"You slept with him once," I continued. "Once. A deliberate, adult, extremely satisfying decision. You went in tense, wound tight, carrying everyone else's shit—and you walked out the next morning loose, calm, and smiling like you'd just won something."
Because I had.
"Do not," I warned myself, pointing at the mirror, "romanticize it."
My brain immediately did the opposite.
The memory came back sharp and hot—the way my body had finally gone slack, the way I'd stopped bracing, stopped holding, stopped being responsible for anyone but myself. The way I'dfelt afterward: spent, satisfied, gloriously empty of everyone else's demands.
God. It had been... magnificent.
I exhaled slowly. "That," I said firmly, "was a pressure valve. A release. A very necessary service rendered to your nervous system."
My reflection smirked. Traitorous.
"You are not going to spiral," I went on. "You are not going to pine. You are not going to pretend that night was anything other than what it was—two adults choosing pleasure, and you choosing it unapologetically."
I smiled despite myself. "Okay. Fine. It was excellent."
I splashed cold water on my face, still smiling, and got dressed in my most no-nonsense work clothes—broken-in Ariats, dark jeans, the belt with the tarnished brass buckle I'd won at my first team roping event at sixteen. The kind of outfit that reminded the world I was in charge.
He was already at the barn when I arrived.
Of course he was. Because God forbid I have five minutes to compose myself before facing the man whose hands I could still feel on my skin if I thought about it too hard, which I was absolutely not doing.
Jack was brushing down one of the mares—Bella, a sweet-tempered bay who usually took weeks to warm up to new handlers. She was leaning into his touch like they'd known each other for years, her eyes half-closed in equine bliss.
So much for loyalty.
Sully was sprawled nearby, watching the barn with that quiet alertness I was beginning to recognize as his default state. His tail thumped once when he saw me, and I tried not to feel irrationally pleased that the dog remembered me.
"Morning," Jack said without turning around.
How he knew I was there, I had no idea. The man had ears like a bat—or maybe he'd just been expecting me. Either way, it irritated me.
"Mr. Remington."
Now he turned. Slowly. And there it was—the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. Not a full smile. Just enough to say he'd caught the tone. His gaze warm and unreadable, giving nothing away.
"We're going with Mr. Remington?" he asked with a hint of amusement.
"We're going with professional."
"Professional." He rolled the word around like he was tasting it, then nodded once. "Alright. Whatever you need, ma'am."
Ma'am.
He said it the same way he had yesterday—polite, respectful, perfectly controlled. Like the man who'd had me coming apart under his hands a week ago didn't exist.
It should have been exactly what I wanted.
Instead, it made my teeth itch.
I stepped closer, deliberately, and immediately regretted it. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows again—because apparently the man was committed to ruining my concentration—and I caught his scent too. Clean skin, sun, something warm and unmistakably him. My body reacted like it had been waiting for permission.
Traitor.
"I'll be showing you the horse operation today," I said, snapping my clipboard up between us like a shield. "That's where my dad’s placed you, so that's where we'll focus."
