THIRTY-SIX
IZZY
The next two days blur in a delicious haze of ranch work and being together. I spend more time in Dylan’s bed than in my own trailer, and the more time I spend there, the less I want to be anywhere else.
Ron’s nephew, Travis, has been a great help. He’s young and green but doesn’t shy away from hard work. I can already tell he’s a natural with the horses. The gentle way he talks to them makes me think he’ll be a great ranch hand one day.
When the work is done and Travis leaves, Dylan and I take long showers together and then I sit at the kitchen table in one of Dylan’s shirts and not much else while he cooks a simple meal for us—pasta or grilled meats. We wash the dishes side by side. Every time our hands brush against each other, our conversation stops, replaced with heated glances, shots of electricity sparking between us. Then he takes my hand and leads me up to his bed, where we worship each other’s bodies and talk long into the night. About horses. About the future. About the kind of rancher Dylan wants to be. He thinks he wants to keep the foals longer, break them in, give them the skills to be the best damn rodeo horses in the state. Selling them when they’re stronger, more confident. I like that idea, too.
We both know this is a bubble. Tomorrow, Mad will be home from camp and Chase will swing by. Next week, Jake and Harper will return from Hawaii and then Mama from Florida the following week. And somehow, we’ll have to figure out how to fit this thing between us into the chaos of real life.
But right now, lying in Dylan’s bed, my limbs heavy with exhaustion and my mind buzzing like a live wire, I feel suspended between sleep and something that feels a lot like joy. There’s a smile on my lips I don’t try to hide. I don’t know how this is possible. How something that started as a mistake could feel so right.
Beside me, Dylan’s breathing is steady, but the slow, lazy path his fingers are tracing over my thigh tells me he’s not asleep. For the first time in years, I feel safe. I feel settled. It feels like the walls I spent years building have crumbled, and in their place is Dylan’s solid, steady presence. I don’t want to be anywhere but here.
“Which mare do you think would be best for a late-summer foaling?” Dylan’s voice is low, rough with sleep, but there’s curiosity in his tone.
I turn my head on the pillow, finding him watching me in the dim light. “Callie would be my first choice. She’ll be coming into season soon and I think she’s ready for another foal. Are you thinking of breeding this year?”
His fingers trail higher, brushing over the curve of my hip. “If you agree, then yes.”
I hum, thinking. “Buckshot is a great stallion for her. He’s all speed and agility. Their last foal sold well at auction. And it’s good to have the injection of cash later in the season.”
Dylan nuzzles my neck. “I like hearing you talk like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like this is your ranch too,” he replies.
The words settle deep in my chest, and I arch into his touch, my body responding to the warmth of his skin, the slow scratch of his beard on my shoulder as he moves his lips to kiss my neck. His hand moves lower, fingers teasing, and oh God I’m ready to lose myself in him again. Until his ringing phone shatters the moment.
“That’s the second call in an hour,” I say, eyes still closed. “You gonna answer it?”
“Kinda busy right now,” he replies, shifting over me.
I laugh, pushing him gently back. “Answer that phone, Sullivan, or we’re not getting any peace tonight.”
He groans, rolling onto his back and grabbing the phone from the bedside table. “It wasn’t peace I was looking for.”
I laugh at his words as they send desire curling low in my stomach, but the moment vanishes as he swipes to answer.
“Coach,” Dylan says, his body tensing. He swings his legs over the bed, planting his feet on the floor. Awake. Alert.
The warmth between us—the safety I felt only seconds ago—vanishes in an instant. It’s just one phone call. It doesn’t mean anything. Doesn’t change anything. And yet my heart starts to hammer in my chest as Coach talks, his gruff voice rumbling through the quiet, loud enough for me to hear every word. “Finally answering your phone, eh, son?”
Dylan rubs a hand over his face. “Sorry, Coach. It’s been a busy few weeks.”
“Mama spoke to you about the opportunity?”
There’s a pause before Dylan replies. Unease streaks through me.What opportunity?
“Yeah, she did.”
“Truth is, we could really use your help, Dylan,” Coach Allen says. “The team is the strongest it’s ever been. We’ve got a real shot of getting to the Super Bowl, and for that to happen, the coaching team needs to be at its strongest too. I’ve let Philipand Jason go and I’m rebuilding. I want someone who knows the team, someone who understands these boys and what we’re doing here. I can’t think of anyone better for the job than you.”
My stomach tightens. Dylan is being offered his old life back. Or a form of it anyway. I feel sick and unsteady.
Turn it down!
