Page 6 of Rescued By My Small Town Billionaire

Before I can process what that means, the kitchen door swings open, and a deep voice fills the room.

“Where’d you run off to—”

I look up, and my breath catches. He stands in the doorway, his tall frame silhouetted against the morning light. He’s dressed casually, but the crisp shirt and well-fitted jeans scream wealth and confidence in a way that makes my head spin.

For a moment, we just stare at each other, equally stunned.

“You,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.

His brow furrows, his gaze flicking between me and the kitten. “Becky?”

The realization hits us at the same time. The gruff firefighter from last night is the same man standing in front of me now—Lulu’s brother, the wealthy rancher I’ve heard so much about.

Mike’s eyes narrow slightly, and for a moment, the room feels charged with an energy I can’t quite place. He steps forward, his gaze fixed on me as though trying to piece together how I’ve ended up sitting at his kitchen table, clutching his kitten.

“Wait a second,” he says slowly, his deep voice rumbling. “You’re the florist?”

“And you’re...” I trail off, motioning toward him. “You’re Lulu’s older brother?”

His jaw tightens, and he crosses his arms, his broad shoulders making the kitchen feel smaller. “Yeah. And you’re Becky, one of Lulu’s little friends.”

“Um... okay.” I nod, still holding B. close to my chest. The kitten purrs softly, oblivious to the tension swirling in the air.

“You’re the one who brought B. here?” I ask, my voice barely steady.

Mike nods, his expression softening just a fraction. “Found her at the firehouse. Mrs. Hargrove dropped her off, said she found her wandering in her yard.”

Lulu grins. “Well, this is convenient. You two are already getting along. Makes my idea even better.”

“What idea?” Mike asks warily.

Lulu beams. “I told Becky you should pretend to be her boyfriend to keep her ex from bothering her.”

Mike blinks, his expression unreadable.

But the way his eyes linger on me for a beat too long tells me the idea has already taken root.

“Absolutely not,” we both say in unison.

Chapter four

Mike

The ranch hands are already hard at work, and the familiar sounds of hooves on dirt and the steady hum of machinery settle something inside me.

The smell of freshly cut hay hangs in the crisp morning air as I head out to the stables.

It’s a testament to the hard work and care we’ve put into it. This land, this routine—it’s my anchor.

The Thorn stables are as impressive as they are practical, built with sturdy timber and a high-pitched roof to allow for natural ventilation. Massive wooden sliding doors stand open during the day, letting in fresh air and sunlight. It’s a place that feels alive, where every sound—the soft neighs of the horses, the creak of saddle leather, the rhythmic clatter of hooves on dirt—tells a story of dedication and respect for the animals.

For me, the Thorn Ranch isn’t just land—it’s legacy, responsibility, and home.

“Morning, boss,” Pete, the ranch manager, greets me as I approach. He’s leaning against the fence, clipboard in hand, his cowboy hat tilted to block the early sunlight.

“Morning,” I reply, scanning the expansive pasture. The cattle look good, grazing lazily under the watchful eyes of our new herding dog. “How’s it looking today?”

Beyond the stables, the ranch opens into rolling fields, where grassy meadows are dotted with wildflowers in the spring. A small creek winds through the back of the property, its crystal-clear waters providing a perfect place for horses to cool off in the summer.

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