“Fifteen options?” I ask.
“Twenty,” Jasper corrects.
Lincoln pinches the bridge of his nose. “The two of you are ridiculous.”
“Not gonna see you complainin’ when she comes down here,” Beau says, smirking.
Linc says nothing. Which means he knows Beau’s right.
“She’s gonna look so fuckin’ good,” Jasper says.
We all smile in agreement.
There’s something about tonight that feels…different.It’s not just that she’s going with us. It’s that she’s going asours.
Not a guest or as someone passing through.
Ours.
Beau glances toward the staircase. “I think I’m gonna go see if she needs help.”
He takes a step forward, and Lincoln sticks his arm out, landing his hand on the center of Beau’s chest. “Don’t even think about it. You go upstairs, and we won’t leave for another hour.”
A sly smile spreads across Beau’s face. “I can be quick if I—”
The sound of heels walking cuts him off.
Jasper downs the rest of his whiskey in one swallow, and Beau follows.
Lincoln straightens his jacket before finishing his glass. I almost don’t realize I’ve done the same until the burn hits the back of my throat.
We move without speaking, each of us slowly drifting a step or two closer toward the stairs.
Abigail steps into view at the stop of the staircase, and the world goes dead quiet.
I’ve seen storms roll over these mountains that made less of an impact.
The first thing I register is the color.
Deep emerald. Not the bright, flashy green of the summer pasture. No. This is darker. Richer. Like pine trees just before dusk or moss after rain.
The fabric catches the light and throws it back in soft, liquid ripples. It’s almost mesmerizing.
It fits her like it was sewn right onto her body.
The bodice is structured, shaping her waist and lifting her chest in a way that makes my pulse stutter hard enough I have to plant my boots more firmly into the hardwood. Thin straps curve over her shoulders, and the neckline dips low enough to make it almost impossible to look away.
And then the slit.
Sweet. Fucking. Hell.
The skirt flows from her hips in heavy satin folds, but that single, daring slit opens as she shifts her weight, revealing one long, smooth line of thigh. The gold of her heels glints when she moves, straps wrapping around her ankle.
I think my lungs have stopped working.
Her hair is swept up, soft curls escaping intentionally—framing her face and brushing along her jaw. It makes her neck look longer. Exposed. Elegant.
She doesn’t look like she belongs on a ranch.
