I sat at the table maybe too quickly, praying she wouldn't notice the sudden tension in my jeans. Two weeks. It had been almost two full weeks since I'd hooked up with anyone, and my body was apparently staging a rebellion at the worst possible moment.
Dinner was creamy shrimp linguine that tasted like it belonged in a five-star restaurant, paired with garlic bread Pops had made from scratch and stories that had us all in stitches—tales of past ranch hands who'd quit over spiders, guests who'd mistaken cows for bulls and run screaming, one memorable incident involving a peacock and a wedding that ended with the groom in the pond.
"The peacock started it," Pops insisted, eyes twinkling. "Aggressive little bastard. Groom never stood a chance."
"Did they still get married?" I asked.
"Yep. Right there in the pond. Bride said if he survived Harold the Peacock, he could survive marriage."
Winnie snorted beer through her nose, coughing and laughing simultaneously. "Harold was a menace. Attacked the mailman twice before someone finally relocated him to a farm that appreciated his energy."
"This ranch has the most chaotic animal population I've ever encountered," I said. "Pickles the demon rooster, homicidal rabbits, peacocks named Harold—"
"Don't forget the goat that ate half of Cassie's truck interior," Winnie added.
"There's a goat?!"
"Not anymore. He's at Tyler's place now, terrorizing different vehicles."
Halfway through the meal, after Pops had cracked the Dom Pérignon with a flourish that sent bubbles fizzing everywhere, he leaned back in his chair and studied me with that gentle curiosity he had. "So Beau—tell me about your daddy. He still runnin' that company like it's his whole world?"
The question landed soft but heavy, and I set down my fork carefully. "Yeah. Sterling Corp is... everything to him. Work's his religion, success is his god. We talk, but it's always about business—quarterly reports, expansion plans, who I need to network with. Never really... personal."
"That's a lonely way to live," Pops said, no judgment, just observation. "My daddy was hard too. Didn't talk much about feelings. But we had the ranch—workin' side by side, that was how we connected. Didn't need words for that."
"My dad and I don't have that. We have board meetings masquerading as dinner." The champagne was loosening my tongue, making honesty spill easier. "I love him, I think. But we're strangers who happen to share DNA and a last name. My mom's the same—her calendar's booked with charity galas and society lunches. There's no room for actual... family."
"Sounds hollow," Winnie said quietly, her eyes soft on mine.
"It was. Is." I met her gaze. "Being here feels different. Like people actually see me instead of just the name tag."
Pops nodded slowly, refilling glasses. "That's what family should be, son. Seein' who someone really is, not who they're supposed to be."
The words settled warm in my chest, and we shifted to the living room with the champagne bottle and leftover beers. Pops dug out a battered deck of cards and taught me spades—his favorite, involving bids and strategy that twisted my champagne-buzzed brain into knots.
"You're bluffing," Winnie accused after I won a trick, eyes narrowed in mock suspicion.
"Pure skill. I'm a natural."
"You bid nil with three face cards. That's not skill, that's suicide."
"Optimistic suicide."
She won the next four tricks in a row, crowing triumphantly each time. As she leaned forward to collect the cards, her oversized tee shifted—gaping just enough that I caught a glimpse of cleavage, the soft swell of her breasts, the shadow where fabric couldn't quite hide her curves.
Heat slammed through me, immediate and visceral. My brain—traitorous, hormone-addled, champagne-soaked—veered straight into dangerous territory, imagining what she'd look like if I peeled that shirt off slowly, tasting every inch of newly exposed skin. Her head tipping back as I kissed down her neck, hands fisting in her hair. The sounds she'd make if I pressed her into the couch cushions, her legs wrapping around my waist as I—
Fuck.I shifted hard, crossing one leg over the other to hide the insistent throb in my jeans. This was a problem. A serious, physical problem that Winnie remained completely oblivious to, humming along to the Merle Haggard song Pops had put on the radio, shuffling cards with easy focus.
Two weeks without sex, surrounded by nothing but cows and manual labor, and now? My hormones had apparently decided that Winnie—my boss, my childhood friend, the woman who'd saved my life today—was the perfect target for every pent-up fantasy I'd been suppressing.
She tucked a curl behind her ear absently, and I imagined threading my fingers through those curls, tilting her head back to access her throat, feeling her pulse jump under my tongue. Her nails would drag down my back, leaving marks, her voice breaking on my name as I—
"Beau? Your turn."
"What?" My voice came out rough, and I cleared my throat. "Right. Cards. Focus."
"You look flushed. Too much champagne?"
