Page 8 of Her Steamy Cowboy

“Please.” She takes a long sip. “Like I could sleep through your old man country music.”

“First of all, George Strait is a legend.” I pull out onto the empty street. “Second of all, this is your playlist, princess.”

Lindsay yawns. “Glad to know I’ve at least had some influence on you.”

There are shadows under her eyes that suggest she didn’t sleep well, and I fight the urge to brush my thumb across them, to ask what’s keeping her up at night.

“So,” I say instead, merging onto the highway. “These signs better be worth freezing our butts off at five AM.”

“They are.” Her whole face lights up, and damn if it doesn’t make my heart stumble in my chest.

She launches into the history of each sign, and I find myself smiling despite everything.

This is what I fell for first—her passion for everything she does, whether it’s modernizing our marketing or preserving the ranch’s history. She talks with her hands when she gets excited, nearly spilling her coffee twice, and I have to resist the urge to catch her gesturing fingers in mine.

“—and Mr. Henderson said his grandfather painted them himself, can you believe it?” She pauses, catching her breath, and I realize I’ve been staring at her instead of the road. At the way her eyes sparkle when she’s excited, at the dimple that appears in her right cheek when she really smiles. “What?”

“Nothing.” I force my eyes forward, reminding myself of all the reasons why I need to stop looking at her like that. “Just wondering how someone can be this energetic before sunrise.”

She huffs, pulling the blanket up to her chin. “Says the man who gets up at four AM to check the cattle.”

“That’s different. That’s work.”

“And this isn’t?”

“This,” I say, gesturing between us, “is you dragging me on a ten-hour road trip because you fell in love with some rusty metal.”

“They’re not rusty, they’re vintage.” But she’s smiling, and for a moment it feels like normal. Like we’re just Jace and Lindsay, best friends who bicker and laugh and definitely don’t think about each other in the middle of the night when the world gets too quiet.

Then her phone buzzes, and the smile falls from her face as she reads the message. That same shadow I’ve been seeing lately passes over her features, and she turns to look out the window.

“Everything okay?” I hate how careful my voice sounds, how much I’m trying to hide the jealousy that burns in my throat.

“Yeah,” she says too quickly. “Everything’s fine.”

It’s a lie.

I know it’s a lie because I know all her tells—the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, how she suddenly finds the passing scenery fascinating. We’ve been friends long enough that I can read her like one of those romance novels she thinks I don’t know she keeps hidden in her desk drawer. But lately, she’s become a chapter I can’t quite understand.

The sun is starting to peek over the horizon, but it’s a losing battle against the dark clouds rolling in from the west. The first few snowflakes are starting to fall, dancing in the headlights like tiny stars.

My weather app’s been lighting up with storm warnings all morning, but Lindsay was adamant about getting these signs today. When she sets her mind to something, there’s no talking her out of it—it’s one of the things I love most about her, even when it drives me crazy.

Her phone buzzes again, and this time she makes an impressed little sound in the back of her throat.

“What is it?” I ask, trying to keep my tone casual.

“Oh, it’s just Rachel.” Lindsay turns the phone to show me a photo of some sleek-looking bookshelves. “She’s officially starting her interior design business now that she’s done with the dating apps.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Uh oh. What happened?”

“Remember that guy she was seeing? The one who seemed promising?” Lindsay shakes her head, still looking at her phone. “Apparently he ghosted her after she showed up to dinner wearing a dress covered in Shakespeare quotes.”

I snort despite myself. “Seriously? That’s what scared him off?”

“Right? I told her it’s his loss.” Lindsay’s voice gets that protective edge it always does when she talks about her friends. “She deserves someone who appreciates her weird.”

“Everyone’s got their own brand of weird,” I say, thinking about how Rachel’s literary enthusiasm matches Lindsay’s passion for ranch history. “Some people just haven’t figured out how to embrace it yet.”

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