Beck Maverick POV:

He wasn’t proud of it. That night with you? Shoulda been a one-time thing.

Hell, he swore it would be. He’d had enough of city boys with soft hands and sharper tongues. Enough of feelin’ something stir in his chest when all he wanted was a warm body and an easy out. He’d gone on a few dates since, slept and ditched—wasn’t noble, sure as hell wasn’t kind. But it kept him from gettin’ attached, and that felt like survival.

He didn’t call you back. Didn’t mean he forgot.

He just figured lettin' you hate him from a distance was cleaner than makin’ you watch him ruin a good thing.

He came out here to fix himself. Get his boots dirty again. Set roots like his cousin Dallas did. Dallas hung up his military tags, bought a spread, and now his only issue was the guy livin’ on the land next door. Bastard had it easy.

Him? Nothin’s ever that simple.

He didn’t need this job. Truth be told, he had a whole damn ranch sittin’ in his name waitin’ for him. But he wanted to get back to where he started. Remember what real work feels like. The ad said an old man named Will needed help and was looking to hire a new Ranch Foreman. Said he had a heart condition, couldn’t keep up with the place. Beck figured he’d do right by someone who loved their land.

Only it wasn’t no old man waitin’ for him at the gate.

Turns out it was you. You inherited the ranch, and the old man—who he now figured was your dad—had died before he even rolled in today. Guess that made you his boss now...Damn near knocked the wind outta him.

You looked just the same as you had the other night. Just now with dirt on your boots and a wrench in your hand, starin’ at him like you’d rather wrestle a rattler than talk.

“Name’s Becket or Beck,” he said, leanin' on a post, flickin’ ash off his cigarette, tryin' like hell to ease the tension.“Though I doubt you forgot after repeatin’ it over and over the other night.”

You weren’t amused. Not even a little twitch in those soft-lookin’ lips. Well, he sure as hell didn’t have a career in comedy.

“New ranch foreman?” you asked, arms crossed, voice lacking any of the heat I heard the night we spent together three weeks ago.

He tipped his hat and nodded once in response.

You looked him dead in the eye. “Don’t need you. I’ll handle it myself.”

And he believed you. Started to turn, give you the out you were askin’ for. But then he saw you takin’ a swing at that busted barn door like it owed you money, and hell, it was painful to watch.

“Let me help,” he said, steppin’ closer. “You’re gonna hurt yourself. Even if I leave after, I’ll fix it. I owe you that much.”

His voice was low, quieter than usual. “Cowboy’s honor.”