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“Is this some kind of joke?” I ask, chuckling to myself as I look between one very upset Regan and a suspiciously smug Mrs. Mayberry.

“Hi Hayes. It’s so nice to see you again,” Mrs. Mayberry steps forward, and because I’m a gentleman, and I’ve enjoyed my time getting to know the older woman this past week, I offer her a hug despite feeling like I’ve been set up.

When I met with her last week, which was only a week after moving to Whitewood Creek, she had been pleasant, loveable, like the grandma I never had, showing me around the property she was selling and pointing out all the opportunities for me to expand on the stables that her late husband built.

I fell in love with the place on the spot.

It’s everything I’ve been searching for to settle since I moved to North Carolina seven years ago.

A huge barn in the back, underused but full of potential, with a fenced area that needs a little TLC but will be perfect for the horses I plan to buy.

There’s also another, larger building on the property that I can use for boarding.

Beyond that, the existing structures on the property are a blessing.

I won’t have to deal with the hassle of building new ones.

Two, small cottages near the front could be used for guests who want to take private riding lessons.

Not that I’m sure I want to do that yet, but I’m hoping my brother and sister, who still live in South Carolina on the family ranch, might visit now and then, and there’s a massive pond back at the main house that looks like it’ll be good for fishing in the spring and summer.

Something I used to do with my siblings.

I grew up on a ranch, Walker Moon Ranch , in the swampy heart of South Carolina.

A sprawling place, full of horses, and the one thing that offered me escape from my father’s angry fists.

He took his frustrations out on us, mostly me and my brother, shielding our sister from the worst of it. It was far from a happy home life.

When he finally disappeared twenty years ago after he left on another bender, around the same time I left for the rodeo to make bull riding my professional career, it was like a collective sigh of relief from all of us.

My brother and sister have been managing the ranch since with some help from our uncle, and while I have no interest in going back, I’m glad they’re doing it.

The land will always hold fond memories for me because it’s where I fell in love with animals and first learned how to ride.

So yeah, I’ve got dreams and plans for Mayberry Manor, and this place was everything I wanted. My retirement, if you will, where I’ll come to rest after long shifts at the community hospital in Whitewood Creek and unwind while staring at the mountains.

I made an offer above asking, and when it seemed like I had her, Mrs. Mayberry smiled warmly, patted my hand like I was a child despite being in my forties, and then told me there was just one, tiny condition she needed to discuss with me first: I had to be married for her to accept my offer.

She glanced at my bare ring finger and asked if I had a fiancé hidden away somewhere. No, of course I don’t. Because a wife… well, that requires commitment, vulnerability, and arguments, and mistakes leading to me ultimately fucking the whole thing up and hurting someone who doesn’t deserve it.

I’ve already started over once. I’m not looking to do it again.

The idea of becoming a husband feels less like a dream and more like another job, one I’m not sure I’d be any good at.

I know how my dad was. And honestly? I don’t see myself turning out much different.

His temper, his rage, it runs in my blood, hot and reckless, like the summer heat in North Carolina.

I’ve spent years keeping that side of me buried.

And so far, I’ve been lucky. He hasn’t surfaced. Yet.

But that’s probably because I’ve never given him the chance. I don’t date seriously. I don’t let women get close enough to risk it. Because if I don’t let anyone in, I can’t hurt them. Simple as that.

So, I laughed Mrs. Mayberry’s suggestion off, but she said she was serious and told me to come back soon to talk over my offer. And here I am. Hoping maybe, just maybe, she has another idea that doesn’t include me getting married to my non-existent fiancé and has changed her mind.

Now I’m starting to think she doesn’t have a different idea at all.

“So, what brings you here today?” Mrs. Mayberry asks, her tone light but knowing.

My eyes narrow at her suspiciously. “You told me to come back so we could talk more about my offer. I’m willing to increase it another fifty thousand.”

Next to me, Regan lets out a gasp—a dramatic, soap-opera-worthy sound that has me biting back a smirk.

“You said that Mrs. Mayberry?” she asks, her voice tinged with disbelief and something close to betrayal. Her pretty features flicker with hurt for a moment before she schools them, and I catch myself wondering why that bothers me so much.

Here’s the thing: I don’t have any hard feelings toward Regan.

Actually, I don’t have any feelings towards her at all.

We had a fun, wild night together years ago that didn’t mean anything.

Sure, it was one that had me thinking I wouldn’t mind going for round two.

But if this were any other property, maybe I’d back off seeing how important it is to her.

But it’s not.

This house—its trim, colors, and structure—feels like home in a way nothing else in Whitewood Creek does.

It reminds me of South Carolina, the land I grew up around, with its charm and history without all the pain that lingers there.

And beyond that, it’s perfect for what I need.

It matches the dreams I’ve been building in my head for years.

You don’t just walk away from perfection.

You fight for it. Especially not with the savings I’ve got from years of riding and endorsements, just waiting to be spent on my next chapter.

Mrs. Mayberry smiles, but there’s a mischievous glint in her eye that sets me on edge.

“I did tell you that, Hayes, but only so you two could meet. And so that I could tell you both what I’ve already said before so that you stop blowing up my phone asking me to reconsider.

I can’t sell the property to either of you because you’re not married. ”

Regan’s head snaps toward her, a spark of frustration lighting up her blue eyes. “But Mrs. Mayberry—”

Mrs. Mayberry lifts her hand, silencing Regan instantly. It’s a gesture that’s soft, maternal even, and I realize Regan wasn’t exaggerating when she said Mrs. Mayberry is like a mother to her. Regan bows her head in obedience as she continues, her tone gentle and patient.

“I can’t sell the property to either of you unless one of you is married. That’s just the way it is. And to be fair, I do have a couple coming in from Charlotte next week to see the place. They’re very interested in the business and the home. They might be the perfect fit.”

Regan’s lips part, ready to argue again, but she clamps them shut, clearly knowing better.

I take the moment of silence to glance at her again, really take her in.

Her auburn hair is longer than it was seven years ago.

She’s grown into herself, all soft curves and easy confidence, though I can’t help but notice the sadness lingering in her bright blue eyes at this news.

She’s barefoot, the hem of her light, white summer dress swaying as she shifts on the grass antsy.

She puffs her lips out in a frustrated sigh, and I catch the slight shine of pink on them.

It’s such a casual thing, but it catches me off guard how pretty she is.

She looks at home here, like she belongs on this property.

But it’s too bad. Because I’m going to be the one to buy it. Not the couple coming from Charlotte or her. Me.

Still, my mind wanders as I gaze at her. Questions bubble up, ones that I shouldn’t care about like is she happy these days?

Clearly, she isn’t married because Mrs. Mayberry isn’t letting her purchase the home.

Does she have the babies she once said she wanted?

Why is she so determined to buy this property? This is a lot of land for a single woman to manage on her own.

Why is she still living at her family’s house next door?

I shouldn’t care, but I do. I never sleep with a woman more than once—except my ex, who managed to mess me up enough that I had to leave Charlotte just to breathe again. Regan’s making me want to break that rule, though. Just for one night.

Mrs. Mayberry’s voice cuts through my thoughts, firm but kind.

“I’m telling you both this now so that you have time to figure it out.

One more week. That’s all I can give you.

After that, I’ll likely be selling to the couple from Charlotte.

I need to move on. This place is too much for me.

The barn, the fences, the house—it’s all falling apart, and I can’t keep calling on favors from your brothers, Colt and Cash, to help mow and upkeep, Regan.

I need someone young who can care for this property the way it deserves.

The way Mr. Mayberry would have wanted it. ”

She steps back, crossing her arms, and the weight of her words settles heavily between me and Regan. One week. That’s not much time to figure anything out.

Regan nods, while I let out a loud, frustrated sigh.

I can’t see how this is going to work, and the thought of losing the place over a ridiculous clause is like a punch to the gut because I have nowhere else to go.

I’m currently sleeping at the motel next to the hospital in town and well, it lives up to its name.

The Old Creek Motel. Every morning, I wake up feeling old, with a crick in my neck and back from the springs in the mattress that dig into me all night.