Good, she thought. Let him think I’m fragile. Safer that way.
“And why is that?”
“Because you rented a convertible to come to a horse farm.”
“That was a cry for help,” she said. “Try to keep up, cowboy.”
Burke laughed and set her suitcase inside the bedroom door. “I’ll come get you tomorrow before Caitlin gets off work. We’ll keep you tucked out of sight till the party.”
Izzy nodded. “Perfect.”
Burke glanced once between her and Grant, clearly deciding there was no version of this evening that would improve with more discussion. “You good?”
“I’m good.”
Grant made a low, skeptical sound.
Izzy looked at him. “You could leave and let me commune with my adorable cottage in peace.”
His jaw shifted once.
Then he pushed off the wall and held out a small ring of keys. “Front door. Back door. Don’t use the back after dark unless you want the dog to bark the whole county awake.”
She took the keys from his hand and felt, annoyingly, the brief heat of his fingers against hers. His hand stilled for a fraction of a second, like he’d felt it too, before he let go.
“Goodnight, sunshine,” she said.
He gave her a look that belonged on a much more sinful man than one standing in a weathered cottage doorway.
Then he stepped back onto the porch.
“I meant what I said,” he told her. “This place isn’t ready. If anything acts up, you call me. Don’t mess with it yourself.”
There was more caretaking than crankiness in it now, and she heard it.
Before she could answer, he turned and went down the steps.
Izzy watched him cross the yard toward the barn, broad shoulders easy, hat low, moving like every inch of this landanswered to him. The jeans did criminal things for the view, which felt personally offensive after the day she’d had.
A grumpy cowboy, she decided, was still better than a smug investor who talked about “rebranding” like it was a sacrament. But, as she watched him go, she thought,I don’t do cowboys.
Burke grinned. “Get some sleep, Iz.”
Then he followed his brother into the deepening evening, and the cottage door closed behind them.
The quiet that settled afterward was immediate and complete.
For the first time all day, Izzy stood still.
No gallery music. No traffic. No performative laughter. No, Marcus Halpern explaining the market value of soul.
It should’ve felt lonely.
Instead, it felt like peace.
The bedroom was every bit as charming as the front room.
A brass bed sat against the far wall beneath a faded quilt in soft cream and pale blue. A pine dresser with chipped paint stood under the window. A cedar chest rested at the foot of the bed. The bedside lamp had a pleated shade that softened everything. Someone had set a little vase of dried lavender on the nightstand.
