We don’t talk for the first few miles. Just the hum of the engine and the dark road ahead. Me, fidgeting with the hem of my top. Him, driving with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the console between us. Close to my thigh. Not touching. Almost.
“You haven’t been around town,” Beau finally says. His voice is quiet in the dark. Intimate. It fills the cab like a warm hand.
“No. I left after high school. Went away for college, then moved to the city.”
He glances over. The dashboard lights catch his profile …the straight line of his nose, the cut of his jaw, his thick lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones. He’s beautiful in a way that’s almost aggressive. Like his face is daring you to look away.
“Yeah?” he asks.
I nod. And then I do what I always do when I’m nervous. I talk. I give him everything. Not because he asked…but because some part of me needs him to know what he’s getting into. Needs to test whether the truth will scare him off.
“I lived in the city, got married young. Had my daughter, Lilah…she’s twenty now. My son, Miles, is eighteen.” I pause. Watch his profile in the dark. He’s listening. Not just hearing, listening. His jaw relaxed, his golden eyes steady on the road. His hand still resting on the console, his pinky finger barely an inch from my thigh. “The marriage… it wasn’t good. Not at the end. My ex cheated. I found out. And instead of just letting me go, he turned the divorce into a war.” I swallow. “Made me fight for everything. The house, the money, time with my own kids. Like I was the one who wronged him.”
My voice tightens. More than I want it to.
“Anyway. My parents needed help with the ranch, so I came home. Been here about eight months now.”
The silence stretches. Long enough that I start to wonder if I said too much. Dumped too much baggage on a man I’veknown for a few days. Maybe this is where he realizes I’m not some uncomplicated fantasy. I’m a whole mess of a woman with stretch marks and legal bills and a teenage son who barely texts me back.
Then Beau reaches over. Takes my hand. His rough, calloused fingers lace through mine…slow, deliberate, filling every gap. He settles our joined hands on his thigh. The denim is warm under my knuckles. His quad is hard under, solid and huge. His thumb starts stroking the back of my hand. Slow. Steady.
“He’s a fool,” he says quietly. Not angry. Not performative. Just certain. Like it’s a law of physics. The sky is blue. Water is wet. The man who let Ina Samba go is the dumbest motherfucker alive.
Something warm cracks open behind my ribs.
“And I’m glad you came home, Ina.” His thumb keeps moving on my skin. “Real glad.”
I don’t trust my voice. So I just hold his hand. Feel the warmth of his palm against mine. The rough texture of his skin. The steady stroke of his thumb. And I let it be enough for now.
We drive in comfortable silence after that. His thumb tracing patterns on my hand. My head against the headrest, turned slightly toward him, watching him in the dark. The way his other hand holds the wheel…relaxed, confident, his long fingers draped over the top. How the muscles in his forearm shift when he takes a turn, the dashboard light catching the gold of his eyes when he checks his mirrors. The strong column of his neck. The breadth of his shoulders blocking out the driver’s side window.
He drives the way he does everything. Calm. Sure. Like nothing in the world could rattle him. And there’s something about being in a car with a man like that…his hand holding yours, his body steady, his presence filling the silence withoutneeding to…that makes you feel like nothing bad could ever happen again.
It takes me a minute too long to realize we’re not heading toward my place.
The trees look different; the fencing, the open pasture stretching wide under the moon. Then I see the big wooden arch overhead. ‘Redding Ranch’ carved into the beam.
My heart kicks. “Beau. Where are we going?”
He doesn’t look at me. Just keeps driving. His thumb still stroking my hand like nothing’s changed. Then he gives me his golden eyes. Full of heat and certainty and something so raw it steals my breath.
“Home,” he says. “To my place.”
The word settles in the cab like a lit match.
I should say something. Should tell him to turn around. Should remind us both that this is moving way too fast, that I barely know him, that going home with a man I met days ago is not something I do.
But I don’t say any of that. I look at his hand holding mine, at his rough thumb still moving on my skin. At the quiet certainty on his face…no arrogance, no expectation. Just sureness. Like he already knows where we’re going and he’s just waiting for me to stop being afraid of wanting it. And I let him take me home.
Eight
Ina
Beau’s house sits at the far end of the Redding property, tucked behind a line of oaks. It’s separate from the main ranch house…his own place. And the second I step inside, I understand something about this man that no conversation could’ve told me.
It’s beautiful. Masculine. Sober. Clean lines. Big leather furniture. Smooth, dark hardwood floors. High ceilings with exposed beams. And everywhere I look, there are signs of him. Heavy boots lined up neatly by the door. A black hat on a hook. A stack of books on the side table…not decorative. Dog-eared. Read.
His kitchen is spotless. Deep counters. Good knives in a block. A cast-iron skillet on a rack that gets used daily. No takeout containers. No clutter. Just a man’s space, kept with quiet pride.
