma'am."
I showered faster than I ever had in my life—the "Beau Sterling Spa Experience" was officially on hiatus. Soap, water, rinse, done. I threw on the same jeans (because laundry was a concept I hadn't mastered yet) and my white T-shirt because my wardrobe options were rapidly dwindling. My reflection in the foggy mirror showed someone who looked tired and sore but also... different. Less soft. There was color in my cheeks that wasn't from a tanning bed, and my shoulders looked broader, though that might have just been the swelling from manual labor.
When I came back downstairs, Winnie was waiting by the door. She’d changed into fresh jeans, a fitted white tank top, and a denim jacket that looked soft with age. But what stopped me dead in my tracks was her hair.
It was down.
I’d only ever seen it in a ponytail or a braid, pulled back for work. Now, it fell in loose, dark curls past her shoulders, thick and glossy, catching the morning light streaming through the windows like a halo. She’d put on a brown cowboy hat—well-worn, shaped perfectly to frame her face—and she looked like every cowboy’s dream come to life.
She looked fucking incredible.
"You good?" she asked, catching me staring with my mouth slightly open.
"Yeah. Yes. Good. You just—your hair’s different."
"It's down. That's how gravity works." But she was smiling, just a little, like she knew exactly what effect it was having on my cardiovascular system.
"Right. Obviously. Gravity. Hair. Makes sense." I needed to stop talking immediately before I said something embarrassing.
"Come on, city boy. Let's get you some real clothes before you embarrass yourself more."
She led me outside to what I’d assumed was just a generic farm vehicle but turned out to be her pride and joy: a dark green Chevy truck. It had a slight lift, tires big enough to crush a Prius, and a general air of "I’ve seen things." The back was loaded with a toolbox and some hay bales, and the whole thing screamedfunctional.
"This is yours?" I asked, eyeing the beast.
"Yep. Had her since I was seventeen. Pops and I fixed her up together." She patted the hood affectionately, like it was a large metal pet. "She's got some miles on her, but she runs like a dream."
"It's cool. I've never actually been in a truck before."
She stopped, keys in hand, and stared at me. "You’ve never been in a truck."
"Sedans, SUVs, the occasional limo. But no trucks. My dad thinks they’re 'uncivilized.'"
"Jesus Christ, Sterling. You really are a city boy." She unlocked it and climbed in the driver's side. "Well, get in. Time to pop your truck cherry."
The inside smelled like vanilla and old leather—a lived-in scent that was weirdly comforting. The bench seat was covered in a woven blanket, an air freshener hung from the mirror, and the cupholder was overflowing with Chapstick (so much Chapstick). When she started the engine, country music played softly from the speakers, filling the cab.
She pulled out onto the main road, one hand resting casually on the top of the wheel, completely at ease. I found myself just... watchingher. The way she drove with effortless confidence, how she knew exactly when to shift gears without looking, the little smile that played on her lips when a song she liked came on.
