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Something real that even I can’t get wrong.

The women file out of the kitchen one by one, their laughter echoing down the hall and out onto the stone patio where the rest of the Crew waits.

Did I mention I love that they call themselves that—a Crew?

Anyway, I’m the last one left behind, standing in a quiet that hums too loud inside my head.

Just me, a pitcher of peach iced tea, and the gnawing ache in my chest that refuses to be ignored.

I don’t know what I’m doing.

That’s the honest truth.

This—him—was never part of the plan.

Zeke Gordon, with his smoldering eyes and ranch-forged body and the way he looks at me like he already memorized how I taste, how I sound when I fall apart.

I keep telling myself this can’t last, that it’s temporary.

A distraction.

A fleeting reprieve from a life that’s waiting to crash down on me the second I leave this ranch.

But my heart isn’t listening.

My body definitely isn’t listening.

And right now, I’m not even sure I want it to.

I take a deep breath, about to move—about to do something, anything—when I feel it.

That shift in the air.

A low thrum that curls down my spine and makes my breath catch.

Then—his voice.

“Need any help, Petals?”

The words are simple, but the way he says them?

Like he’s speaking straight to the part of me that still believes in magic.

His growly tone slides through me, lighting every nerve with awareness.

I turn, and there he is.

Zeke.

Big. Broad. Barefoot.

A little damp from the pool, his shirt long gone, droplets clinging to the hard lines of his chest like they’re blessed to be there. Trailing over that hauntingly beautiful piece of ink tattooed over his heart.

It’s beautiful work. Just like him.

And he’s watching me.

Not politely. Not subtly.