For a few seconds, I just lie there, blinking at the familiar wood beams and watching the blades of the ceiling fan twirl, letting my brain catch up with the fact that today is actually happening.
My first day.
I’ve spent the whole summer working on the ranch, helping Daddy with administrative tasks and supporting Charli and Shelby whenever I could while Matty stayed home with AJ. It was eye-opening. I’d never realized what went into keeping the wheels of the Wildhaven Storm turning.
It’s a lot. And I’ve gained a greater appreciation for all Matty has done over the years.
I roll onto my side and glance at the clock on the nightstand—6:04 a.m.
My stomach flips.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself. “You’ve got this.”
I’ve spent the last three months looking forward to this moment.
Working in a world-class resort. Not just as a summer intern, but as an integral part of the management team.
Learning the business from the inside out.
Figuring out how to take everything I learned and eventually applying it to the dream I’ve had since I was a kid.
Which means I absolutely cannot be late on day one.
I throw the covers back and swing my legs out of bed.
The early morning is cool against my skin, the sun barely cresting over the mountains outside my window. Golden light spills across the fields and barns, painting the ranch in soft amber.
September is my favorite. I love the summertime, but nothing beats fall in Wyoming.
Somewhere outside, a horse nickers, and one of Grandpa’s roosters crows.
I hurry through my shower, blow-dry my long golden-streaked hair, and pull it back into a sleek, low ponytail.
Then I step into the outfit I picked out last night.
Fitted black jeans.
A soft, off-the-shoulder white sweater.
Black ankle boots.
I turn sideways in the mirror.
Tilt my head and adjust the ponytail. Then I add a couple of layered gold necklaces, simple pearl stud earrings, and a thick gold bangle on my wrist.
Professional … but still me.
“Good enough,” I decide.
My nerves are buzzing like a swarm of bees by the time I grab my black clutch and head downstairs.
The kitchen smells like coffee.
And bacon.
Which means Grandma is already awake. Of course she is.
She sits at the big farmhouse table, wrapped in one of her shawls, a steaming mug in front of her, silver hair pulled into her usual loose bun. The morning light from the front windows glows softly around her.
