I made tea. Sat at my desk. Pulled up the breeding proposal and lasted twenty minutes before the cursor started blinking on the section that needed Jack's data—the Raven Spur details only he could provide.
I closed the laptop.
My phone sat on the table beside me. I didn't have his number. He didn't have mine. That was intentional. Part of the boundary. Part of the control.
But I found myself staring at it anyway, wondering what would happen if I walked to the bunkhouse. If I knocked on his door the way he'd knocked on mine. If I told him all my rules were bullshit and I wanted him again, wanted him every night, wanted to stop pretending I had any control over this thing between us.
I didn't move.
Because Maggie Blackwood didn't chase men.
I turned off the lights at ten o'clock and got into bed. The mattress felt too big. The sheets felt too cold.
An hour passed. Then another. No knock. No footsteps. Nothing but the wind in the trees and the distant sound of cattle and my own thoughts going in circles.
He was respecting my boundaries. Doing exactly what I'd asked. Staying away unless I invited him in.
And I was furious about it.
Not at him—at myself. At the woman who'd drawn a line and was already desperate to cross it. Who was lying alone in the dark because she was too stubborn to admit that careful had become closed like Ivy said a long time ago, and someone had finally shown her the difference.
I rolled over. Punched the pillow into a new shape. Closed my eyes.
“You set the pace,” he'd said. “I'll match it.”
Well, I’d set it. And he was following it to a tee.
And I was starting to realize that getting what I asked for wasn't the same as getting what I wanted.
Not even close.
9
Jack
I gave her a day.
One full day of space, of distance, of watching her rebuild every wall I'd taken down. She needed it—I could see that in the rigid set of her shoulders, the clipped snap of her voice, the way she treated eye contact with me like a loaded weapon.
So I stayed away.
It was harder than I expected.
I worked the horses, keeping my hands busy and my head from wandering. Dancer was making real progress now—she let me touch her face, followed my movement in the paddock without the skittering tension that had defined her first week. A week and a half of consistent work, consistent presence, consistent proof that I wasn't going anywhere. Horses were like that. You couldn't rush the trust. You just had to show up, day after day, and let them decide you were safe.
I was starting to think the parallels between her and Maggie were getting a little too on the nose. And if it weren't so sad, I’d find it amusing.
I ate dinner in the bunkhouse with the other hands. Made small talk. Pretended I wasn't counting the hours.
Sully knew something was off. He'd been watching me all day with that look—the one that said he had opinions about my choices and none of them were complimentary.
"I know," I told him that night, sitting on the bunkhouse porch as the last light bled out of the sky. "I know I should leave it alone."
He huffed through his nose. A sound Brad would have translated as,Quit lying to yourself, Remington.
"Yeah," I muttered. "I don't believe me either.” And went to bed.
The next evening, I couldn’t take it anymore, and walked to her cabin.
