I checked the kitchen twice. Then checked it again because apparently I was the CEO of Overthinking, LLC.
My phone buzzed. It was Denise.
Morning! Big day. Taylor's coming soon to check the Wi-Fi mesh in the guest house and the cabins. Scots are picky.
I stared at the text.
Taylor. Wi-Fi mesh. Cabins.
My shoulders tightened automatically.
Denise's boyfriend was six-foot-two, always wearing a clean hoodie and a smile that made older women call him "a nice young man." He'd been helping around the ranch more and more lately. At first it was simple stuff: replacing cameras, setting up the booking app, and optimizing the website.
It was very convenient.
But convenience had a way of turning into dependence before you noticed.
I typed back with my thumb.
Tell him guest areas only. Not my cabin.
A bubble appeared.
Rose, relax. He's not breaking into your diary. He'll be in and out. Also, can we please do a quick arrival reel for Instagram? Just a vibe shot. No pressure.
I felt my jaw set.
I didn't hate social media.
I just hated feeling like I was performing.
I replied.
No reel. Guests deserve privacy. I deserve privacy.
You deserve bookings.
I stared at that line longer than I should have.
Then I locked my phone and went back to checking towels like towels were the problem.
When Hank, my ranch manager, walked in through the side door, I nearly jumped.
"Jesus," I snapped, pressing a hand flat against my sternum.
Hank froze, eyes wide, then lifted both hands like I had a gun.
"Whoa," he said. "Sorry, boss. Didn't mean to?—"
I exhaled hard, angry at myself more than him.
"Sorry," I said, because Hank didn't deserve my jagged edges. "I'm a little jumpy this morning."
He scratched his jaw, studying me. He'd been around long enough to know when to poke and when to back off.
"New group today," he said.
"Yes."
