Page 15 of Score to Settle (Oakwood Ranch #1)

“The thing about football players, Harper, is that they’re always hungry.

I feel like I’ve spent the last two decades trying to make enough food to fill their bellies.

” She rolls her eyes, but I can tell she loves it.

“By the way,” she adds a moment later, “if you ever need a break, the keys for my truck are hanging by the door. Use it anytime you like.”

“Thank you,” I say. Emotion feels suddenly thick in my throat.

It’s the same feeling I had when Mama lent me her cowboy boots.

I’m pulled away, wondering what my childhood would’ve been like if my mom hadn’t died in a car accident when I was three.

What kind of person would I be now? Would I be happier?

Kinder? More outgoing? Would I still be a journalist?

Would I still feel the need to prove myself to everyone I meet?

I guess that’s where Jake and I differ. He doesn’t feel the need to seek approval from anyone because the one person he looked up to died.

Whereas my mom’s death left me trying to fill a hole inside me where her love should’ve been.

There are no answers to these questions, so I swallow them down with my coffee, reminding myself that my childhood wasn’t bad.

I had a father. I had a home. I had enough food and clothes.

I even had people who seemed to love me sometimes.

Like Stephanie, my first nanny. She came soon after Mom died and stayed for four years, leaving when I was seven to start her own family.

She was kind and mothering, baking cookies with me and reading me bedtime stories.

I cried every night for a month when she left.

Then came Penny. She was young and lazy and only stayed for the three months my dad was chasing a story in Colombia.

Penny left when Dad returned to find the house in a state and his daughter dirty and sullen.

I can’t remember the names of all the nannies that came after her.

Some stayed for a few weeks, others for months, but none stuck around for as long as Stephanie.

With each new nanny, I told myself that if I was good, maybe she’d be the mom I needed.

It became my mission to win them over and make them love me.

Each time they left I felt the sting of failure.

I shut the memories down, finish my coffee, and step into another chilly November morning.

Ahead of me the land rolls out, dotted with trees with leaves in brilliant shades of red and gold.

Frost glitters on the ground, crunching under my sneakers as I start to run.

The beauty and stillness of this place takes my breath away.

I choose a path that takes me around the lake and then to the perimeter of the ranch land.

I pick up my pace and for a while I forget everything but the cold air hitting my lungs and putting one foot in front of the other.

I run for an hour until the sting of cold on my cheeks starts to bite and my legs ache.

By the time I’m heading back to the ranch, my mind is clear.

My resolve strengthened. Jake made a good point last night.

I’ve been letting my own opinion of him cloud my judgment.

I need to at least pretend to be open-minded if I want him to open up.

Even if I already know the angle this feature will take, I still need the facts and the depth Tim asked for.

With that thought in my mind, I head inside to start the day.

Jake is alone in the kitchen fixing coffee as I step through the back door. He’s leaning against the counter, staring blankly at the coffee maker. His shoulders are tense and he’s radiating a quiet fury.

“Whoa! Who peed in your cereal this morning?” I quip, flashing a smirk I hope will lighten whatever mood I’ve just walked into.

Jake’s head snaps up at the sound of my voice. His frown deepens into that familiar scowl. So much for our truce last night , I think.

“Not in the mood, Cassidy,” he says, and yep, I definitely dreamt last night. Either that or he’s having second thoughts about our deal.

I could walk away and have the hot shower I desperately need, but two things make me stay. I’m cold and want another coffee, and it’s still on my mind I need to show Jake I’m not the enemy.

I raise an eyebrow but say nothing as I take two mugs from the cupboard and place them beside the machine, studying him from the corner of my eye as I move.

This isn’t the cocky, doesn’t-want-me-around vibe I’ve felt from him before.

This is sullen and brooding, and the journalist in me wants to know what the hell happened between two and eight this morning to cause the shift.

A beat passes in the silence then Jake runs a hand through his thick dark hair. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

“And what exactly are you taking out on me?” I ask, pouring the coffee into the two mugs and sliding one across the counter toward him. I cup mine in my hands, warming my frozen fingers.

He taps the screen of his phone, turning it for me to read.

It’s from a Denver gossip site and the headline in bold red letters reads: JAKE’S WILD NIGHT OUT.

Beneath it is the selfie of him and the redhead taken as we were leaving.

His eyes are half closed because he wasn’t expecting the photo.

It’s not his best shot. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was drunk, but he had one light beer before moving to soda for the rest of the night.

Beside it are two more photos, both grainy and taken from a distance. The first is Jake carrying a round of beers and the third is him standing close to a woman at the bar, her back to the wall. It takes me a beat to realize it’s me in the photo.

“This is total bullshit,” I say, surprised by the flash of annoyance I feel on Jake’s behalf. “Those drinks weren’t even for you.”

“Does it matter?” He bites off the reply before slamming his phone onto the counter like it’s to blame for the story.

“I’ve already had a message from Coach Allen wanting my ass in his office first thing tomorrow.

This is our one bye weekend of the season.

The one week we don’t have a game. We were all told to rest. This is exactly the kind of story that’s going to ruin my career. ”

“Gordon was out too,” I say.

Jake scoffs. “Yeah, funny how there aren’t photos of him.” He grabs his phone. “You’re right, this is bullshit. I’ve been letting people say what they want and letting this rep grow, but I’ve had enough. I’m gonna tell the fans how fucking wrong this is.”

“Maybe you should take a minute first,” I say carefully.

He ignores me and starts to tap the screen, fingers moving with fury and precision, and even though it’s not my business or place to intervene, and even though I don’t care what Jake does, I can’t stop myself from snatching the phone from his hands.

“Hey.” Jake scowls but I stand my ground. I’m doing this one for Mama , I tell myself. And to prove to Jake I can have his back so he’ll let me in.

“Maybe posting something is a good idea,” I say. “Or maybe it’s not. Either way, waiting an hour until you’ve calmed down seems like the safest option.”

“Are you seriously telling me what to do now?” he asks, but the edge has left his voice and his eyes are no longer murderous.

I shrug, realizing what Jake needs in this moment is a distraction. “Did you know my dad is a two-time Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist?”

Jake raises his brows at my change of direction but shakes his head, so I carry on.

“He’s spent his career covering every hard-hitting topic you can imagine from wars in the Middle East to election fraud. He’s the most impressive person you’ll ever meet. He’s always thinking of the next story and where it will take him.

“Can you imagine following in those footsteps? It might not be a stadium full of fans and millions watching on TV, but believe me, I understand the weight of expectation. Ever since high school, people have read my work with an insane level of scrutiny, wanting to know if I’m as good as my dad. So I get it.”

He shakes his head again, jaw tightening. “It’s not the same, Cassidy. I’ve never cared what people think or say about me, but now this kind of made-up bull is going to ruin my career.”

“Can’t you play football for another team?” I ask, remembering what Mama said about players with far worse reputations than Jake playing in the NFL.

He shoots me a look like I’ve slapped him. “If I don’t do something about my reputation, then come the end of the season, I’m gone. They’ll sell me or trade me, and yeah I’ll still be playing football but it won’t be the same. Stormhawks are my team.”

I drink my coffee, allowing the heat to slip down my throat and warm my body.

“What did you do?” he asks then.

“About what?”

“About everyone comparing you to your dad?” Jake’s tone somehow manages to seem both interested and annoyed.

“To start with, I freaked out. I didn’t exactly have a lot of confidence after high school,” I say, fighting to keep the bitter edge from my voice.

Because the reason for how much I struggled with my self-belief and making sound decisions after sophomore year and into college and even now is leaning against the counter beside me, drinking a cup of coffee, and he has no idea how much his thoughtless actions affected me.

” I take a breath. “By the time I hit my second year of college, I was second-guessing every word and hit a massive block. I was so close to flunking out. So I faked it. I acted like I was the best journalist on that course even if I felt like the worst. It didn’t make me popular but after a while it didn’t feel like pretend anymore. I graduated top of my class.”

“Wouldn’t it have been easier to stop caring what people think of you?”

I huff a laugh like what he’s suggested is easy. “That’s not me.”

“Yeah, well, it suits me just fine,” he fires back.

“If you didn’t care what people think, you wouldn’t be all kinds of grumpy about this story right now,” I say, waving his phone at him.

He sighs but doesn’t argue. He rubs a hand over his face and when he looks at me again the anger burning in his eyes has fizzled.

I find myself wondering how the hell he looks so good when he’s just gotten out of bed.

Suddenly I remember I’ve spent the last hour running and I’m a windswept mess in desperate need of a shower.

“You can have this back in an hour, Sullivan.” I back away to the door, tucking his phone in the pocket of my leggings.

I step out the room and swear I can feel the heat of Jake’s eyes follow me down the hall.

I shiver—cold from my run, I think. What am I doing?

Helping Jake. Telling him about myself. My job might be to knock down Jake’s walls, but I need to keep mine firmly up.

I’m the journalist and he’s my assignment.