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A laugh bursts out of me, cutting through the seriousness of our conversation. “Stoves can be dangerous like that.”

“Tell me about it.” He grins, scanning over me. “You got any scars?”

“One.” I shoot him a wink, ignoring that my stomach spins at his question. “But it’s somewhere you’re never going to see it.”

“Ah, a challenge.”

“Not a challenge, just a fact.”

“Whatever you say.” His smile grows, and I hate that my belly flutters at the thought of him trying to break my resolve.

I return the smile, but it quickly turns to a yawn. “Sorry, it’s been a long night. I promise you’re not boring. The second the bar closes on the weekends, my brain checks out. I plan on spending the next twelve hours in bed.”

“Need a ride home? You shouldn’t be driving like this.”

“You’re right, I shouldn’t. Good thing I live nearby.” I point to the staircase that climbs the side of the bar to the apartment on top.

“You live above Ransack?”

“Extravagant, I know. Try not to be jealous of my luxurious living arrangements.”

He chuckles. “Well, I guess you really don’t need the ride.”

“Sorry to disappoint you. I’m sure you were looking forward to whisking me off my feet again.”

“You have no idea, Harloe Harrison.”

Something about how he says my full name sends my heart into a somersault. Heat floods my cheeks, and there’s no hiding it.

“Thanks for checking in on me.” I head toward the stairs before he can think too hard about the blush climbing my cheeks. “Sorry you waited around for no reason.”

“Not no reason.” Shane watches me climb the stairs. “Night, cowgirl.”

I glance back at him a final time as he climbs onto his bike. “Good night, city boy.”

8

SHANE

The clubhouse is only halfway built. There are exterior walls, and the inside is partially framed, but that’s about it. Progress stalled when the city council shut down construction—again.

For the first time since moving to Texas, I’m thankful there aren’t contractors on the property right now because I turn the corner to find the clubhouse filled with rattlesnakes.

A few are dead, but most of them are alive. They’re slithering and lying all over the place.

“What the fuck happened?” I pause at the window beside Lawson and Kincaid, taking in the mess.

“I’ll give you one guess,” Lawson says.

“Zander Cross.”

“He sent a few guys out in the middle of the night. One of our cameras at the south gate caught the plates.” Kincaid shoots his thumb over his shoulder toward the main road. “They dropped a few at the gate as well. Not sure how many, since most slithered off. But a few were hanging around when the guys started work this morning.”

Kincaid scratches the back of his neck. His copper-brown hair is short and perfectly styled like it always is, even first thing in the morning. For someone who is generally composed and unfazed by the many things that seem to go wrong on the ranch on a daily basis, the irritated undercurrent in his tone surprises me. Everyone has a limit to what they’ll put up with, and it seems Kincaid has reached his.

“Max heard the hissing when he came outside to get in the truck for school. If he’d opened the door—” Lawson drags his fingers through his dark-blond hair, tension radiating off him. “Thankfully, Kincaid was dropping off a tool I’d asked for. He stopped Max from going in there.”

I glance at Kincaid, who has his sights set on the snakes. He’s always busy working the ranch, so I haven’t seen much of him since arriving, and what I do know isn’t great, since I’m friends with his brother and the two of them have had their differences. But I sense there’s more beneath his confident smiles and general arrogance. He wears them both like a shield.