Two more months. That's all I need to stay invisible until I turn twenty-one. Two months in small-town Montana with cash work, zero paper trail, and where nobody's ever heard the name Lucinda Kensington-Reid might actually work.
Besides, there's something about this place that feels... different. Like maybe I could breathe here.
Or maybe it's the men.
Heat climbs my neck just thinking about them, which is ridiculous because I have zero business getting hot and bothered over guys when my life's hanging together by sheer willpower and luck.
But Gabriel. Jesus. All that controlled authority wrapped around military discipline, those impossible blue eyes that see too much. When he looked at me yesterday, I felt likehe could read every secret I'm carrying. Dangerous doesn't begin to cover it.
And Colt... Christ, Colt with his work-roughened hands and that devil's grin that screams trouble. He's everything reckless and wild that I should be running from. Pure Montana cowboy wet dream, all rangy muscle and barely leashed chaos.
They're both gorgeous in completely different ways. Both dangerous for reasons that have nothing to do with uncle Richard, and everything to do with the way they make me forget why I can't have nice things.
Gabriel's authority should terrify me. Men in uniforms with calm voices and clipboards took away two years of my life. But there's something different about Gabriel, something that makes me want to trust him even when my brain's screaming warnings.
And Colt's wild energy calls to every reckless impulse I've spent years learning to suppress. The part of me that got labeled "unstable" recognizes a kindred spirit in his barely controlled chaos.
"What do you think, Dusty?" I murmur, scratching behind his ears. "Am I losing what's left of my mind?"
His tail thumps weakly against his blanket.
"Yeah, that's what I figured." I lean my forehead against the cage bars. And speaking of complicated men, I had to call your dad yesterday. Beau Blackwell."
Dusty's ears prick forward at the name, and I wince.
"He sounds like a real piece of work. All controlled fury and barely restrained violence when I told him where you were." I stroke his head gently. "Whatever went down between him and Colt, it's brutal."
The phone call with Beau Blackwell had been like trying to negotiate with a barely leashed wolf. His voice came through the line like gravel and steel, every word clipped with fury when I explained his dog was being treated at Colt's clinic.
"I want him transferred. Now."
"Mr. Blackwell, I understand you're upset, but Dusty just had surgery—"
"I don't give a damn. I'm not leaving my dog with that—"
"Your dog almost died," I'd interrupted, surprising myself with the steel in my voice. Mom always said I had Dad's stubborn chin, and apparently it came with a backbone. "Dr. Mercer saved his life. Maybe focus on that instead of whatever grudge you're nursing."
The silence that followed had been so long I thought he'd hung up.
"Fine," he'd finally said, each word like breaking glass. "But I want updates. Daily. And the moment he's stable enough to move..."
"Of course. I'll call you every day."
He'd hung up without another word, leaving me staring at the phone and wondering what kind of bad blood couldmake a man reluctant to trust the vet who'd just saved his dog's life.
"He loves you, though," I tell Dusty now. "I could hear it underneath all that anger. He was scared."
I know that fear. Lived with it for two years while Mom fought cancer. The terror of losing someone precious never goes away.
Footsteps echo from the back hallway, and I scramble to my feet, pulling my hand away from Dusty's cage.
"Lucy?" Colt's voice carries rough with sleep and what sounds like a serious hangover.
"In here," I call back, trying to smooth down my hair and look like I wasn't just having a heart-to-heart with a dog.
Colt appears in the doorway looking like he went ten rounds with a bottle of whiskey and lost. His golden-brown hair is sticking up in six different directions, shadows ring his green eyes, and he's wearing yesterday's clothes like he slept in them.
Which, judging by the state of him, he probably did.
