The engine gave out three miles back, but he kept driving until the Mercedes coughed its final breath in front of her ranch gate. Now, standing there in a suit too clean for the country and a scowl too sharp for polite company, the man looked exactly like trouble in a tailored jacket.
Y/N leaned on the fence, arms crossed, chewing a blade of grass like it was her job. “Car trouble, city boy?”
He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. “Unfortunately.”
“You allergic to tow trucks or just tryin’ to die of heatstroke?”
He exhaled slowly, clearly regretting his life choices. “I’m Nathaniel.”
She raised a brow. “Not from around here, are you, Nathaniel?”
“No.”
“Figured. We don’t get many men in funeral suits smellin’ like overpriced cologne and broken dreams.”
His jaw flexed, but he said nothing.
Y/N tossed the grass aside. “Nearest mechanic’s out sick. Only truck’s mine. Guess that means you’re stuck.”
“With you?” he said dryly.
She smirked. “Don’t sound so thrilled. Ranch has a spare room. Unless you’d rather sleep with the chickens.”
He hesitated—clearly the idea of dirt, horses, and her wasn’t his idea of hospitality. But the sun was brutal, and the town was far. Pride didn’t mean much when your phone had no signal and your designer shoes were covered in cow crap.
“Fine,” he muttered.
“Thought so.” She tipped her hat. “Welcome to hell, Cross. Try not to cry when the rooster wakes you up at four.”
The next morning, he came to breakfast in a pressed shirt and a glare that could kill weeds. Y/N slid him a plate. “Hope you like your eggs judgemental.”
“I prefer silence with my coffee,” he replied.
“Well,” she grinned, “you’re on the wrong planet.”
They bickered over everything—how she made her coffee, how he folded towels like he was still in a hotel, how she walked like she owned the dirt and he walked like he hated touching it. She called him “Wall Street.” He called her “the reason Tylenol was invented.”
But by day three, he fed the horses without being asked.
By day five, she caught him watching the sunset a little too long.
By day seven, he didn’t flinch when mud splattered his shoes.
He wasn’t staying forever. She knew that. And he reminded her every day—cold, clipped, detached.
But he also fixed the broken fence. And patched her wrist after she fell. And once, just once, when the storm rolled in and the power went out, she swore she felt his fingers brush hers. Barely there. Like a secret.
Y/N told herself not to care. Not to look at him like that.
But damn… he looked real good in denim.