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brYNN ROSE

"Mother, I'm not here collecting content.

I'm setting up a relaxing retreat. With goats!

" I practically shriek into my phone. My voice ricochets as my boots crunch against the gravel path. Red clay dust kicks up with every step and it swirls around my ankles. It’s like even the ground itself is overwhelmed by her ridiculousness.

But this isn’t anything new. On the other end of the line is small-town celebrity, former pageant queen, full-time tornado, and my endlessly exhausting mother, Brandi Rose.

She rattles on about camera crews and the necessity of filming only during golden hour.

Apparently, baby goats don't have the right bone structure for harsh midday lighting.

She continues. “And none of them, not a single one, better faint. I’m not having a fainting goat throwing its body around in the back of the segment…”

I groan and rub my temple. "Right, Mom. Soft light, perfect filters, goats bathed in cinematic glow. Got it. I need to go."

Of course, she doesn't stop talking. But as I round the corner of the barn, her voice suddenly sounds a million miles away.

The view hits me like a surprise embrace from the past. The scent of sun-warmed cedar. The long stretches of fencing that frame the fields. The way the light pools between the trees. It's been a long time since I've been out at King Ridge Ranch. But the memories rush in like I never left.

Growing up in the country was messy and magical.

I can't help the soft smile tugging at my lips.

But you can't grow up in Sagebrush Creek with the Kingridge brothers without spending at least a few wild nights out here. Most of the time they end up barefoot, a little buzzed, and somehow in the bed of a rusted-out pickup. I’d bet half the county probably lost their virginity under these stars.

Not me though, my mother made sure I knew better.

"Are you listening?" Mom's sharp voice slices through my nostalgia.

"Yes," I say, tone clipped. "I have three days. It'll be perfect. I have it handled." I don't wait for her next critique. “Talk soon.” I hang up.

This was supposed to be a small event for my team at Mane Event Hair Salon.

A few days of fresh air, cozy cabins, and the kind of snuggly goat photos that get shared to every PTA group chat in town.

But now it's morphing into another Brandi Rose Production.

There will be coordinated outfits and makeup touch-ups between yoga poses.

Everything will be coordinated and planned down to the minute.

The worst part is, it’s not even real press.

It’s just the Channel Seven lifestyle segment sandwiched between Patty June’s farm stand bake sale feature and the week's weather report.

But Brandi doesn't care. A spotlight is a spotlight. It’s what she lives for.

When she got pregnant with me, Mom’s dreams of being the next Meryl Streep died right on the vine.

She gave up everything she ever wanted… Yep, I ruined them before I was even born.

But somewhere in the nine months it took her to return to Sagebrush Creek , a new dream was born.

If she couldn't be famous, then it would be up to me.

No matter that the stage was never my calling.

The torch wasn't so much passed as shoved into my hands.

Any other mother in this town would be thrilled to see her daughter owning a successful salon. Not Brandi Rose. To her, being a hairdresser is settling. It's small-town. It's small potatoes. And she doesn't do anything small.

It’s always been just me, Mom, and all of her moods. I’ve tried to manage them the best I could over the years. It hasn’t been easy protecting her image, and trying to make it all look effortless. There are definitely a few cracks in my foundation from the weight of her expectations.

But today I’m setting up a photoshoot on a ranch I’ve known my whole life. I've survived worse. And at least this time, I have goats.

Kingridge Ranch's marketing manager, Priya, warned me over the phone that the original goat pens weren't exactly the Pinterest-worthy backdrop I had in mind. I walk past the disheveled goat pen that was once home to the infamous Thrusty the Goat. He's apparently on the run right now. It’s a scary thought for anyone bending over to tie a shoe. He’s left behind an empty enclosure that looks like a crime scene.

Rustic is what Priya called it. That is ranch-speak for cobwebs and questionable smells. She offered up the newly cleared field behind the Bareback Haven Day Spa instead. She said it’d be a more suitable option.

The woman wasn't kidding.

As I round the bend, the view unfolds like something straight off a romance novel cover. The golden wheat fields in the distance sway and shimmer like they're dancing. The sky is that impossibly big Texas blue and the warm sun casts everything in a dreamy gold light.

The wind whips my blonde hair across my face as I take it all in… And then I promptly do a double take.

Because there, in the middle of the freshly fenced-in goat pen, are two of the infamous Kingridge brothers. Upside down. Handstands. They are doing actual handstands as grown men… Ranchers nonetheless. I bite back my laugh when I realize I’m witnessing a classic Kingridge pissing contest.

Side by side, two burly cowboys balance with their dusty boots pointed at the sky. Their thick arms are locked in place/ Their flannel shirts droop toward their shoulders to reveal chiseled torsos and the kind of abs that would make even a Hemsworth brother jealous.

Even though I’ve known these guys all my life, I let my jaw drop open and gawk at the sight. Who wouldn’t? Sweat glistens on exposed skin. I can see every defined muscle working to maintain the position. It’s impossible to look away.

One of them shifts slightly, and the movement makes his abs ripple in a way that sends heat pooling low in my belly. My heart stalls in my chest. Like, literally skips a beat and then fumbles to restart itself.

The other adjusts his grip. His biceps flex and bulge. Suddenly I'm having very inappropriate thoughts about what those strong hands could do when they're not planted firmly on the ground. Sweet Jesus, it's hot out here.

I shamelessly take in the way their jeans are belted low on their hips.

Thank God that there isn’t anyone out here to watch me unravel.

There’s no mistaking that it isn’t the Texas sun that's making me flush.

It's the sight of all that raw, masculine power on display. I blow out a breath and collect myself.

I fan myself with my free hand. I’ve spent too much time cooped up in that salon.

It’s only taken five minutes here and all of a sudden I remember exactly why teenage Brynn Rose used to have very detailed fantasies about one of the Kingridge cowboys.

Now I’ll be here for a week. I’ve got to get it together.

Then another, more terrifying thought strikes me. Please, Lord, don't let one of these two be Geoffrey. Because if it is, I'm in serious trouble. The kind of trouble that involves forgetting why I've kept my distance for years.

"Y'all are gonna hurt yourselves," I call out as I take a step toward the pen.

At the sound of my voice, the guys topple into each other.

They tangle into each other. There's a storm of pushing and shoving as they find their footing. I hear a few muffled insults too. But when they get to their feet, there’s no mistaking which of the brothers I’m looking at.

On one side is Bowen. He’s harmless, an older brother type, always has been.

But beside him is Geoffrey and that makes it hard to breathe.

Shit.