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My stomach drops.
No. Nope. Absolutely not. Not yet.
I check my phone again, begging for my brother to have called or texted.
Still nothing.
Cool. Fantastic. Love this for me.
I shove my feet into boots and head downstairs, because chores don’t stop just because my body suddenly decided to act possessed.
The ranch is already moving when I step outside.
Late afternoon light stretches long over everything. Clint’s near the trailer, sleeves rolled up while River, his big dapple gray quarter horse, nudges his shoulder impatiently. Tripp’s laughing about something near the fence line, dark hair messy from the wind, and Briggs is hauling feed bags.
Nobody pauses when they see me, or asks what I’ve been doing.
And weirdly, that matters to me, because sometime between the rodeo and bar fight, things shifted. Not worse, just… like I stopped being someone visiting and started becoming someone expected.
I’m dragging feed toward the stalls when I catch Clint watching me from the gate.
“You gonna stand there all day,” I ask, picking up a bucket of water and shifting it against my hip, “or are you helping?”
His mouth twitches. “Wanted to see if you’d spill it first.”
I narrow my eyes. “Rude.”
“You’re getting better,” he says, reaching for the latch.
“That almost sounded nice.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
I hate how much that tiny bit of approval has my belly fluttering and slick pooling in my panties.
Which is ridiculous, because this should still feel temporary.
I know that…I do.
Instead, I’m wrestling with a stubborn feed bag while everyone moves through evening chores like I didn’t just lose half the day to a nap I swear was only supposed to be twenty minutes.
“You gonna eat when we’re done,” Briggs asks, leaning against the fence, “or just survive on spite?”
I straighten slowly, brushing hair out of my face before narrowing my eyes at him. “Spite’s calorie dense.”
“Pretty sure that’s not how that works.”
“You don’t know my body.”
His gaze flicks over me once, quick enough I almost miss it before he reaches down and takes the feed bag from my hands.
“You’re cranky when you don’t eat.”
“That’s offensive.”
“That’s accurate.”
I hate that the laugh almost comes out.
