Page 74 of Lassoed Love

I turn to Bradley, beads of sweat clinging to my forehead.

“I got this, can you start bringing in some of those new stacks outside?” Bradley, as stoic as ever, just nods. Words aren’t his forte much—never have been.

People might think I’m bad at communicating, but they haven’t had the pleasure of getting to know Bradley. He makes me look like a chipper fuck on a good day. His silence is a language of its own, a quiet strength that I’ve come to appreciate more with each passing day. With a nod between us, Bradley heads toward the fresh bales stacked neatly outside the barn, and I get back to the task at hand, the steady rhythm of our work filling the air.

As Bradley moves with the precision of a man who measures every step, I can’t help but think he’s found his calling. God knows this shitty town needs better law enforcement. His calculated and observant nature, the quiet way he takes in his surroundings, it’s askill set that serves him well in his line of work. I can't imagine him doing anything else.I’m proud of that fucker.

I don’t tell him often, but maybe I should. There’s a strength in him, a quiet resolve, and it deserves acknowledgment. As Bradley and I work, the stack of hay growing steadily, he breaks the silence with a casual, “So, what’s going on with Isla?”

I pause, the rake stilled in my hands. Bradley’s gaze is fixed on me, a silent demand for answers. I shrug, attempting nonchalance. “Just friends, mate.”

He narrows his eyes, a sceptical look that cuts through the casual facade. It’s a look I know too well—Bradley isn’t convinced, and deep down, I understand why. I haven’t exactly been subtle about my—-my what? Attraction? Feelings? I’m not even sure. Is it like this? Or something more? The uncertainty twists in my gut, and I find myself unable to look Bradley in the eye.

My mind drifts to Isla, thoughts of her mingling with the rhythmic sounds of the barn work. Images from Saturday night play like a vivid film in my mind. The touch of her hands, the warmth of her skin, her moans, her beautiful face when she came all over my face—they create a lingering sensation.

“Come on, Xav,” Bradley prods, his voice low but insistent. ‘I’ve seen the way you look at her. Don’t bullshit me.”

I run a hand through my hair, a nervous habit. “I don’t know, Brad. It’s complicated. We’re just figuring things out.”

Bradley’s gaze shifts towards the front of the barn where our dad is stationed, and he asks, “Does he know? You know how he feels abouther father... although I don’t know why he hasn’t gotten over it.” I shake my head, still wrestling with the uncertainty swirling within me.

“No. I’ll tell him when I’m sure of what this is between us, and you know what he’s like. Old man has been holding grudges since he came out of the womb.”

Bradley laughs, a sound that breaks the seriousness of our conversation. “Just… hope you know what you’re doing. I like seeing you happy. I don’t wanna see you fuck up something potentially good, you know?”

His genuine concern warms my heart, and I tease, placing a hand over my chest dramatically, “Shit, my heart, it hurts. Bradley just told me he loves me.”

He retaliates by picking up a hay bale and launching it at me, hitting my shoulder and knocking me off balance.

“Such a dick,” he says, a smile playing on his face. Despite his gruff exterior, Bradley’s protective side always manages to shine through.

After wrapping up our work in the barn, Dad retreated inside, and Mum’s call informed us that lunch was ready. Though the prospect of a meal awaited, my appetite seemed to have abandoned me. Lost in my thoughts, I couldn’t shake the wondering of what Isla might be doing right now.

Fuck, I’m pathetic. My once quiet mind, a sanctuary from the chaos around me, is now filled with thoughts and images of her.I’m fucked.

Unable to resist the pull, I cave and pull out my phone. I decide totext her, my mind momentarily drifting back to the other day when she teased me with acronyms, having the audacity to call me ‘old.’ As if I don’t know what ‘Nm’ means—I wasn’t born yesterday. I just enjoyed riling her up. I could imagine her face and reactions vividly when I had said that.

She responds after a few moments.

A chuckle escapes me at her witty response.

An idea springs into my mind, and without overthinking, I type.

It’s not a typical move for me; I don’t cook often, not because I can’t, but because it’s just not mything. I fucking love to cook—when I get the chance to, of course. Yet, now, some part of me wants to do it for her—wine and dine her, do all that sappy shit. Shedeservesit.

I sense her hesitation. The three little dots dance on the screen and disappear twice, before a message finally pops up.

Istand outside Isla’s apartment door, plastic bags filled with groceries in hand. Giving a gentle knock, I wait patiently. As she opens the door, the scent of her apartment engulfs me instantly—a comforting mix of vanilla and a hint of lavender. She stands there, clad in simple yoga pants, a loose t-shirt, her hair pulled back into a messy bun. Even in this casual state, she takes my breath away. Isla’s natural beauty shines through effortlessly, and she doesn’t need makeup to enhance it.

As I enter her small apartment, my eyes wander, taking in the cosy space. The soft glow of warm-toned lights casts a comforting ambiance. A few framed pictures on the wall capture moments of her life, and a bookshelf filled with novels reflects her love for reading. The simplicity of her space resonates with me, offering aglimpse into her world.

Isla watches me intently as I take in the details of her apartment. After a moment, she blurts out, “Sorry, it’s not that crash hot here. It’s a little small, but it’ll do for now.”

I turn to her with a reassuring smile, “Hey, it’s perfect. Size doesn’t matter when it feels like home.” I hope my words convey the sincerity behind them, letting her know that I appreciate the space she’s opened up to me.

Isla guides me around the kitchen, her gestures pointing out ingredients and utensils as I prepare us dinner—my favourite dish, chicken pasta bake. While I’m immersed in the cooking process, she sits at the kitchen island, gracefully sipping on a glass of wine. Then, without missing a beat, Isla rises from her seat and casually asks, “Mind if I prepare a salad?” I meet her gaze and give a nonchalant nod.

Despite the familiarity we’ve built, a nervous energy creeps in. I can’t quite place why—it’s not as if we haven’t been on a date or shared intimate moments. This feels different—domestic, normal, like we’ve been doing this for ages. I revel in the comfort of being around her, finding solace in the simple act of preparing dinner together.

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