That threw me. "Okay?"
She shrugged, leaning back, one knee bumping my thigh. "Thought that was always a possibility. You did show up with a return label."
"This doesn't bother you?"
"Of course it bothers me," she said, rolling her eyes. "I'm not a robot. But I'm not going to fall apart over something that hasn't actually happened yet. You have a choice to make. Maybe two."
"Two?"
"Yeah." She ticked them off on her fingers. "One: what you’re going to say to your dad and those suits tomorrow. Two: what you're goingto say to me. And you're not deciding my reaction ahead of time, Beau. You don't get to do that."
Some of the pressure in my chest eased, just a fraction. "You should hate me for dragging you into this."
She snorted. "Hate's a strong word for the guy who hauls feed at dawn and argues with my rooster like it's a person."
"I'm serious."
"So am I." She nudged my knee with hers. "I'm not going to stop living my life because some rich people in Dallas think I'm a plot twist. And I'm sure as hell not going to stop… this," she gestured between us, "because your dad can't decide whether he wants you broken or fixed."
I looked at her, really looked at her—hair a little wild from the bar, lips a little glossy from whatever Cassie had forced on her, eyes clear despite the drinks.
"You’re taking this way too well," I said.
"Alcohol helps," she said cheerfully. Then, softer: "So does knowing you care this much."
I blinked. "What?"
"You are wound up so tight you're practically vibrating, Sterling," she said. "You've been freaking out all day because you think this is going to ruin me. It won't. Annoy me? Yes. Piss me off? Absolutely. But ruin me? No. I'm harder to break than that."
I felt something in my chest crack open at that. "I don't want to be the reason you get hurt."
"Newsflash," she said, leaning in closer, her voice dropping, "you are absolutely going to hurt me at some point. I'm absolutely going to hurt you. That's what happens when you let people matter. But I am choosing that. You don't get to opt me out because the internet is mean."
We were closer now than I realized—her breath warm against my cheek, her hand resting on my knee like she'd forgotten she'd put it there.
"You choosing this?" I asked, barely audible.
She smiled, slow and sure. "Already did, cowboy."
My heart stuttered hard enough that I had to close my eyes for a second.
"Now," she said briskly, like we hadn't just casually stepped off an emotional cliff, "you need to sleep. You've got a big boy meeting at eight a.m., and you can't show up looking like you lost a bar fight with feelings."
Despite myself, I laughed. "Yes, ma'am."
She stood, wobbling just enough to betray her buzz. I reached out automatically, hands settling on her hips to steady her. Her eyes flicked down to where I touched her, then back up, heat flickering there.
"Don't think I didn't see that," she said lightly.
"See what?"
"You shaking when you handed me that phone." Her fingers brushed my jaw, soft but sure. "That's the part that pissed me off. Not the article. Not your dad. The fact you sat here alone with it instead of letting me sit with you."
"I'm trying to do better," I said.
"You are," she said. "So here's your homework, Sterling: tomorrow, you tell your dad whatever you need to tell him. You tell me whatever you can't say to him. And if another article drops, you hand me the phone before you spiral. Deal?"
I swallowed. "Deal."
