He exhales slowly. "We served together. Kept in touch over the years. You hit a rough patch recently. Lost your job, lost your housing. I offered to help. That's it. Simple."
"I was never in the military."
"They don't know that. Just... if they ask about it, keep it vague. Say you did administrative work or something."
I should be angry. Should be offended that he's making me lie to his family before I've even met them. But mostly I'm just tired. Tired of pretending to be okay when everything is falling apart. Tired of putting on a brave face when I feel like I'm drowning.
"Fine," I say. "Whatever you want."
The truck slows, and I look up to see a wooden sign: *Promise Ranch*. The lettering is carved deep, weathered by time but still strong. There's something about it that makes my throat tight.
We turn onto a long gravel driveway, and suddenly I can see it—the ranch. A large main house with a wraparound porch, several smaller cottages scattered around it, barns in the distance, and fields that stretch as far as I can see. There are horses in one pasture, cattle in another. It's like something out of those old westerns Dad loved, real and solid and absolutely terrifying.
"That's the main house," Rhett says, pointing. "Your cottage is the one on the far left. It's got the most privacy."
Mine. As if I already belong here. As if this is already home.
We park in front of a small cottage with blue shutters and a tiny porch. It's cute, almost too cute, like something from a fairytale. The kind of place where happy endings happen.
But I don't believe in happy endings anymore.
Rhett kills the engine, and we sit there for a moment in loaded silence. This is it. The point of no return. Once I get out of thistruck, once I step into that cottage, I'm committed to this insane plan.
"Look," Rhett says, turning to face me fully for the first time since we left the station. "I know this is weird. I know you don't know me, and you're probably scared shitless right now. I get it. But I meant what I said in my messages. I'm not a bad guy. I won't hurt you. I'm just... I'm just someone who got tired of being alone."
His brown eyes are earnest, almost pleading. And I can see it now, the same desperation I feel reflected back at me. He's just as scared as I am. Just as uncertain. Just as desperate for this to work.
"I'm tired of being alone too," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.
He nods slowly. "Then let's see if we can figure this out together. No pressure. No expectations. Just... see where it goes."
"Okay," I say. "We can do that."
I reach for the door handle, but Rhett's voice stops me.
"Claire?"
I turn back to him.
"The scar," he says, and my hand automatically goes to my eyebrow. "It doesn't bother me. I just... I wanted you to know that."
My throat closes up. I've spent years having people look past me because of this scar, employers who wouldn't hire me, men who wouldn't date me. And here's this stranger saying it doesn't bother him, as if it's the easiest thing in the world.
"Okay," I manage to say. "Thanks."
I get out of the truck before I can start crying. The afternoon air is cooler here than it was at the station, carrying the scent of grass and animals and something wild I can't quite name. Rhett comes around with my duffel bag this time, and I let him carry it to the cottage door.
He produces a key and unlocks it, pushing the door open. "After you."
It's small but perfect: a living area with a couch and armchair, a kitchenette with a small table, a bedroom visible through an open door, and what looks like a bathroom beyond that. Everything is clean and neat, with touches that suggest someone cared about making it welcoming. There's a basket of snacks on the counter, fresh flowers in a vase on the table, and curtains that filter the sunlight into something soft and golden.
"I had some help getting it ready," Rhett says, sounding almost shy. "Sierra, that's Wade's girlfriend, she put together the snack basket. Said you might be hungry after the trip."
I set my bag down on the couch, trying to process this. He prepared for me. Made sure I'd have what I needed. These aren't the actions of a man who sees me as just some transaction.
"It's perfect," I say honestly. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." He shifts his weight, clearly unsure what to do now. "I'll let you get settled. My cottage is the one next door if you need anything. Dinner's usually at six in the main house—casual, family style. You're welcome to join us, or I can bring you something if you're not up for meeting everyone yet."
