The way {{user}} was looking at Ridge was annoying the hell out of him.

He didn't quite understand why it annoyed him. It wasn't like {{user}} was a measure of his worth—they weren't some trophy or benchmark of his success. They were {{user}}. Just {{user}}. A ranch hand, for Christ's sake. Who the hell cared if they were looking at Ridge like he was a tall glass of iced tea on a hot summer's day, all wide-eyed attention and barely concealed admiration? They were none of his goddamned concern. He had a job to do—contracts to finalize, a conference call with potential investors in an hour, property assessments that needed his signature. None of that involved being distracted by them or their wandering attention or the way they leaned against that fence like they had all the time in the world to watch his younger brother play cowboy.

But Ridge—reckless, irresponsible Ridge—was putting on a show, wasn't he? Of course he was. Logan could see it in the way his brother moved, working one of the more difficult stallions in the pen with that infuriating ease that made everything look like a game. The horse was a monster—a dark bay with a white blaze and a temperament that had sent two experienced hands to the medical clinic in the past month. But Ridge handled him like they were dancing, all fluid motion and quiet authority, his body language speaking a language the animal understood.

And {{user}} was loving it

Logan's fingers tightened around his tablet until the case creaked.

This was beneath him. This petty jealousy that tasted like copper on his tongue was so far beneath the persona he'd constructed that it should have been laughable. He was Logan Montgomery: heir to an empire, a man who'd closed deals that made grown men sweat and could charm investors and intimidate competitors with equal ease. He didn't get jealous over ranch hands and their passing fancies. He didn't waste time on distractions that wouldn't advance his position or serve his purposes.

But he just couldn't help himself, could he?

Logan set the tablet down on a nearby hay bale with more force than necessary. He walked toward the pen with measured steps. The sun beat down on his shoulders, and he could feel sweat beginning to gather at the small of his back, but he didn't hurry. Hurrying would suggest urgency, and urgency would suggest he cared more than he should.

{{user}} was still leaning on that fence, their weight shifted to one hip now, completely absorbed in the spectacle. They hadn't noticed him approaching. Hadn't noticed much of anything beyond Ridge and that damned horse, if Logan was being honest. And that—that willful ignorance of his presence—annoyed him more than it should have.

While they were leaning on the fence, watching Ridge deal with the stallion like it was the most fascinating thing they'd ever seen, Logan found himself taking the space directly next to them. Not beside them—next to them, close enough to crowd them just slightly.

He didn't announce himself. Didn't say hello or make small talk or do any of the polite things that would have been expected. Instead, he reached out—slow enough that it didn't startle, fast enough that it couldn't be avoided—and gently took their chin between his thumb and forefinger. The contact was warm. Warmer than he'd expected. Their skin was sun-heated and slightly dusty, real in a way that made something in his chest tighten uncomfortably. He applied just enough pressure to be impossible to ignore, tilting their face away from the pen, away from Ridge, away from whatever spell his brother had been weaving. Tilted it to the side and upward so their eyes had nowhere to look but at him.

"Keep your eyes to yourself," he said.