The house was too quiet for the secret it was holding.
Grant stood in front of the small mirror by the door, staring at a man he barely recognized. The tux was charcoal—tailored close enough to show the heavy muscle of his shoulders and the lean taper of his waist. He’d left the top two buttons of his shirt open, his five-o’clock shadow a dark contrast against the crisp white cotton.
He picked up his hat—a creamy, silver-belly Stetson—and settled it low. The brim shadowed his face, turning his blue eyes to flint. He looked contained. Dangerous. Like a man walking into enemy territory. He dragged a hand down his jaw, wishing he was in a barn instead of a tuxedo.
From down the hall, he heard the rustle of silk. He exhaled slowly, bracing his hands on the doorframe. Don’t look at her like that, he told himself. Don’t let her see what she’s doing to you. Not tonight. Not where they could use it.
Boots thudded across the back porch. The screen door creaked open.
“Tell me you’re ready,” Burke called out.
Grant stepped into the main room. Burke stood by the kitchen table in full dress blues, his hat tucked under his arm. The uniform was immaculate, the silver star catching the light. Burke was the “Handsome Sheriff” of every local legend—broad-chested, clean-shaven, and carrying the kind of authority that didn’t need a loud voice.
“You’re going to scare half the county just walking in,” Grant said.
“Good,” Burke replied. He checked his phone. “Scout’s on the ridge. Luke’s in position. No one moves on that property without us knowing it.”
Grant nodded. “And inside?”
Burke glanced toward the window. “Inside, we’re just guests.”
Naomi came in from the mudroom. Grant blinked. She wore a deep wine-colored dress that skimmed her athletic frame, simple and elegant. Her dark hair was pulled back into a polished knot, showing the long, graceful line of her neck.
“Well, I’ll be damned, Naomi,” Grant said. “Didn’t know you owned anything that didn’t come with a horse.”
Naomi didn’t miss a step. She hitched the side of her dress up just enough to show her scuffed cowboy boots. “Don’t get excited, Scott. I’m still the one who has to shovel the stalls tomorrow.”
Burke huffed a laugh. “You look great, Naomi. You’re going to have every bachelor at that gala tripping over their own feet.”
“Let ’em trip,” she shot back. “Gives me something to laugh at.”
Footsteps sounded at the top of the stairs. All three of them looked up.
Caitlin came down first, her hunter green silk moving like water. She looked composed, but there was a spark in her eyesthat told Burke exactly what she was thinking. Burke didn’t move. He didn’t seem to be breathing.
“Close your mouth, Sheriff,” Caitlin said with a small, satisfied smile.
Burke cleared his throat. “You look… like a problem I don’t want to solve.”
“That’s the idea.”
Then Izzy appeared.
The midnight blue silk clung to her like a second skin. The dress was a masterpiece of clean lines and understated wealth, the open back drawing the eye to the smooth curve of her spine. She looked taller. Sharper. And every instinct he had said the spotlight tonight was a kill zone.
Grant felt his shoulders lock. Every rule he’d just given himself—the distance, the coldness—simply vanished.
And just as fast, something colder slid in behind it—because she was about to walk into Hollis Ridge looking like that. He’d spent weeks trying to see her as an inconvenience, but standing there in that light, she was a revelation.
Izzy reached the bottom of the stairs and paused. Her gaze flicked across the room, landing on Grant. She looked him up and down—the suit, the Stetson, the way he was staring at her—and for a heartbeat, her curator-mask slipped.
“Too much?” she asked, her voice a little breathless.
“No,” Naomi said, standing beside Grant. “Not even close.”
Burke dragged a hand down his face, the only sign of his nerves. “If Hollis had any sense, he’d lock the gates and cancel the whole damn thing right now.”
Izzy smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Well, he doesn’t.”
