"Professional," I whispered to myself, gripping the fence rail. "Keep it professional."
But as Wyatt looked up and our eyes met across the dusty arena, I knew that was just another lie I was telling myself. Because whatever this was between us, it had never been professional.
And it never would be.
Chapter 10
Wyatt
Sunday dinner at the Blackwood ranch was sacred. Always had been.
Long before I was born, Mom and Dad decided they were going to build something different—a family that didn’t look anything like the ones they’d grown up in. No cold silences. No slammed doors. Just love, loud and stubborn and real.
Their best friends, Aunt Clem and Uncle Haz—Liam and Sophie’s folks—became part of that family from the start. The four of them made a promise: no matter how busy life got, no matter how hard the years came at them, they’d always make time to sit down together. Sunday dinner wasn’t a suggestion. It was law.
Now, decades later, Aunt Clem and Uncle Haz were gone, taken too soon. But the tradition they built never broke.
We still gathered under the wedding tree—that massive oak where Mom and Dad said their vows—its branches heavy with years and memories, strung with lights that turned the evening gold. The air always smelled like mesquite smoke and home, and for a little while, everything in the world felt steady again.
The long table could seat twenty, and tonight it was nearly full. Family, ranch hands, and whoever else Mom had collected during the week. She had a gift for finding strays—people who needed a good meal and a place to belong, even if just for an evening.
Tonight's stray was Ivy. Though technically, she wasn't a stray. She was a consultant. A temporary addition. A professional obligation.
Who was I kidding?
I told myself that's all she was as I watched her help Mom carry platters from the kitchen, laughing at something Maggie said, fitting into the choreography of our family dinner like she'd neverleft. She moved between the kitchen and the table with the ease of someone who knew exactly where the good serving spoons were kept, which platters were for special occasions, how Mom liked things arranged.
She'd changed from her work clothes into a sundress—nothing fancy, just simple blue cotton that moved when she walked and made her look softer than the sharp-edged professional she'd been all week. Her hair was down, catching the light from the string bulbs overhead and looking like hand-spun gold, and when she laughed at something Clay said, her whole face transformed.
"You're staring," Liam said quietly, settling into the chair beside me with two beers.
"I'm not.” I was.
"You haven't looked away since she walked out.” How could I? She was the most beautiful thing I’d seen. Always had been. It didn’t matter how furious it made me that I felt that way; I did. And after last night in the barn? I hadn’t been able to get her out of my head.
I took the beer, needing something to do with my hands that wasn't reaching for her. "Just making sure she doesn't mess anything up."
Liam snorted. "Right. That's why you look like someone's torturing you."
Before I could respond, Mom was calling everyone to sit. The table filled quickly—Clay claiming his spot where he could hold court, Hunter quiet at the far end with a beer in hand, Luke on speakerphone from Dallas because he couldn't make it home this weekend. The ranch hands filled in the gaps—Jimmy and Buck with their wives, a few of the younger guys, including Tyler Garrett.
Tyler. Twenty-five, built like he'd walked out of a cologne ad, with that easy smile that had probably gotten him laid since high school. He made a beeline for the chair next to Ivy.
I gripped my beer bottle hard enough that my knuckles went white.
"Easy," Liam murmured. "You break that, Aunt Lou will make you clean it up."
"I'm fine."
"Sure you are. That's why you're looking at Tyler like you're planning where to bury his body."
Dad said grace, his deep voice carrying across the table, thanking the Lord for family, food, and fortune. I bowed my head but kept my eyes open, watching Ivy through my lashes. She had her eyes closed, hands folded, and for a moment, she looked exactly like she had at seventeen, sitting at this same table, believing she belonged here.
The meal erupted into controlled chaos as it always did. Platters passed hand to hand—Mom's famous pot roast, mashed potatoes whipped with enough butter to make a cardiologist cry, green beans from her garden, cornbread that was more cake than bread. Conversations flowed and crossed, everyone talking over and around each other in the comfortable way of people who'd shared hundreds of meals.
"So, Ivy," Tyler said, his voice pitched to carry, "how are you finding being back in Copper Creek after the big city?"
She glanced my way for a split second before answering. "It's... an adjustment. But a good one."
