Page 9

He knew there was a fine line between love and hate.

He didn’t know it was about as thick as the distance between the waistband of her jeans and her tank top, and adorned with a pair of dainty butterfly wings.

It’s comical, how the group sleepily trodding into the kitchen knock into one another like dominos as the person leading the pack screeches to a sudden halt at the sight of me.

“Oh.” Big, brown eyes widen with poorly-veiled surprise. “You’re still here.”

I’m tempted to tell the only other woman in the house that I woke up this morning sharing the exact same sentiment—with an additional few expletives.

Although, I guess you can’t really wake up when you never fell asleep in the first place.

Which I didn’t. I spent the night staring at the sloped ceilings of my little attic room as my brain whirred relentlessly, hence the third cup of coffee working its way into my bloodstream.

Over the rim of my mug, I ogle the foursome already ogling me. “Sleeping in?”

One of the guys, the blond one, snorts. Evidently the bravest of the bunch, he dares to come closer, nudging me aside so he can refill the coffee pot I already drained. “You’re really working here?”

I bare my teeth in some semblance of a smile. “What? I don’t look the part?”

I do. I know I do. Last night, when I eventually dragged myself off the porch and upstairs, I found all of my old shit already neatly packed away. Jeans, boots, hats, the fucking obnoxious belt buckles I used to obsessively collect—the perfect cowgirl wardrobe.

Briefly, I considered ignoring it all in favor of rocking up to my first day of work in a mini skirt and platforms, just for kicks. But really, as fun as the look on my siblings’ face would be, I’d be the one to suffer for my inappropriate choice.

Besides, I couldn’t resist my old boots; red and hand-embroidered and still perfectly molded to my calves, a flawless match to the tight, low-waisted jeans and tank top that perfectly mold to the rest of me.

Something the ranch hand who offered me that wonderful unsolicited advice yesterday seems to briefly, almost compulsively, appreciate.

I might’ve imagined it; the quick sweep of near-black eyes, the clenching of a finely-shaped jaw.

I blink and his gaze is elsewhere. I blink again and Finn is in the kitchen, skirting around me to snag a mug from the dishwasher without a word of greeting.

Once more, and that girl is in my line of sight instead.

“Sorry.” Standing on the other side of the island counter, she leans across it with her hand outstretched. “We’re kinda used to it being just us. I’m Yasmin. You’re Lottie, right?”

I nod and diligently shake her hand.

“That’s Theo.” She points at the blond before jerking a thumb towards the guy rooting through the fridge. “And that’s Adam. And you know Finn already, I guess.”

Sliding onto the barstool beside Yasmin, the man in question deigns to toss me a greeting nod. “We met.”

There’s something really interesting about how he says that with a smile, but I don’t feel any warmth—about how I’m apparently the only one who catches the snark hidden behind a sunny tone.

On second thought, maybe Yasmin does. Maybe I don’t imagine her throwing her friend a little side eye before returning her attention to me. “So, where’re you from?”

My stomach clenches. “Around.”

“Is that local?”

Internally, I smirk. “Uh-huh.”

Though I can tell my answers—or lack thereof—disappoint her, Yasmin persists. “Must’ve been nice, growing up around here. We were city kids, right, Tee?”

Theo, Tee , hums. A slice of toast hanging out of his mouth, he hands another piece to Yasmin, gracing her with a kiss on the cheek that coaxes out a warm smile.

Spinning so she’s sideways, she tugs him between her spread thighs, resting her head against his chest while he snakes an arm around her shoulders, and while no one else bats an eye, I frown at the casual intimacy.

“City adults , really,” Yasmin continues, lips grazing what must be her partner’s neck. “Until we ended up here, obviously.”

I watch long, pale fingers as they wind themselves through dark, sleek hair. Stroking. Tugging. Tangling. “Obviously.”

“Adam’s been here a little longer than us, but don’t let him fool you. He’s from New York. Even more city than us.”

He’s rubbing her back now. Slow, soothing circles that practically make her purr, that I can’t stop watching. “Consider me warned.”

“But Finn’s a real country boy.”

Now that grabs my attention. Tearing my gaze from the never-ending public display of affection, I crook a brow at the real country boy in question. “That right?”

Raising his mug in acknowledgement, he doesn’t satisfy me nearly enough with his, “Uh-huh.”

Luckily, Yasmin is a lot more helpful. “His family owns a ranch.”

Despite my best efforts to keep them at bay, a million questions itch the back of my mind.

Which ranch? Where? Is he from around too?

Not from Haven Ridge, I’d know if he was, but nearby, maybe?

No, I still feel like I’d know him. There are a lot of ranches around here, but I can count on one hand the number of which have owners who aren’t white. On one finger . Serenity—that’s it.

So not local, then. Still Californian, though? Or is he from out-of-state? But why is he here, how did he end up here? It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask, but I don’t. It’s not like I care, I don’t have to know. I’m just curious.

I’m not disappointed at all when, instead of graciously providing the answers unprompted, Finn polishes off his coffee and slaps a palm against the counter. “We’re gonna be late.”

I swear he looks a little smug while he does it. I swear he crooks a brow like he’s daring me to open my mouth. Like he knows how badly I want to ask, like he knows I won’t.

And I swear he makes a snarky, smug little noise in the back of his throat when my lips stay firmly sealed.

I skip breakfast.

Apparently, every meal is served family-style at the main house. Cooked by Eliza—go fucking figure, considering the last time I saw her, she couldn’t boil water.

It’s monkey bread Monday, Yasmin informs me excitedly, raving along with the rest of them about my little sister’s exceptional cooking. They tell me I’m in for a treat. They promise I’ll see God after a single bite.

But despite those lofty claims, when Finn—the designated driver around here, apparently—pulls up outside our destination and everyone files inside, I head for the barn.

I’m hungry, but I’m not that hungry. Not hungry enough to face my sisters this early in the morning—not Eliza, and definitely not Lux.

I figure that’s a shared sentiment, considering my older sister was nowhere to be seen yesterday, and she’s not exactly waiting around for me this morning either.

She’s probably steering clear for as long as possible, the same way I am, both of us putting off the inevitable clash I can practically taste.

Besides, I don’t want to be in that house. I’m not in the mood for a trip down memory lane. I feel fraught enough as it is already. Too fragile to meet my match just yet.

Jackson, on the other hand, I think I can handle.

Straddling the top rung of the fence surrounding the round training paddock next to the main barn, my brother watches an unfamiliar black Arabian pitch a fit. Agitated as all hell, the stallion tosses his head and squeals shrilly, putting on quite the show.

I only hesitate briefly before saying a silent ‘fuck it’ and hauling myself up the fence.

As I kick both legs over the edge and let them swing, Jackson tugs on one of the braids woven into my ponytail.

It feels so natural to swat him away, so normal, as if our relationship isn’t as precarious as my perch.

Digging my fingertips into the rounded wood on either side of me, I focus on the young stallion pitching a fit instead of the ever-growing pit in my stomach. “What’s his damage?”

A shoulder brushes mine. “Got some reactivity problems.”

Maybe I’m sensitive, but I swear that sounds a little pointed. “I’m sure he has his reasons.”

Jackson hums in agreement, and though I keep my gaze on the stomping horse, I feel his burning a hole in the side of my face. “Doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try and fix him.”

“Maybe he doesn’t wanna be fixed.”

“Maybe. But it’s gotta be tiring, being that angry all the time.”

“Must be.” I swallow, shifting awkwardly. “Where’d you get him?”

Hesitation thickens the air, and I don’t understand why until my brother reluctantly murmurs, “The Webers.”

I tense so hard, my stomach hurts.

Fucking hell. Talk about a blast from the past. A terrible, regrettable past full of the terrible, regrettable men belonging to the family that owns another one of the ranches in the area. “He’s one of theirs?”

Jackson nods, looking none too happy about it. “We’ve been taking on their rejects for a while. Usually, they’re not in great condition.”

I make a mental note to kick a Weber in the shins next time I see one. “This one got a name?”

“We’ve been calling him Ruin.”

“Why?”

“He wrecked the first stall we put him in. Snapped a halter. Almost took Finn’s head off the first time he tried to check his hooves. Seemed fitting.”

As I watch him kicking up dirt and shooting us the evil eye, I can’t help but agree.

Tugging my hair once more, Jackson swings around and hops off the fence. He dusts his hands off before reaching back up to help me, but I ignore him, jumping down all by myself.

Something I regret the second my feet hit the dirt and my ankle twinges, and Jackson goes from smiling faintly at my old boots to frowning at my grimace. “Your ankle still bothering you?”

“Nope,” I lie, casually giving it a shake like it’s not on fire. “Just a little stiff.”

He doesn’t buy it one bit. “Maybe you should help out Eliza in the kitchen for a little while.”

“No.” I don’t want to be in the house. I want to be out here, keeping busy, staying distracted. “I’m fine. Put me to work, boss.”