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Why did he have these? When did he get them? And what in this bizarre, cowboy-scented universe did it mean?

The jealousy evaporated, replaced by a quick, disorienting swoop in my stomach that I refused to examine without at least two cups of coffee in my system.

I stepped back from the closet, my skin buzzing like someone had plugged me into a low-grade electric fence.

“What the hell, Sterling…” I whispered again.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the clothes, though. All those soft sweaters and fitted jeans. They were just hanging there.

I grabbed the green shirt and a pair of dark jeans that looked like they’d hug in all the right places. I hesitated for exactly one second before muttering, “Screw it,” and snatched a soft cream sweater off its hanger, too, because I was already in this deep.

Stepping out of the closet, I set everything on the bed like it was evidence in a very confusing crime scene. “This is just me getting what good I deserve for all the trouble I’ve been through,” I told the universe as I tugged on the jeans.

The shirt slid over my skin, soft and weightless, and the sweater followed, fitting better than anything I’d ever worn before. I caught my reflection in the mirror and blinked. I looked…good. Better than good, actually. I looked like someone who might actually survive whatever the hell Sterling Hayes thought he was doing.

I stared at my reflection for another second, trying to reconcile the woman in the mirror with the one who’d sobbed into Sterling’s chest a few hours ago. She didn’t look wrecked anymore. Not hollowed out or barely holding it together. The shadows were still there if you knew where to look, but they weren’t swallowing everything else whole.

She looked…steadier.

Like something inside her had finally settled back into place. Like she’d borrowed a piece of his impossible confidence and stitched it into her spine without meaning to—and it had held.

My shoulders eased a fraction as I watched, my chin lifting just slightly, the movement instinctive instead of forced. It wasn’t a full transformation. It wasn’t magic.

But it was something.

A flicker.

A spark I hadn’t seen in a long time.

“Okay,” I told my reflection. “You’re a mess, but at least you’re a hot mess.”

I stepped out of the room. Somewhere in this ridiculous mansion was a man who bought me clothes I hadn’t asked for and held me through nightmares I hadn’t meant to share.

And I needed to find him.

I headed toward the stairs, following the smell of food cooking.

The kitchen, which I found after two wrong turns because this place was truly massive, was a chef’s dream. The man standing in it shirtless, wearing only slouchy gray sweatpants that clung in all the right ways, was the real dream, though.

I stared in awe. His back muscles shifted under his skin as he fiddled with a fancy-looking coffee machine…and I immediately forgot how oxygen worked.

I’d thought I’d entered the room pretty soundlessly, but he seemed as if he had some kind of Sienna detector because he glanced over his shoulder almost the second I’d started drooling over him.

His gaze skimmed my face before dropping to my new clothes, warming in a way that had my knees considering retirement. “Morning, baby,” he said. “I thought those clothes would look good on you, but damn.”

The word baby slid over my skin so nicely that I almost missed the second part of his statement.

“Hi,” I croaked before righting myself. “So…you did buy these? For me?”

A lazy, satisfied smile unfurled across his lips, as if he enjoyed watching the truth dawn on me. “You’re staying here. You needed things. And I like the idea of you wearing clothes I bought for you.” His eyes dipped to the hem of my sweater, lingering there in a way that tightened everything low in my stomach. “Gets me thinking about the day you’ll start leaving them in my laundry.”

My breath caught. “That’s…presumptuous. Just like buying me clothes before I’d even come to stay.” I gave him a suspicious look. I didn’t think he’d been behind my room break-in, or I would have been running already, but I did think he’d had a plan.

“It was inevitable,” Sterling murmured, stepping closer, heat rolling off him like temptation made flesh. “A future problem we’ll enjoy solving.”

I opened my mouth to respond, something sharp already queued up, when a voice cut in. “Lord help me.”

I jerked like I’d heard a shot, my gaze flicking over to the massive stove where an older woman stood with a wooden spoon in one hand and a rolling pin tucked under her arm like a badge of office. She was watching us with narrowed eyes and the long-suffering patience of someone who had seen things and was unimpressed by all of them.