She took a step closer, rain still clinging to her jeans, jaw set, eyes blazing—and for half a second, the anger in me faltered, knocked sideways by something else entirely.
Christ.
I’d forgotten how gorgeous she was when that wild temper got going.
That fire in her had always wrecked me. It still did.
She looked ready to tear into me, chest rising fast, mouth soft and furious all at once—and all I could think about was the way that mouth used to taste when she got like this.
I shoved the thought down hard, jaw locking tight.
Focus. Stay mad. Stay in control.
"Your father hired me to implement a program. A program that requires precise timing." She moved closer, and I could smell the rain on her, mixing with that expensive shampoo. She smelled like my Ivy and not my Ivy, a confusing mix that had me leaning in closer. "You can't just arbitrarily change protocols because you feel like it."
"I didn'tarbitrarily changeanything. I know these cows better than any chart or computer program. Number forty-seven always cycles late. Number twenty-three needs an extra day between doses, or she gets aggressive."
Her jaw tightened. “That's anecdotal evidence, not science."
"That's experience, which is worth more than your textbooks."
Her eyes flashed. “You can’t stand it, can you? Someone else walking in with ideas that might actually improve your precious operation.”
Something in her tone—possessive, challenging, like she thought she still knew how this place ran—snapped my control.
“No,” I said, voice low and dangerous. “It’s better. Because I built it from the pieces you left behind.”
Lightning split the sky directly overhead, the flash and thunder simultaneous, making us both jump. The lights flickered but held. Rain started hammering the tin roof like bullets.
She was trembling, but not with fear. With fury. "You don't get to say that to me."
I laughed, harsh and bitter. "I don't get to? You don't get to walk in here after all this time and act like you know better than me about my own fucking ranch!”
"I'm not acting. I do know better. That's why your father hired me."
"My father hired you because he's sentimental. Because Mom probably pushed him into it."
Her chin lifted, smug. ”He hired me because I'm the best at what I do."
“What? Leaving?" The words came out before I could stop them.
Her face went white, then red. "The best at genetics and breeding programs. This isn't personal."
"Bullshit. Everything about this is personal."
"The schedule I created will increase conception rates by?—"
"I don't give a fuck about your percentages!" I stepped closer, and she backed up until she hit the stall door. "You think you can just waltz back in here with your city clothes and your fancy equipment and tell us how to run our ranch?"
"I'm trying to help!"
"We didn't need your help. We were doing just fine without you."
"Fine isn't excellent. Fine isn't reaching your potential. Fine is settling for mediocrity because you're too stubborn to accept that someone else might know something you don't."
"You don't know anything about this place anymore."
"I know plenty. I know you're so caught up in tradition that you're missing opportunities. I know you're letting your pride get in the way of progress."
