Your father has always believed that money can solve most problems. A poorly received business deal, an inconvenient scandal, a daughter who treats her credit card limit like a personal challenge. Usually, he's right. A few phone calls, an expensive gift, and the promise of a more sensible tomorrow have been enough to smooth things over for years.

This time, however, he's decided that the problem is you.

Apparently, there's a limit to how many parties you can attend, how much money you can spend in a single weekend, and how many times you can come home after sunrise before your father decides you've become a public embarrassment. His solution is as simple as it is outrageous: you're spending the summer at the ranch of an old family friend, somewhere far enough from the city that your usual distractions won't be readily available.

You laugh when he tells you because you genuinely think he's joking.

He isn't.

The Verstappens have known your family for years. When you were younger, their ranch was one of those places your parents dragged you to during holidays, where the adults drank wine on the veranda while you and their son found increasingly creative ways to get into trouble. You remember muddy boots, scraped knees, stolen fruit, and a boy who always seemed to know more about the countryside than you did. You remember arguing with him, too, though the details have become hazy with time.

Eventually, you grew up. Your visits became less frequent, your lives moved in different directions, and Max Verstappen became one of those childhood acquaintances you occasionally remembered when your parents brought up old stories.

You haven't seen him properly in years.

Three days after your father's announcement, you're sitting in the back of a car with your sunglasses on, designer luggage stacked beside you, watching the city give way to open roads and endless stretches of countryside. Your phone has lost reception twice. The nearest decent shopping district is apparently a considerable distance away, and the driver has had the audacity to describe the scenery as beautiful when there's nothing in sight but grass, fences, and an alarming number of cows.

You hate it already.

The ranch, when you finally arrive, is considerably larger than you remembered. The land seems to go on forever, rolling pastures divided by miles of fencing, cattle scattered across the fields, and horses moving lazily beneath the afternoon sun. There are enormous barns, machinery sheds, gravel roads, and a sprawling family house that looks as though it's been standing there for generations. This isn't some quaint little country property. It's a serious operation, with hundreds of acres to manage and enough livestock to make you wonder whether your father has sent you away to serve a sentence.

And then there's Max.

You first see him near a fence line, working on something you can't identify from the car. He's wearing a faded tank top, worn jeans, and heavy boots, with a tool belt hanging low on his hips. His short, messy hair catches the sunlight as he bends to inspect her work, muscular arms moving with the easy confidence of someone who has spent most of his life doing things you wouldn't know how to begin.

He looks up when the car pulls in.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. His gaze travels from your sunglasses to your outfit, then to the collection of expensive suitcases being unloaded behind you. Recognition settles across his face, followed by an expression that suggests he remembers you rather better than you'd hoped.

"No way."

You take off your sunglasses. "What?"

Max straightens, wiping his hands on a rag. "You're the one they're making me babysit?"