I wander through the living room, running my hand over the back of the cool leather sofa.
Everything here is simple, masculine.
Browns, forest greens, heavy wood furniture built to last.
Functional.Unapologetically masculine.
It needs a little softening—a throw blanket, maybe a rug with color, curtains that don’t look like they came from a military surplus store.
Dangerous thoughts, Bit.
This place isn’t mine to dress up.
I drift toward the built-in bookshelf, trailing my fingers along the spines.It’s a strange mix—biographies, philosophy, a few weather-beaten thrillers.
And then, wedged between a dog-eared copy ofHeart of DarknessandThe Art of War, I spot a couple of romance paperbacks.
I grin.“Well, well, cowboy.Didn’t peg you for the hearts-and-flowers type.”
The image of Sawyer reading one of those in bed—propped against that massive headboard, shirtless, brow furrowed in concentration—hits me square in the chest.
Nothing is sexier than a man who reads.Especially if he reads romance.
My stomach flips, and I let out a shaky laugh just to cover the sound of my own pulse.
I keep moving, because if I don’t, I’m going to start imagining things I shouldn’t.
The laundry room’s next—warm and humming softly from the dryer.
Towels sit in a clean pile on the counter.
Perfect.Something mindless to keep my hands busy while my brain spirals.
I start folding.
One towel.Two.Three.
The smell of detergent and hay mixes in the air, comforting in a weird way.
“You’re losing it,” I mumble, matching corners like it’s a mission.“Falling for a man you barely know.Great job, Bit.”
But even as I say it, I know the truth.
This isn’t some crush I’ll shake off.It’s something deeper, scarier, like the ranch itself—quiet strength with danger under the surface.
And somewhere out there, under that same moon, Sawyer’s driving into whatever trouble’s waiting for him.
I press the last folded towel to my chest, close my eyes, and whisper into the empty room,
“Come back to me, cowboy.”
The house creaks like it’s listening.
And I swear, just for a second, the air shifts—like maybe it heard me.
Chapter 8-Sawyer
We’re a few hours out from the ranch, and the road’s a black ribbon under a low, watchful moon.
