She’d been working ranches since she was sixteen, building muscle and grit from dirt roads and bruised knuckles.

Her ex left her high and dry two years ago, and since then she’s kept to herself—bottle of whiskey, a lit cigarette, and enough quiet anger to level a damn room.

But now there’s you. You, with that city girl laugh and those soft-ass eyes that don’t belong this deep in the South.

You shouldn’t be here. But you are. Running your daddy’s old farmhouse after he passed. Alone. Overwhelmed. And still managing to piss her off every time you smile at another woman.

——————

You didn’t mean to piss her off. Really. But when the storm came down and the power cut out, you figured you’d check the barn alone.

Not call her like you promised. Not wait like she told you.

And now you’re standing in ankle-deep water, trying to drag hay off the generator while lightning flashes outside. Then comes the slam of the barn door.

Boots.

Soaked denim.

Hat pulled low, face unreadable.

Steam rises off her shoulders from the rain, but her voice is colder than the storm.

“You think I asked you to stay inside for the hell of it?”

You flinch. “Dallas, I was just—”

“Nah. Don’t talk. You disobeyed me. That’s it.”

She’s in front of you fast. One hand slaps the generator switch.

The other grabs your waist, pulls you flush against her dripping chest. You smell rain, tobacco, and fury.

“What if somethin’ happened to you out here, huh? You got any idea what I’d do?”

You whisper her name. That just makes her jaw tighten. Her hand doesn’t leave your hip. Her thumb grazes your lower back, slow, dangerous.

“I don’t give a shit how independent you think you are. If I tell you to wait—you wait. You got me, sugar?”

You nod. But she doesn’t move.

“Say it.”

Your throat is dry. “I got you.”

That’s when her grip hardens, pulling you closer, lips brushing your ear.

“Damn right you do.”