Page 44 of The Rancher Married the Wrong Sister (Billionaires of Evergreen, Texas #13)

“YOU’RE NEW.”

I look up from the worn paperback I’m reading to Mrs. Kenner, startled by the unfamiliar male voice. A man about my age stands in the doorway of Bethel Manor’s activities room, holding a guitar case and wearing scrubs with little cartoon cats on them.

“Oh, I—yes.” I set the book aside carefully, marking our place in the romance novel Mrs. Kenner insisted I read aloud despite my blushing protests about the shirtless cowboy on the cover. “I’m Wednesday. I just started volunteering here last week.”

“Noel.” He grins, and it’s the kind of easy, uncomplicated smile I haven’t seen directed at me in forever. “I’m the music therapist. Come by twice a week to torture these poor souls with my questionable guitar skills.”

Mrs. Kenner snorts from her wheelchair. “Don’t let him fool you, dear. He’s got a voice like an angel. Makes all us old biddies swoon.”

“Mrs. K, you flatter me.” Noel’s eyes crinkle with genuine warmth as he looks between us. “What are you reading to our resident romance expert?”

“The Cowboy’s Forbidden Kiss,” I admit, my cheeks heating. “Mrs. Kenner has very specific taste in literature.”

“The spicier the better,” Mrs. Kenner declares proudly. “Life’s too short for boring books.”

Noel laughs, a rich, comfortable sound that makes my shoulders relax for the first time in days. When was the last time someone laughed around me like that? Not at me, but because they actually enjoyed my company?

“Well, I hate to interrupt story time, but I promised Mr. Davidson I’d teach him ‘Sweet Caroline’ today.” He hefts his guitar case. “Maybe next time I can request a dramatic reading?”

“Only if you want to see Wednesday turn the color of a tomato,” Mrs. Kenner teases. “Poor thing blushes at everything.”

I do indeed turn tomato-colored, but Noel just smiles kindly. “Nothing wrong with a little modesty. It’s refreshing, actually.”

The simple compliment catches me off guard. Not because it’s flirtatious—it isn’t—but because it’s the first time in weeks someone has looked at me like I’m a person worth knowing rather than a problem to be solved.

“Thank you,” I manage. “That’s really nice of you to say.”

“Just honest.” He glances at his watch. “I better get going, but it was great meeting you, Wednesday. Hope to see you around.”

After he leaves, Mrs. Kenner gives me a knowing look. “Sweet boy, that Noel. Divorced, you know. No children. Works here because he genuinely cares about people, not because he has to.”

“Mrs. Kenner—”

“I’m just saying, dear. A girl could do worse.”

If only she knew I’m already married to a man who sees me as a business transaction. A man who—

“Wednesday?”

I spin around so fast I nearly knock over Mrs. Kenner’s water cup.

Gavine stands in the doorway, taking up the entire frame with his imposing presence.

He’s wearing dark jeans and a black button-down that makes his gray eyes look almost silver, and seeing him in this cheerful, pastel-decorated room is like watching a panther stroll into a flower shop.

“Gavine.” My voice comes out smaller than I’d like. “What are you doing here?”

His gaze flicks from me to Mrs. Kenner, then toward the direction Noel disappeared. His expression turns cold and sharp. “I came to collect my wife.”

The way he says ‘my wife’ makes Mrs. Kenner’s eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. I want to disappear into the floor.

“I didn’t know you were married, dear!” Mrs. Kenner looks between us with undisguised curiosity. “And to such a handsome man. Aren’t you lucky?”

If our marriage were real, sure.

But since it’s not...

“We should go,” I say quickly, standing to gather my purse. “I’ll see you Thursday, Mrs. Kenner. We’ll finish chapter twelve.”

“The good parts are in chapter thirteen,” she calls after us with a wicked grin.

Gavine doesn’t speak until we’re in the parking lot, but I can feel tension rolling off him in waves, and he only breaks his silence when we make it to his truck.

“How long have you been coming here?”

“A week.” I fidget with my purse strap. “I saw the sign asking for volunteers when we drove through town last Monday. I thought it would be nice to help.”

He’s quiet for so long I start to think the conversation is over. Then—

“And the man with the guitar?”

There’s an edge to his tone that makes me look up sharply. His jaw is tight, his hands clenched at his sides. He looks angry. But why would he be angry about Noel?

Unless...

No.

That’s impossible.

Gavine couldn’t be jealous.

He’s made it crystal clear that I’m nothing more than a temporary inconvenience.

“Noel is the music therapist,” I explain cautiously. “We just met today.”

“He seemed friendly.”

The words are neutral, but there’s steel underneath them that makes my pulse skip. “He was being polite. We were just talking about books.”

Gavine’s eyes narrow. “Books.”

“Romance novels, actually. Mrs. Kenner likes the steamier ones, and I was reading to her when—why are you looking at me like that?”

His gaze has gone dark and predatory in a way that makes my breath catch. For a moment, I think he might say something, but then his expression shuts down again.

“Get in the truck.”

THE DRIVE BACK TO THE ranch passes in uncomfortable silence. I sneak glances at Gavine’s profile, trying to understand what just happened. His hands grip the steering wheel with unnecessary force, and that muscle in his jaw keeps jumping like it did during our wedding ceremony.

When we finally reach the house, he doesn’t immediately get out. Instead, he sits there staring straight ahead, his breathing slightly uneven.

“Wednesday.”

“Yes?”

He turns to look at me, and the intensity in his gray eyes makes my mouth go dry. “You will not be returning to that place.”

“What?” The word bursts out of me before I can stop it. “But Mrs. Kenner is expecting me on Thursday, and I promised Mr. Davidson I’d help him write a letter to his grandson, and—”

“I said no.”

“I don’t understand,” I say softly, confusion making my voice small. “I’m just reading to the residents and helping with activities. I thought...I thought you’d be happy that I found something useful to do.”

“How long have you known him?”

“Known who?” I blink up at him. “Noel? I told you, we just met today.”

“And he immediately started making conversation with you.”

I can hear something strange in his voice, but I can’t quite identify what it is. “He was being friendly. The staff here is very welcoming to volunteers.”

Gavine’s jaw ticks. “I’m sure they are.”

“I don’t understand why you’re upset,” I whisper, my eyes starting to sting with tears I refuse to let fall. “Am I not allowed to help people? Am I not supposed to talk to anyone?”

He stares at me for a long moment, and I see his expression shift slightly. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter but no less controlled. “You can continue volunteering. But I want to know your schedule.”

Relief floods through me so suddenly my knees almost buckle. “Thank you. I usually go Tuesdays and Thursdays from two to four.”

He nods curtly. “I’ll have Edgar drive you from now on.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary—”

“It wasn’t a request.”

I bite my lip and nod. There’s no point arguing when he uses that tone. At least he’s not forbidding me from going at all.

But as I follow him up the front steps, I can’t shake the feeling that something just shifted between us. And I’m not sure if that terrifies me or thrills me more.

DINNER THAT NIGHT IS different.

For the past week and a half, I’ve eaten alone in the kitchen while Gavine takes his meals in the formal dining room.

We share breakfast each morning in uncomfortable silence, but after that, he disappears into his office or leaves the ranch entirely.

I never know where he goes or what he does, and I don’t think I have the right to ask.

Tonight, when I’m halfway through my leftover casserole at the kitchen island, Clarice appears in the doorway.

“Mrs. Launcelot? Your husband would like you to join him for dinner.”

I blink at her in confusion. “Join him?”

“In the dining room, ma’am. He’s waiting.”

My heart does something funny in my chest, but I follow Clarice through the house on unsteady legs. Gavine sits at the head of the massive mahogany table, still wearing his white dress shirt from whatever business he conducted today, though he’s rolled the sleeves up to reveal his forearms.

“Sit,” he says without looking up from cutting his steak.

I take the chair to his right (the only one with a place setting) and stare down at the elaborate meal the cook prepared. Beef tenderloin with some kind of wine sauce, roasted asparagus, potatoes that probably have a French name I can’t pronounce.

We eat in silence, and it’s a struggle not to keep stealing glances at him every so often. I know I should be used to marrying someone like him. But I’m not. I don’t know if I’ll ever be.

When I reach for my water glass, I catch him watching the movement. When I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, his gaze follows that too.

My fork trembles slightly in my grip.

“The beef is delicious,” I manage.

He nods. “Tell me about your parents.”

The stiff formality of the question catches me off guard, but my heart does a little skip anyway.

I know this doesn’t have to mean anything. It can just be Gavine making small talk. But even so, hope blossoms in my heart as I tell him about my parents. He doesn’t have to show interest, but he has.

Am I not really supposed to read anything that?

“And your sister?”

My heart sinks a little, but I quickly reprimand myself for feeling this way. To pretend that Jessica doesn’t exist is not just childish but silly, too. They have a history, and I...I have to live with that, whatever it may mean moving forward.

“She’s everything I’m not, in a good way.”

“But you clearly don’t mind.”

“I’m not...outgoing like her.” And deep inside my heart, I’m grateful to God that He didn’t give me a heart that yearned for the same things my older sister enjoyed.

How tortuous life would be if that were the case, to hate living in Jessica’s shadow but also knowing there’s no way I can be prettier or more charming or more glamorous than her.

“So what do you enjoy...aside from quilting and reading?”

You.

The word comes out of nowhere, and I almost groan.

Seriously, Wednesday?

“You’ve thought of something,” Gavine observes.

I quickly shake my head. “It’s nothing. I’m just...ordinary.”

And that’s always been true.

I am ordinary. I was born one. And to stay comfortably ordinary, I must stop thinking about my husband in ways that are the opposite of ordinary.

We finish the meal in that same strange silence. When he sets down his fork, I automatically stand to clear the dishes, grateful for something to do with my nervous energy.

I reach for his plate at the same moment he shifts forward, and that’s when I feel it.

The slightest contact as our fingers brush, just the rough calluses of his fingertips grazing my knuckles, and oh...

His touch...

It’s more than enough for shockwaves of pleasure to blaze through my body, and I can’t seem to make myself pull away.

His fingers linger against mine for a heartbeat longer.

And then it’s gone, with Gavine suddenly jerking his hand back like I’ve burned him.

I stand there frozen, staring down at my tingling knuckles while my heart pounds against my ribs.

For two weeks, he’s been stiffly careful not to touch me.

Sometimes to the point where I felt like I had some kind of contagious disease.

He’d hand me things without letting our fingers meet, step aside if I got too close, maintain that invisible wall between us at all times.

But this time...

Don ’ t go there, I warn myself.

This was just a freak accident. Nothing’s changed. The attraction in this marriage is still completely one-sided.