Page 19 of Colt

“You really okay with this? My dad can be kinda pushy.”

I chuckle. “Billie, Colton’s not the first difficult man I’ve worked with, and he sure as hell won’t be the last.”

She grins, squinting against the ardent morning sunshine. She looks so much like her brother that I do a double take. Same nose, same expressions. She’s a completely different person, though. Kind. Warm.

“I’m excited to see what y’all come up with,” she says. “Good luck.”

I’m gonna need it. “Thanks.”

My stomach plunges when the rumble of an engine fills the air. Somehow I know that’s Colton starting his truck. I bet it’s one of those ridiculous monstrosities with eight wheels and absurdly low gas mileage.

Looking down at the stupid-ass heeled clogs I wore, I let out a curse. I was going for a cute-cowgirl-who-doesn’t-actually-do-any-cowgirl-type-things look. I thought I’d be inside today because, well, that’s where I always do my work. Inside. On a computer. At a desk, usually with five half-finished beverages crowding my workspace.

But clearly, I thought wrong.

Screwing my courage to the sticking place—and sending up a silent prayer of my own that I don’t break an ankle—I take off running.

I’m here to do a job, and I’ll be damned if I don’t do it and do it well.

I’m gonna knock your socks off, Colt. Colton. Whatever the hell your stupid-but-also-kinda-hot name is.

Also, fuck you.

CHAPTER 5

Ride Along

COLT

I laugh.

It comes out loud, a boom that I feel in my chest and stomach.

I got the windows rolled down—always do when the weather’s this good—so hopefully she can hear it.

Watching her sprint toward me through my windshield, I laugh harder. Louder. Even though my stomach is in knots.

She looks like a fucking flamingo in those jeans and shoes. Long, slender legs. Hair flying. She’s throwing elbows in an attempt to remain upright as she crosses the yard toward the driveway. She hits a divot in the grass and pitches forward, only catching herself at the last minute to avoid tumbling ass over boots—or clogs, in her case—onto the ground.

I grip the door handle. I gotta go help her, right?

But then she straightens. Throws back her shoulders. Our eyes meet through the windshield, and the defiance I see in her expression—the rage—has me laughing again.

Aw, she don’t need no help.

What she needs is to get gone.

I’m being a dickhead. I own that. But I need a gorgeous “branding expert” riding shotgun like I need a hole in my head. She’s full of shit—people that intense, that earnest, that fucking young always are—and it’s my job to protect my family from charlatans like her.

Let’s not forget that my brothers already have an almost three-hour head start on me. Before Abby passed, I reported for duty at the stables or office at 4 a.m. sharp too. Now the earliest I show up is eight fifteen. While I hate starting the day on my back foot, I’ve gotten pretty damn good at playing catch-up.

Sometimes I have to work on weekends—let’s be real, a lot of the time—but Dean doesn’t mind tagging along. In fact, he’s really started to enjoy cowboying now that he’s older.

Lainey maintains eye contact for the remainder of her flamingo dance toward my truck. Gotta give credit where credit is due. Girl is not afraid to communicate a nonverbal fuck you.

I’d admire her spirit if I didn’t distrust everything she is. Everything she represents.

Vibes. What the hell do I even do with that?