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Savannah leans into me, in no rush at all to get up and pull herself together after the spectacular fuck we just had. Her head is sideways on my shoulder, her warm breath ticklin' my neck.

"So…" she hums. "You gonna tell me why it is you came home looking like a Cash Ashby knockoff?"

My chuckle comes out involuntarily. "Cash Ashby knockoff. Darlin’, you have no fuckin' idea how accurate that is."

She sits up, smilin'. "Do not tell me." Her eyes squint down. "What are you sayin'?"

"Well, I won't tell no one when Cash Ashby decides to hit on me, but there will be signs."

Her laugh is immediate. "He did this? My brother gave you… a glow-up?"

"As ridiculous as that sounds, yes. We made a trip to Miles City this morning."

She slaps my chest. "You did not get these clothes from Harmon & Sons. Let me see that collar!" Then she slides her fingertips behind my neck, peering at the little cotton tag that most surely does say 'Harmon & Sons' on it. "My God. It's true. Did the house barber do your hair and beard?"

"Yep. I got the full treatment." Then I reach into my jacket pocket, pull out the thick envelope, and hold it up for her. "I think I'm on the payroll now, Princess. This is my Ashby ranch HR welcome packet. It came with seven thousand dollars, three credit cards, a fuel card, and a set of keys. I'm pretty sure your brother wants to fuck me."

She laughs so hard and loud, her hand flies up to her face to stifle it.

"He gave me a truck, Savannah."

"Shut up."

"I swear to God." I fish out the keys and dangle 'em in front of her face. "An old squarebody. Patina clear coat paint job and everything. It's like he fed my profile into an AI and asked it how to make me come."

Her eyes are so bright, her laugh so sweet, it almost pains me to look at her. Even as just-fucked wrecked as she is right now, she looks more like an angel in this moment than she did when she was twelve, wearin' that white dress and singin' in the silo.

"It's real then, isn't it?” she asks.

"What's that, darlin'?"

"Us. This. Cash has blessed us."

"Well, he spent about thirty grand on me this mornin'. In fact…" I decide to tell her exactly what he said. "He told me that eventually he just needs to come to terms with the idea that his sister knows how to pick a good one and he might as well make me respectable."

She blows out a long, slow breath. "He used that word? Respectable?"

"He sure did."

"Well, that's…"

"The trust language. Yeah, I know."

She thinks about this for a moment, but doesn't comment.

"Anyway." I slap her ass. "You know what else comes in the Ashby ranch welcome packet?”

"What?"

"A jet."

"What? We still have a jet?"

"My God, Savannah. I hope that is a joke."

"It is,” she lies. Then she smiles. "I haven't been on that jet in years. Not since…"

She doesn't finish. But we both know. "Not since Eleanor died."