“I will.”
But standing there, remembering the look on Winnie’s face when I’d called her beautiful, the way her hands had shaken—
I was starting to think careful had already gone out the window.
WINNIE
Running wild
Pawhuska, Oklahoma
5:15 AM
"The heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of."
- Blaise Pascal
***
There was no way he just decided to flirt with me like that out of nowhere. Where the hell did that even come from?
I’d tried to sleep on it. Tried to tell myself that Beau Sterling was just being his usual charming, attention-seeking Dallas self and it didn't mean anything. He was probably like this with every girl back in the city—flashing that grin, dropping lines like breadcrumbs, expecting adoration. I’d tried to tell myself that tomorrow morning things would go back to normal—respectful distance, professional boundaries, me pretending his arms weren't distracting and him pretending he hadn't just told me I was "breathtakingly hot" in the middle of the goddamn barn.
Except I got maybe three hours of sleep. Total.
Every time I closed my eyes, I heard his voice—that low, confident drawl when he’d said "the view is you" like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Saw the way he’d looked at me on the porch, all lazy confidence and deliberate heat. Felt the ghost of how close he’d stood in the barn, close enough that I could smell him—soap and sweat and something that was just him.
Beau Sterling was going to be the death of me. I was calling it now.
When my alarm went off at 4:30 AM, I was already awake, staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out what the hell I was supposed to do. Go downstairs and face him like nothing happened? Pretend I hadn't spent half the night replaying "watching you work makes me want to either worship you or throw you against a wall" on loop until my entire body felt like it was on fire?
Because I couldn't help but wonder what his arms would feel like, if he was strong enough to actually manhandle me. The thought made me shiver, heat pooling low in my belly despite the early morning chill.
I rolled out of bed and went straight to the shower, cranking the water as cold as it would go. The shock of it made me gasp, but I needed it—needed something to snap me out of whatever horny, sleep-deprived spiral I was currently in.
Cassie’s voice echoed in my head as the icy water ran down my back: Just fuck him. Life's too short. That boy wants you bad.
And the thing was, she was mostly right. It had been over a year since I’d been with anyone, and even longer since I’d wanted someone the way I apparently wanted Beau. Tyler had been a good distraction until he wasn't—safe, familiar, ultimately boring. But now there was a literal model living in my house, looking at me like I was water in a desert, and I was supposed to what? Ignore it? Pretend I didn't feel the same pull?
He seemed more than down for it too, which really didn't help my situation.
I hadn't expected him to actually grow into an attractive man, even if I wanted to lie to myself. He was far from the twelve-year-old Beau who cried over mud. Maybe his father didn't agree with that, but he was a man, for sure. And he was looking at me like a man looks at a woman he intends to claim.
I let the freezing water assault my back while I rubbed my face hard, slapping my cheeks like that would somehow reset my brain. Get it together, Jameson. You're a professional. You run an entire ranch. You can handle one flirty city boy.
Even if that city boy had shoulders that could now carry fence posts like they weighed nothing and a jawline that could cut glass and eyes that—
Stop. STOP.
I turned off the shower and dried off aggressively, like I could towel away the thoughts. Then I stood in front of my closet for way too long, staring at my clothes like they held the answers to the universe.
Normally I just grabbed whatever was clean—old jeans, a tank top or flannel, boots. Function over fashion, always. But this morning, my hand hovered over a pair of jeans that actually fit instead of hanging loose. The dark blue ones that Cassie had bought me last year, saying they "made my ass look like art." I’d worn them maybe twice.
I grabbed them before I could overthink it. Then—and this is where I knew I was in trouble—I picked a fitted black tank top instead of my usual oversized one. And I actually braided my hair neatly instead of just tying it back in a messy knot.
This wasn't dressing up. This was just... wearing clean clothes. That happened to fit. And maybe showed off that I had a figure under all the ranch grime. That was allowed. That was normal.
"You're so full of shit," I muttered to my reflection, but I left the clothes on anyway.
