Outside, I load the bags into the truck bed and turn to find Sloane staring at the diner across the street. Her arms are wrapped around her ribs, and she's chewing her bottom lip.
"Come on." I lead her toward the crosswalk, holding hands.
"Cash, we don't have to—"
"Yeah, we do. I'm hungry, and you probably are, too." Squeezing her hand, I add, "Besides, Lorna makes the best pie in three counties. You'll like her."
The diner is packed. Almost every booth is full, the counter lined with ranchers in dusty jeans and feed caps. Conversations pause when we walk in. Eyes track us across the checkered floor to the only empty booth in the back corner.
Guiding Sloane in first, I slide in across from her. The vinyl seat creaks under my weight, and I stretch my arm along the back of the booth, fingers brushing her shoulder through my jacket.
Lorna appears within thirty seconds, coffeepot in hand and sharp eyes taking in everything. She's known me since I was a kid working summers at the ranch, and she's got the kind of X-ray vision that sees through bullshit at fifty paces.
"Well, now." She sets two mugs down and fills them without asking. "Cash Wilder bringing a woman to town. That's new."
Heat prickles my skin, but I don't look away. "Lorna, this is Sloane. She’s special.”
The words land exactly how I meant them to. Lorna's expression softens, and she turns to Sloane with genuine warmth. "Any woman this man says is special is someone I want to know. What can I get you, hon?"
Sloane orders the breakfast special with shaking hands. I order the same with extra bacon for both of us. When Lorna walks away, Sloane leans toward me and whispers, "You can't just tell people I'm special."
"Why not? You are."
"Cash—"
"Sloane." I move into her personal space, the air between us thickening with the scent of her hair and the frantic heat of her skin. I hold her eyes with a steady focus, my voice dropping an octave as I remind her, "I’ve survived seventeen years without you in my arms; now that you’re finally here, I’m not spending another second pretending you aren't mine."
Her pupils dilate. She opens her mouth to argue, but movement by the door catches my attention. Carter Mills walks in. He’s a local rancher, mid-forties, divorced twice and always looking for number three. He's harmless mostly, but he's got wandering eyes and no sense of boundaries.
His gaze lands on Sloane. He starts walking toward our booth.
Every muscle in my body goes tight. My teeth grind, and the pulse in my neck hammers hard enough that Sloane probably sees it.
He stops at our table, hat in his hands, smile too wide. "Morning, Cash." His eyes are on Sloane. "Don't believe we've met. Carter Mills. I own the Triple M spread east of here."
Sloane starts to respond, but I'm already moving. I stand and put myself between them. Not aggressive. Just present. Just claiming space.
"She's with me, Carter."
The temperature in the room drops. Conversations around us go quiet, forks pausing mid-bite, and every head in the diner swivels toward our booth. My shoulders are too tight, my hands loose at my sides but ready.
Carter raises his hands, backing up a step. "Easy, man. Didn't know. Just being friendly."
"Now you know." My voice is low and flat. Dangerous in a way I rarely let show. "She's mine."
The silence in the diner is absolute. Then Carter nods once, backs away another step, and heads to the counter. Conversations resume, but they're quieter now. More aware.
Turning back to the booth, I see Sloane staring at me with wide eyes, her coffee mug frozen halfway to her mouth. I slide back in next to her and take a long drink of my own coffee like nothing happened.
"That was—" she starts.
"Necessary." I reach across the table and take her hand again. My thumb finds her wrist, and her heartbeat drums against it. "You're with me, Sloane. Might as well make it clear."
Her breath catches. Fear flickers in her eyes, then something else that looks like relief. Watching for the flinch, the retreat, I wait. Instead, surrender softens her expression. Her nervous system adjusts, accepting what her mind won't admit yet. The tension in her shoulders eases incrementally, and she doesn't pull her hand away. She sits there with her pulse beating under my thumb and her eyes locked on mine while the diner buzzes around us.
Lorna brings our food. We eat in charged silence, and Sloane's shoulders gradually loosen. She takes a bite of her bacon, then another. Color returns to her cheeks. By the time she's halfway through, she's almost relaxed.
"Better?" I ask.
