**Mason:** *Should we clean up or pretend we're always this civilized?*
**Boone:** *Be nice. She might be important.*
**Colt:** *If she can handle Rhett's dad jokes, she can handle anything*
I type out a response: *She'll be at dinner. Go easy on her. She's been through some shit lately.*
The replies come immediately:
**Wade:** *We're not animals*
**Colt:** *Speak for yourself*
**Tucker:** *We'll make her feel welcome. Don't worry.*
But I am worried. Because my brothers are perceptive as hell, especially Boone, and the second they meet Claire they're going to see right through my "old military friend" story. They're going to notice how nervous I am, how nervous she is, how we barely know each other despite supposedly having served together years ago.
They're going to know I'm lying.
And then what? Do I come clean? Admit I was so pathetic and lonely that I resorted to hiring a bride off the internet? Watch them try to hide their pity and concern while they wonder what the hell is wrong with me?
Frank would know what to do. Frank always knew what to say when I was spiraling like this. He'd probably put his hand on my shoulder, the one without the burn scar, and tell me in that gravelly voice of his that I was overthinking things. That life doesn't have to be complicated unless I make it complicated.
But Frank's not here, and I'm making everything as complicated as humanly possible.
I force myself to shower, standing under water that's too hot until my skin turns red. The scars on my chest and legs look angry in the bathroom mirror afterward, raised lines of damaged tissue that map out every mistake I made during my deployment. The explosion that ended my military career is written across my body in permanent ink, a reminder that I failed the people counting on me.
I failed my unit. Failed my friends who died. Failed to come home whole.
And now I'm probably going to fail Claire too.
I dress in clean jeans and a button-down shirt, something that makes me look more put-together than I feel. Run my hands through my hair about fifteen times until it looks less like I've been pulling at it in panic. Check the time: still an hour until dinner.
An hour to obsess over everything that could go wrong.
My phone buzzes with a text from Boone: *You okay?*
I stare at it for a long moment. Boone has always been able to read me better than anyone except Frank. He knows something's off, even if he doesn't know what.
*Fine*, I type back. *Just nervous about Claire meeting everyone.*
*She's important to you?*
I hesitate. How do I answer that? She's a stranger who might become my wife or might run away screaming once she realizes what a mess I am. Important doesn't begin to cover the complicated knot of hope and terror she represents.
*Maybe*, I finally respond. *Could be.*
*Then we'll make sure she feels welcome. Trust us.*
I want to. I do trust my brothers with my life, with the ranch, with almost everything. But this feels different. This feels like exposing the most vulnerable part of myself, the part that wants love and connection so badly I did something desperate and potentially stupid to get it.
I walk to the window and look out at Claire's cottage. The curtains are drawn, no sign of movement inside. Is she okay? Is she unpacking? Crying? Planning her escape route?
Should I check on her?
No. Space. She needs space.
I need space too, but my cottage feels too small, too cluttered with my own anxiety. I grab my laptop and head to the main house early, figuring I can get some work done and maybe help with dinner prep. Anything to keep my hands busy and my mind from spiraling further.
