Page 27 of Broken Roads (Hard to Handle #1)

"Us," I add quickly. "Ruthie made enough for an army."

She rises to her feet, brushing dog hair from her jeans. "Well, come in then. Though I should warn you, it's a bit of a disaster zone in here."

Bandit doesn't wait for a second invitation, darting past her into the office while I follow slowly.

The small cabin is transformed from when I last saw it.

Paper covers almost every surface, but not in chaos.

There's a system to it, sections clearly mapped out.

Her laptop sits open on the desk, surrounded by coffee mugs in various states of emptiness.

The walls have been covered with mock-ups of website designs, marketing materials, and what looks like a schedule for upcoming months, color-coded and annotated in her neat handwriting.

"Sorry about the mess," she says, quickly gathering some papers from the small table by the window to make room for our lunch. "I get a bit intense when I'm working."

"I hadn't noticed," I reply dryly, setting the basket down and unpacking it. The comment earns me another smile, this one carrying a hint of sheepishness that's unexpectedly endearing.

Bandit settles himself beneath the table with a contented sigh, clearly planning to stay for the duration. Traitor.

Hailey watches me, a small crease forming between her brows as I lay out Ruthie's offerings.

"This is a lot of food for lunch."

"Ruthie doesn't believe in small portions." I unscrew the top of a thermos, the rich aroma of dark roast filling the air between us. "Says ranch work requires proper fuel."

"And what's my excuse?" She accepts the coffee I pour, our fingers brushing in the exchange. The brief contact sends a current up my arm, like static electricity but warmer, more insistent.

"Brain work's just as demanding," I say, surprised by how easily the words come. A week ago, I might have dismissed her work as unnecessary, as a complication in our simple ranch life. Now, seeing the evidence of her efforts spread across this room, I can't deny the value of what she's doing.

We sit across from each other at the small table, knees nearly touching in the confined space. She unwraps her sandwich, takes a bite, and makes a small sound of appreciation that does things to my insides I'd rather not examine too closely.

"So," I begin, needing to focus on something other than the way her throat moves when she swallows. "What were you working on when we interrupted?"

Her eyes light up immediately. "Actually, I've been developing an idea for a themed weekend at the ranch." She reaches for a folder without getting up, the movement bringing her briefly closer. Her familiar scent washes over me, momentarily derailing my thoughts.

"A themed weekend?" I repeat, forcing myself to focus on her words rather than the curve of her neck where it disappears into her collar.

"Yes," she says, spreading photos and notes between us on the table.

"Most successful dude ranches offer special weekends throughout the year, photography retreats, couples' getaways, that sort of thing.

" Her finger taps a printed calendar. "I was thinking our first one could be a harvest festival in October.

Pumpkin picking, hayrides, special fall-themed meals from Ruthie. "

The enthusiasm in her voice is contagious. Leaning closer, I’m genuinely interested rather than looking for flaws to criticize. "October's when the aspens turn," I offer. "The ridge trail would be perfect for those photography buffs you mentioned."

She looks up. "Exactly. The colors would be incredible." Her finger traces a path on one of the ranch maps she's marked up. "I was thinking guided trail rides here, where the view opens up to the valley."

"Better to take them along the creek first," I suggest, reaching across to indicate the route. "There's a stand of aspens there that turns earlier than the rest. Gold when everything else is still green."

Our hands are inches apart on the map, her neat, practical nails beside my calloused fingers. The contrast is striking but not as opposing as I once thought. Different perspectives bringing necessary balance.

"You know every inch of this land, don't you?" she asks.

I look up to find her watching me, something in her gaze that makes my chest tighten. "It's in my blood," I say honestly. "Been walking these trails since before I could ride."

She nods. "That's what makes this place special," she says. "That history, that connection. It's what people are looking for when they come here. Not just a vacation, but a piece of something real."

Lunch stretches longer than intended, our conversation flowing from marketing strategies to personal anecdotes with surprising ease.

I tell her about the time I got lost on the north ridge as a kid, how Dad eventually found me.

She shares stories of growing up in Chicago, of escaping to her grandparents' small farm whenever city life became too confining.

Each revelation reshapes my understanding of her, adding depth and dimension to the woman I'd so quickly dismissed as just another city girl who couldn't possibly understand our way of life.

Every laugh we share, every moment our eyes meet over coffee cups, chips away at the walls I've built around myself.

"I should probably let you get back to work," I say eventually, though I make no move to gather the remains of our lunch. Beneath the table, Bandit snores softly, having long since fallen asleep at our feet.

Hailey glances at her watch, eyebrows lifting in surprise. "I didn't realize how late it's gotten." She looks back at me, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Time flies when you're revolutionizing ranch marketing strategies."

"Is that what we were doing?" I ask, returning her smile with one of my own. "And here I thought we were just having lunch."

"Multi-tasking," she says with a shrug that draws my attention to the curve of her shoulder, the delicate line of her collarbone visible where her shirt opens at the neck. "I'm very efficient."

I stand reluctantly, gathering wrappers and empty containers back into the basket. "I've noticed."

As I move around the small space, I find my eyes drawn to a marketing mockup I hadn't seen before, pinned to the far wall.

It shows a family on horseback against the backdrop of our mountains, the Walker Ranch logo subtle but present in the corner.

The image captures exactly what I've always felt about this place—not just its beauty, but the way it brings people together, creates memories that last.

"This one," I say, indicating the mockup. "I like this."

She moves to stand beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her body. "Really? I wasn't sure if it was too..."

"Perfect," I finish for her. "It's perfect."

Our eyes meet, and for a moment, everything else falls away. There's just her, standing close enough that I could count each individual eyelash if I wanted to, the scent of her shampoo filling my lungs with each breath.

I should step back. Should thank her for lunch, collect my dog, and return to the afternoon chores waiting for me. But I remain rooted to the spot, caught in her gaze.

"I should go," I finally manage, the words feeling like they're being dragged from somewhere deep inside me.

She nods, but neither of us moves. "We'll continue this discussion later?"

"Count on it," I promise.

Only then do I force myself to turn away, whistling for Bandit who rises reluctantly from his comfortable spot.

At the door, I pause, looking back at her one last time.

She stands amid her papers and plans, sunlight streaming through the window to catch in her hair, turning the dark strands to burnished copper.

The image stays with me as I cross the yard toward the waiting afternoon, a warmth in my chest that has nothing to do with the sun and everything to do with the woman I've left behind.