“He’s fine, sweetheart,” Wyatt said.
There was nothing I could say that wouldn’t make it worse, so I stayed quiet and stared at the wood grain of the table. My face was hot.
Four weeks until Cheyenne, and then I could go home. I glanced at the battered clock beside the window. 7:22. Fourweeks suddenly felt like a very long time, especially since my alarm would be going off at five.
four
. . .
SIENNA
My phone buzzed against the nightstand at exactly 5 AM. I hadn't slept well enough for this to be legal.
I lay there staring at the water stain on the ceiling—shaped like a boot, I'd decided—and seriously considered never moving again.
I'd agreed to get up this early for a man who didn't even want my help. A man who was probably downstairs right now, hoping I'd sleep in so he'd have one more reason to write me off.
I swiped the alarm off and threw the covers back. Fuck Brock Wilder. I'd be on time just to spite him.
I fumbled through the dark, pulling on Wren’s jeans and the first tank top I touched. The only flat shoes I had were a pair of white sneakers. I twisted my hair into a messy ponytail, scrubbed my teeth, and snatched my laptop on the way downstairs.
The moment I reached the bottom step, something heavy pressed against my thigh. I jolted, barely swallowing a yelp.
In the shadows, Moose looked up at me, his tail thumping against the floorboards.
I scratched his chest. "Morning, big guy."
He let out a happy huff and pressed his warm bulk against my leg, nearly knocking me off balance as he escorted me down the hallway.
The kitchen smelled like fresh coffee, warm and quiet except for the low hum of the fridge. Brock was already at the counter, mug in hand. His charcoal T-shirt clung to his muscular arms, soft and faded, like it had been washed a hundred times.
He glanced at the clock, then at me, looking irritatingly awake.
"Huh," he said. "Didn't think you'd actually show."
I set the laptop on the wooden table. "Then you don't know me very well."
He nodded toward the coffee pot. "Mugs are in the cabinet above the sink."
"Thanks."
I grabbed one and poured. The pot was full, way more than one person needed. So he'd expected me after all.
I kept that little win to myself. The coffee was dark, hot, and faintly bitter. That first sip woke me right up. I carried the mug to the table, opened my laptop, and pulled up the notes I'd drafted on the plane.
"Okay," I said. "First thing we need to handle is that bar video. I’ve got a short statement for you to?—"
"No."
I looked up. "You haven’t even heard it."
"Don't need to."
He crossed to the sink like the conversation was already over, drained his mug, rinsed it, and set it on the rack.
"I ain't reading some script your agency wrote," he said flatly.
"I wrote it. And it’s not a script, it’s a statement. Thirty seconds. We film it, post it, and your sponsor has a reason not to drop you."
