Chapter 1 - Rhett
The numbers on my laptop screen blur together for the third time in ten minutes. I blink hard, rubbing my eyes with the heels of my palms, but it doesn't help. My concentration is shot to hell, and I know exactly why.
She'll be here in less than two hours.
My mail order bride.
Jesus Christ, I can't believe I actually did it. What kind of desperate asshole hires a woman through some sketchy website? The kind who's watched all five of his brothers find love while he sits alone in his cottage every night, apparently. The kind who's so fucked up from the war that he can't imagine meeting someone the normal way.
The kind who's too damaged to deserve love but still stupid enough to want it.
I close the spreadsheet without saving. Not that I've actually accomplished anything in the past hour anyway. My fingers drum against the desk, a nervous habit I picked up after the explosion. The buzzing in my left ear kicks in right on cue, like my body knows I'm spiraling and wants to make it worse.
The doctors said the tinnitus might be permanent. Most days I can ignore it, tune it out like background noise. But when I'm stressed, it gets louder. Right now it sounds like a swarm of angry bees has taken up residence in my skull.
I push back from the desk and stand, pacing the small office space. Through the window, I can see the main house where Tucker, Wade, and their families are probably having breakfast. Normal people doing normal things. Not plotting elaborate lies to hide the fact that they're meeting a stranger they bought on the internet.
God, that sounds even worse when I put it that way.
My phone buzzes with a text, and my heart nearly stops. But it's just Colt in the group chat, sending some meme about ranch work. I scroll past it, checking my direct messages instead. Nothing from Claire.
Claire Dawson. Twenty-five years old. Brunette. Blue eyes. Chubby. Her word, not mine, though I'll admit I spent more time than I should have staring at her photos. Most men seem to want stick-thin women, but that's never been my thing. I like curves. Something to hold onto, to grab, to—
I cut that thought off before it can go anywhere. First, I need to make sure she doesn't take one look at me and run screaming back to wherever she came from. The burn scar on my shoulder throbs like it does when I'm anxious, phantom pain that the doctors also said I'd have to live with.
I resist the urge to rub it through my shirt. The scar tissue is thick and twisted, stretching from my left shoulder halfway down my bicep. It's ugly as sin, and that's not even counting the shrapnel scars scattered across my chest and legs.
I'm a real catch.
My laptop pings with an email notification, and I lunge for it as if it's a lifeline. It's just a supplier confirmation for feed delivery next week. I need to get my shit together before she arrives, but every time I try to focus on something normal, my brain spirals back to the same question: What the fuck was I thinking?
The answer, of course, is that I wasn't thinking. I was feeling, which is always a mistake for me. I'd spent another Friday night alone while everyone else was paired off and happy. Wade and Sierra curled up on the couch watching some movie. Tucker and Marley doing that gross domestic bliss thing in the kitchen. Boone and Nicole practically glowing at each other. EvenColt, Colt, the man who'd sworn he'd never settle down, was whispering something in Harper's ear that made her laugh.
And there I was, the last man standing. The only one still eating dinner alone.
Frank used to tell me I was a good man who'd been handed a bad hand. But Frank's been dead for two years now, and without his voice in my head telling me I'm worth something, it's hard to believe it.
I check my phone again. An hour and forty-five minutes until Claire's bus arrives at the station. I should probably shower, change into something that doesn't smell like coffee and desperation. Make sure the guest cottage is ready for her, that it has everything she might need.
My brothers think I'm picking up a friend from my military days who needs a place to stay for a while. That's the lie I crafted, the story I'll stick to. *Claire and I served together, kept in touch, and she's going through a rough patch. Just helping out an old friend.*
It's not even a good lie. Anyone who knows me knows I don't keep in touch with people from my military days. But it's the best I could come up with, and I'm committed to it now.
The buzzing in my ear fades slightly, replaced by the sound of someone knocking on my office door. Before I can answer, it swings open and Boone sticks his head in.
"You alive in here?" he asks, his quiet voice somehow carrying concern. "Haven't seen you at breakfast all week."
"Been busy," I say, gesturing vaguely at the laptop. "Quarterly reports."
Boone steps inside, closing the door behind him. He's always been the most intuitive of us, the one who sees things othersmiss. It's what makes him so good with horses and so goddamn annoying when I'm trying to keep secrets.
"You seem stressed," he observes, leaning against the wall. "More than usual."
"Ranch finances are always stressful," I deflect, which isn't entirely a lie. Even with Sierra's investment, I worry constantly about keeping us in the black.
"Rhett." Boone's voice is gentle but firm. "What's going on?"
For half a second, I consider telling him the truth. Boone wouldn't judge. He'd probably just offer support and keep it to himself. But once one person knows, the secret becomes real in a way I'm not ready for.
