I dropped my forehead against the stall door, breathing hard. My open palm slammed down against the wall beside my head. “Fuck!”
The word ripped out of me, echoing off the metal walls. The heifer in the chute flicked an ear and stared like I’d interrupted her nap.
“What the fuck am I doing?” I ground out, pacing a few steps before bracing my hands on the rail. My pulse was still hammering, my skin still hot where she’d touched me, and I hated it—hated how fast all that control I’d built over the years could justshatterwith one look, one smart comment, one goddamn breath of her scent.
I squeezed my eyes shut, jaw tight. I wasn’t that kid anymore. I wasn’t the fool who built a house for a dream that walked away. But tell that to my body—every muscle still keyed up, like it hadn’t gotten the memo she wasn’t mine anymore.
Thunder cracked outside, close enough to shake the rafters. The storm raged on outside, but it was nothing compared to what was raging in my chest. Because now I knew the truth—time hadn't diminished anything between us. If anything, it had only made it more explosive.
And that was the most dangerous thing of all.
Chapter 9
Ivy
Morning light hit my cabin like a confession—brutal and unapologetic. It poured through the uncovered windows, spotlighting every sin from last night in unforgiving gold.
I groaned and threw an arm over my eyes. Too bright. Too real. Too damn soon to face the fact that I’d lost my mind in the barn.
No.We’dlost our minds.
I’d kissed Wyatt. Or maybe he’d kissed me. Didn’t matter—once it started, there was no telling where one of us ended and the other began. We’d devoured each other like starving people at a feast—years of anger and want and heartbreak boiling over into something that felt like combustion. Rain hammering the roof, thunder shaking the walls, his mouth rough and hungry against mine.
My lips still throbbed, tender reminders of every reckless second. My body still ached in that sweet, sore way that said I’d been thoroughly claimed, even if it wasn’t supposed to mean a damn thing.
I could still taste him—rain, whiskey, and that wild, dangerous something that was purely Wyatt Blackwood. The smell of hay and heat clung to my skin like a secret I couldn’t wash off.
“Stop it,” I muttered, glaring at my reflection as I brushed my teeth for the third time. “It meant nothing. He said so himself.”
My reflection wasn’t buying it.
I spat, rinsed, and leaned closer to the mirror. My hair was a wreck, my mouth still swollen, my neck sporting the faintest hint of a hickey that absolutely did not exist because I wasnotthat woman anymore.
“Jesus,” I whispered. “One storm, and you forget every boundary you ever built.”
But God, the way he’d looked at me right before it happened—eyes dark, jaw tight, like he’d been fighting it just as hard as I had. The way his voice had gone low and rough when he’d said my name. The way his hands had shaken when they found my skin, like he hated himself for wanting me but couldn’t stop.
I gripped the edge of the sink, breath catching all over again.
“Get it together, Ivy.” I straightened, forcing a steady inhale. “You are a professional woman with a PhD, a reputation, and exactly zero business thinking about a cowboy’s mouth before breakfast.”
Still, my reflection’s lips curved—the tiniest, traitorous smile.
“Fuck.” I closed my eyes and let my head drop against the mirror. “I am so screwed.”
I threw myself into work with the kind of manic energy that had gotten me to the top of my field. If I couldn't control my traitorous body's response to Wyatt Blackwood, I could at least control the data. Numbers didn't lie. Charts didn't fuck you senseless, then agree it meant nothing. Spreadsheets didn't make your knees weak with just a look.
The lab was my sanctuary. I spent the morning recording calf health metrics, entering weeks of backlogged data into the system, creating algorithms that could predict optimal breeding windows down to the hour. My fingers flew across the keyboard, building something concrete and quantifiable from the chaos of genetics and chance.
I was in the middle of prepping semen samples for analysis when my phone buzzed across the counter. Mark’s name lit up the screen.
Missing you. How’s the cowboy consultation going?
I froze, scalpel in hand, staring at the message like it might morph into something else if I looked long enough.
Seriously?
We’d had the breakup conversation before I left Dallas—I’d said the words clearly, calmly, like an adult.This isn’t working.I’m sorry.But apparently, Mark’s ego had better noise-cancelling than my AirPods.
