The panic spiked through the hangover haze, overriding the confusion. I bolted upright, the world spinning in violent protest, but I was already swinging my legs over the side of the bed.
Chores. I’d missed morning chores. Bandit needed feeding, the pasture gates needed opening, the water troughs needed checking, and I was here, passed out like some irresponsible teenager while the ranch fell apart.
The door swung open without a knock.
Beau appeared in the threshold. He looked infuriatingly fresh—clean t-shirt, worn jeans, boots, that easy confidence that suggested he’d been awake and productive for hours. He was carrying a tall glass of water with two white pills balanced precariously on the rim.
At the sight of me mid-panic scramble, his expression shifted from concern to a slow, knowing amusement.
“Easy,” he said, his voice dropping into that low register that triggered a shiver down my spine. Wait. I remember that voice. Close to my ear.
He set the water on the nightstand and moved to intercept me. His hands caught my shoulders—gentle but firm. “Whoa. You’re not going anywhere.”
“I have to—the chores, the horses, Bandit’s probably starving—”
“Already taken care of.” He guided me back onto the bed with a patient insistence that brooked no argument. “Pops and I handled it this morning. And Elise is out checking the north pasture. You’re off duty.”
I stared at him, my head swimming. “Off duty? I don’t do off duty. The cows don’t care if I had tequila—”
“For once,” he interrupted, sitting on the edge of the mattress, “you’re going to take a day. Pops was very clear about it. Said you earned some peace.” He nodded at the nightstand. “Drink the water. Take the pills. Try again at staying vertical in about an hour.”
I wanted to argue—the ranch manager in me bristled at being benched—but the room did a gentle tilt, and honestly? The bed felt like heaven. I reached for the water, drinking half of it in one desperate gulp, and swallowed the ibuprofen dry.
“You feel like death?” Beau asked, not unkindly.
“Death would be a spa day compared to this,” I croaked, collapsing back onto the pillow. “What exactly did I drink last night? Gasoline?”
He settled back against the headboard, crossing his ankles. He looked completely comfortable in my room. Too comfortable. “Cassie happened to you. That’s what you drank. Tequila shots, beer chasers, and something blue that she called ‘The Widowmaker.’”
I groaned, covering my face with my hands. “Why did you let me do that?”
“I tried. You told me you were a ‘fun eight-point-five’ on the drunk scale and that you were leading the dance.”
I peeked through my fingers. He was grinning, but his eyes were scanning my face, searching for something.
“So…” I started, my heart hammering against my ribs. “How… how was the drive home?”
“Eventful,” he said. “You were very chatty.”
“Chatty about what?”
“You told me I smelled like ‘expensive wood and trouble.’ You also tried to shift gears for me. While I was driving.”
Heat flooded my face. Okay, that sounded like me. But that wasn’t the part I needed to know.
“And then?” I asked, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. “We got home, and…?”
Beau went still. The amusement faded from his face, replaced by a sudden intensity that made the air in the room feel thin.
“I carried you inside,” he said softly. “You couldn’t walk in a straight line.”
“And then?”
“And then I put you to bed.”
I searched his face, looking for a sign. A tell. “Just… put me to bed? Like a toddler?”
Please tell me I didn’t dream the way you looked at me. Please tell me I didn’t dream your knee between my legs.
