MIA:Hey Dylan, thanks for inviting me to the barbeque. This might sound a bit strange, but if Fury ever settles and you think about selling, can you let me know?
DYLAN:Sure. Although I think it’s going to be a while. You know someone who might be interested?
MIA:Maybe. And thanks!
DYLAN:You planning to tell me where we’re going?
IZZY:Just be ready at 7.
DYLAN:I hate to sound like an insecure teen, but… what do I wear?
IZZY:What you normally wear is fine.
DYLAN:OK, but if you’re wearing those tiny cutoffs, just know there’s a very high risk we won’t make it out of my truck.
IZZY:What happened to being a gentleman?
DYLAN:It’s overrated!
The knock on Izzy’s trailer door feels loud in the quiet evening. I rub the palms of my hands on my jeans, feeling excited and nervous all at once. The emotion is wrapped in a big fat bow of stupid. We’ve spent three days working side by side after the night in the barn, stealing moments together—lingering kisses, a touch as we brush past.
I’ve played football in front of tens of thousands of fans, plus millions watching at home. I’ve led the team to victory just as many times as I’ve fallen on my ass and been crushed in front of those fans. Pressure is nothing new to me. And yet, none of that matters. Because standing in front of Izzy’s door, I feel like a damn teen on my first date.
Maybe it’s the knowledge that there’s no job to hide behind tonight. Ranch life gives us cover. It gives us a distraction. A way to circle each other. But this? A date? It’s just us.
Maybe it’s how deep I feel myself falling for this woman—how much she’s tangled into everything I do now. How I catch myself looking for her even when I know she’s not there.
Or maybe it’s knowing that when we come back tonight, the ranch is all ours. Chase is in the city. Jake and Harper flew to Hawaii yesterday. I dropped Mama at the airport for her girls’ trip to Florida this morning. The house is empty—except for Buck, who’s smart enough to stay out of the way when I need him to.
The trailer door swings open and my mind empties. All I see is Izzy wearing a black top that falls off one shoulder and a denim skirt that somehow makes those tiny cutoffs she wears look respectable. My eyes snag on those long, tanned legs. It’s a fight not to lean over, pull her in, run my lips down the elegant line of her neck.
“My eyes are up here, Sullivan.” Her voice is sharp but her lips are pulled into a teasing smile. Her dark blonde hair is loose and shining in tousled waves around her face and down her back. Her green eyes are sharpened by dark eyeliner. Her lips—those perfect lips—are painted a peachy red. The look is sexy as hell and has my dick twitching in my jeans.
“Damn, Brooks. With you in that outfit, I’m going to be spending the night trying not to sucker punch any guy who looks your way.”
“I can take care of myself,” she says with her trademark eye roll.
“Didn’t say you couldn’t. But it doesn’t mean I’m not going to be looking out for you, too.”
Her smile falters for half a second as my words land. It’s the slightest crack in her armor, but I catch it. Izzy has had to stand on her own, face the world head-on while raising the sweetest little human I’ve ever met.With her parents trying to push her into a box she doesn’t belong in, and her douchebag ex letting Mad down over and over, it’s no wonder she doesn’t trust people to have her back.
And the way I bought the horses and dragged her into my life wasn’t exactly the best start to building trust. But if ranching’s taught me anything these past few weeks, it’s that trust takes time and patience. You show up, again and again, until the doubts have nothing left to stand on. Which is why it eats at me that I haven’t told her about the offer from Coach Allen… I’ve meant to. More than once. But the truth is, every time we’realone, every moment her eyes lock on mine or she leans just a little closer, all my good intentions get buried under the need to touch her.
I could tell myself I’m waiting until I know more. Until Coach calls again. Until I’ve made a decision. But deep down, I know I’m holding back. Because saying the words out loud might break whatever this is that’s building between us.
“Come on,” she says, stepping from the trailer, passing so close I catch the scent of her perfume—like the ocean on a summer’s day, with something purely Izzy underneath. My pulse kicks up a notch.
“You gonna tell me where we’re going yet?” I ask.
“Nope.”
I hide my smile. “Fine, but I’m driving, blondie.”
“Suit yourself, big guy,” she throws back, using the nickname from the first time we met. The day my truck hit her compact feels like a different lifetime. The name—the memory of our exchange and Izzy using it now—makes me tip my head back and laugh. The last of my nerves disappear. Izzy was wrong the other night when she said this date would complicate things. Spending time with her is the easiest thing in the world.
We fill the drive talking about ourselves.Izzy tells me more about her family, the pressure she felt to become a doctor. I tell her about being drafted to the Stormhawks and my life before the injury.
“The problem with living the dream is the constant fear that you’re going to mess up and lose it,” I admit. “Seven years I spent playing tight end. Seven years of looking over my shoulder at newer drafts. Leaving it all on the field, knowing it could get ripped away from me any second.” And then it did. My chest tightens at the memory, but I keep talking. “Looking back now, it feels like I barely stopped to draw in breath because I was scared if I stopped, it would end somehow.”
