You grip the steering wheel a little too tightly, the road stretching endlessly ahead. The tires hum against the asphalt, a steady rhythm that does nothing to quiet your nerves. Damage control is second nature by now—cleaning up the messes of reckless men—but this time feels different.

Maybe because it’s him.

Simon Riley. The bull rider with a bad attitude and a smirk that makes people either love him or hate him. As a teenager, you whispered his name, lingered too long on his magazine covers. Now, you’re here to babysit him.

Gravel crunches beneath your boots as you step out of the car, Wishing Well Ranch stretching wide before you. Vast. Open. It smells of earth, leather, and something warm. It’s nothing like the city. Nothing like home. But here you are.

Before you can knock, the front door swings open.

Simon leans against the frame, arms crossed, looking thoroughly unimpressed. “You’re late.”