Page 7

T he four of us are just standing there, Rosie having run off to put on some clothes at her mother’s behest. As for me?

Well, I’m nervous.

And when I am nervous, I resort to snark.

“Thanks for sending the human forklift to pick me up,” I say, tilting my chin toward Zeke, who’s lingering by the door like he’s guarding it from intruders or bad vibes.

Dante huffs a laugh, his eyes cutting to Zeke. That look is sharp, but amused.

“Yeah. Talked your ear off, did he?”

“Total blabbermouth.”

“Ha! Well, uh, Rosie says you two got along well?” Avery asks, and she’s nodding her head like a weirdo.

Dante snorts.

Zeke grunts.

I blink between the three of them.

“Does he always stand like that?” I dip my head towards Zeke.

“Like what?” Dante asks innocently.

“Like he’s considering whether to carry my luggage or throw me over his shoulder and disappear me somewhere in the woods like one of those campy 1980s horror flicks?”

Avery snorts. “Yeah, actually, that’s pretty on brand for Zeke.”

“He is standing right there, ladies,” Dante gentle scolds us, but his eyes reflect the laughter he’s keeping bottled up inside.

And Zeke? Well, Zeke shifts his weight and says absolutely nothing , just keeps watching me like I’m a riddle he hasn’t decided whether to solve or set on fire.

“You’re right. Apologies, Zeke. I’m sure you’re not all serial killery at all. Uh, thanks for the ride,” I say, and wait for a response.

Still nothing.

Avery is grinning so wide now, I’m surprised her face doesn’t hurt. And as for Dante? Well, now he’s looking at Zeke like he knows something.

Something I very much don’t know.

But whatever it is, he doesn’t say a word.

“Come on, Casey,” Avery says, slipping an arm around my shoulders. “I’ll show you your room. You’ve got the best view on the property. And we’ve got dinner at six. Don’t worry, I already warned the guys to wear shirts.”

“Pity,” I mutter.

Behind me, I swear I hear Zeke choke .

Just a little.

With his attention momentarily diverted, I snag my suitcase and follow Avery down the hall.

The guest bedroom is sunlit and cozy, with faded floral curtains, a massive antique dresser, and a view of the back pasture that honestly makes me want to write poetry.

Or at least drink wine while pretending I write poetry.

I open my suitcase and start pulling out clothes, mumbling to myself like a lunatic as I try to sort them by practical ranch wear and emergency sexy options .

I wish I had way more of the second one. But, oh well.

I’d have to make do with cotton laced practicality.

Behind me, I can feel it.

That weird itch on the back of my neck.

The sense of being watched.

I turn.

Nothing.

But I swear I see a shadow shift just beyond the hallway.

I wait a beat, then I smirk to myself.

OMG. Is he seriously lurking?

Yes. He is. The sexy cowboy is totally standing in the hall.

Like he’s lying in wait for me.

And somehow, that’s hot.

“Just unpacking,” I call out casually, loud enough for lurking ears to hear. “Nothing scandalous. Unless you count this bra, which, honestly, I don’t. It’s cotton. Not sexy.”

Silence.

Then, faintly— so faint I almost miss it —I hear it.

A growl.

Low. Rumbly. Male.

My knees nearly give out.

Yup. I’m in trouble.

Big, beautiful, growly trouble.

I didn’t know real men could make that sound. Thought it was only a booktok thing.

I suck in a deep breath. The bedroom is sunlit and peaceful, and I should feel the same.

But I don’t.

I’m standing in front of my half-unpacked suitcase, holding a bra in one hand and a tank top in the other, trying to focus on something— anything —besides the fact that the sexiest man I’ve ever met in real life just hauled my fluffy ass to my friend’s house, flirting one second and growling the next,

Did I imagine it, or did Zeke stare at me like he wanted to devour me for a second or two?

I mean, we barely spoke. I don’t even think he said my name.

Well, except for Petals.

God , he called me Petals.

I flop the bra onto the bed and sigh.

“Get it together, Casey,” I mumble. “You’re not here to fall in love with a cowboy. You’re here to lie low, not fall into some romcom book plot.”

But my body isn’t listening.

It’s still humming from the time our fingers brushed.

From the way his voice wrapped around me like heat lightning.

From the growl I definitely didn’t imagine when I mentioned my plain cotton bra.

I’m standing there, fanning myself, when the door swings all the way open— hard .

I spin, startled.

“Crap on a cracker! Don’t you people knock?—”

And then I see him.

Zeke.

In the doorway, shoulders tense, chest heaving like he just ran a marathon, jaw locked like he’s trying to fight something off.

His eyes are locked on me.

And I swear, the temperature in the room spikes .

“Zeke?” I whisper, heart thudding.

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t move.

Just stares .

Then, in two strides, he’s across the room.

His hand cups the back of my neck, warm, calloused, and heavy.

Like he’s claiming me or something with that purposeful touch.

And then he kisses me.

Slams his mouth onto mine with a growl so low and primal it sends a shockwave through my bones.

I freeze for half a second. Just long enough to register the heat, the possessive edge, the way his lips move like he’s memorizing every shape of me.

Then I kiss him back.

It’s not cute.

It’s not gentle.

It’s—it’s fire .

Pressure.

A collision of heat and want and something I can’t name yet, but I feel it down to my marrow.

And just when I start to melt into it, to lose myself completely in the taste of him, it happens.

His eyes open.

And they’re glowing .

Not metaphorically.

Not poetically.

Actually glowing.

A vivid violet, shimmering like some sort of ethereal wildfire.

I gasp.

He jerks back.

I stumble, catching myself on the edge of the bed, heart racing and lips swollen.

“What the hell—” I start, but he’s already turning away.

“Sorry,” he rasps, voice thick. “I shouldn’t have?—”

“Wait! Zeke?”

But he’s gone.

Out the door, down the hall, footsteps heavy, like he’s trying to outrun something.

I collapse onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, still tasting him on my lips.

My heart’s racing, my skin’s flushed, and my brain?

Not okay.

“What the actual fuck just happened?” I whisper, touching my lips.

And for the first time in a long time, I’m not just scared of my past catching up to me.

I’m scared I’m going crazy.

Or worse.

That something weird is going on.

Something not even med school could’ve prepared me for.

Did that really happen?