Page 41

He’s a quiet guy. A nice guy, from what I’ve seen.

He kind of reminds me of my brother’s friend, Kate, the steady voice of reason that holds a friend group together.

But he’s got a little of another friend in him too, the one me and my sisters all had our own individual crushes on—Nicolas Silva, dripping charm and well aware of it.

He’s good-looking too. Light brown skin, olive green eyes, a slightly slimmer, but no less strong, build than some of the other hands. No, he’s not hard to look at all.

If I was looking.

Which I’m not.

Literally , when his head lolls towards me and I hurriedly drop my gaze to the ball of yarn in my lap. “You gonna knit your stallion a blankie?”

I blow out a minorly amused breath through my nose. “Shut up.”

“You’re like a little old woman.”

Untangling one of my crossed legs, I stretch it out to kick him on the thigh. He yelps, a noise that masks the sound of someone else coming downstairs, a noise I mimic a second later when fingers suddenly wrap around my ponytail and yank. “Will you quit doing that?”

Unapologetic, Finn flashes me a tight smile.

As he strides into the kitchen, I track him, brows slowly pulling together because something seems…

off. He’s banging around in there like the cabinet doors have personally offended him, and even though he must feel me watching him, he doesn’t meet my gaze, not once—if I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was steadfastly ignoring it.

Quiet snickers erupt from the other end of the couch.

My eyes narrow. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.” Yet the chuckling doesn't stop as Adam slumps, shaking his head, one move away from slapping his fucking knee. Instead, he gestures at the TV. “Is this the one with Jason Statham?”

Still eyeing him suspiciously, I hum a yes.

“You got a thing for old, white, bald men?” he teases. “That’s your type?”

“I have a thing for that old, white, bald man specifically. I don’t have a type.”

“No?” Adam cocks his head, glancing towards the kitchen for a quick beat. “What’d your last boyfriend look like?”

Against my will, an image of Ricky comes to mind. “He bore a striking resemblance to a spineless worm.”

Adam drops his head back as he cackles. “So you’re single, I take it?”

“If this is your way of asking me out, it needs work.”

“God, no,” he sets me straight so quickly, so emphatically, I’d probably be deeply offended if I had any kind of interest in him. “But—”

Suddenly, Adam disappears from my line of sight. He’s replaced by a different man, one who denounces the concept of personal space as he drops onto middle cushion of the sofa, a thick thigh flushes against my crossed legs.

A completely different man to the one who just spent ten minutes stomping around the kitchen, Finn eyes my little project amusedly. “Whatcha making?”

Huh. Maybe I imagined his little weird tantrum. “A baby blanket for Izzy.”

Pouting playfully like a jackass, Finn pinches my fucking cheek. “That’s adorable.”

Eyes narrowed, I hold up one of the long ass needles in my hand. “Do you not see the weapon?”

“Yes, Granny,” Finn deadpans. “I’m terrified.”

On the other side of him, I hear an exaggerated cough. “ Hypocrite .”

I shift to peer around the large body blocking Adam from view. “What?”

He jerks his head at the man separating us. “Ask him what he does in his spare time.”

Curiosity guides my gaze back to Finn. “What do you do in your spare time, cowboy? When you’re not off building wells or saving baby pandas or breaking the hearts of pretty hostesses, of course.”

While his friend laughs, Finn flicks my leg. “I whittle, smartass.”

Well. Color me surprised. “You whittle?”

The palm with that tattoo I keep forgetting to ask about settles just above the curve of my knee. “Wood carvings.”

“You whittle wood carvings,” I repeat, staring at his hands. His fingers, specifically. Long, thick fingers that don’t look capable of such delicate work. “Huh.”

“My grandpa taught me.”

I frown as the topic of unconventional hobbies is chased away by a single word. “Say that again.”

“Grandpa?”

Grandpaw . What the hell? “You have an accent.”

He plays dumb, plays dickhead . “Do I?”

“You’re Southern .”

“Am I?”

I jab my knee into his side, and with a hiss, he surrenders. “I grew up in Texas.”

Something tickles the back of my brain. “Where?”

When he rattles off the name of a town I’m sure I’ve heard of before, I sit up straight. “What was your last name again?”

A wry smile curls his mouth. “Akello.”

Wait a damn minute.

“Akello,” I repeat slowly, “as in Akello Cattle?”

Like it’s no big deal, Finn nods. Oh-so-casually, he admits he’s part of one of—if not the —biggest ranch families. You throw a rock around here, around anywhere with any kind of an agricultural industry, and you hit an Akello cow.

Here he is, calling me princess, and he’s a fucking prince .

I whack him on the bicep with the back of my hand. “What the fuck, Finn? I didn’t know that.”

“It’s not like I was keeping it a secret.”

In other words, I suck for not asking.

“I thought you were just, like, some simple smalltown country boy.” I slump, huffing, shaking my head in disbelief. “You’re an Akello .”

“And you’re a Jackson.”

“You’re both rich and famous,” Adam interjects, sharp but playful. “Congratulations. Can we move on?”

Evidently, I can’t. My mind is well and truly blown, my thoughts caught on the pivotal differences between the Jackson brand of fame, and the Akellos’.

My family is known around here . Serenity is vaguely recognizable across the country, but only amongst other horse people like us.

Animal charities and rescue organizations and shit like that, that’s our specialty.

That’s where our name might hold some weight.

That’s where most of our clientele for the dude ranch comes from too, or that’s how they find us.

The Akello name, on the other hand, is a whole other story.

It’s a household name. It’s celebrity . It’s not just cattle and their by-products, not just beef and leather and dairy, not just the charities they donate to or the non-profits they run—the non-profit Finn’s sister runs, he has a sister, he has two sisters, and fuck, I am so bad at this friend thing. It’s…

Well, it’s Namara Akello. Her knowledge in responsible agricultural practices, her respect for the land she works on, her fucking historic prominence as a Black woman thriving in a male-dominated sector, but also just her . “Your mom is so fucking cool.”

Unabashed pride brightens Finn’s entire face. “Can’t argue with you there.”

“What the hell are you doing here ?”

He taps me on the fucking nose. “Enjoying your lovely company.”

I swat him away. “I’m serious.”

I’m baffled . I’ve seen pictures of his family’s ranch—their house was in fucking Architectural Digest—and the endless land surrounding it.

I’ve read interviews, seen documentaries, heard everything there is to hear through the grapevine.

They’ve got a good thing going, I’m sure of that. Shit, if I was there, I’d never leave.

I want to know why Finn did. I’m dying to know. The curiosity might actually be killing me, it’s clouding my judgement, it’s why I take too long to recognize the discomfort aiding Finn’s silence—to mark it as the avoidant kind that I am intimately familiar with.

Fuck, I really must be a terrible person because his reluctance to talk about his family only makes me more curious.

Curling my hands into fists, I press my lips together tightly, physically restraining the urge to pepper him with more questions.

Friendly , I chastise myself silently. Even I know making someone talk about something they clearly don’t want to talk about isn’t that.

Biting my tongue—both literally and figuratively—I settle down.

I pick up my briefly forgotten knitting project, clearing my throat in an effort to erase the burgeoning inquisition.

“Next time you call your mom,” I let myself say as I slowly unfold my legs and drape them across Finn’s lap since he seems to like them there, he likes physical contact. “Tell her I love her.”

Staring at the patch of tan skin between the cuff of my sock and the ridden-up leg of my sweats, Finn swallows. Ever-so-slowly, that pinched expression melts away, replaced by a soft, indecipherable smile. “Maybe you can tell her yourself one day.”