Page 9 of Tame Me Daddy

"Just a small family operation. It was years ago," I said, keeping my voice steady. "Nothing like this."

"Warwick's one of the biggest in the county," Hank said with pride. "You'll learn plenty here."

The conversation flowed around me like water around a stone. They talked about a heifer that had given birth to twins the day before, about a section of fence that kept getting knocked down by something – "Bet it's that old bull from the Carson place," Diego insisted—and about someone named Ellie who'd left last month to get married.

"Lasted six months," Tyler said, shaking his head. "Bet she doesn't last six months in marriage either."

"That's cold," Maya threw a piece of bread at him. "Just because she turned you down—"

"She didn't turn me down," Tyler protested. "I never asked! Not properly."

Their easy banter continued as I picked at my stew. It was good – chunks of tender beef and vegetables in a rich broth – but anxiety squeezed my appetite into a tight ball. My fork pushed the food around my bowl as I tried to act normal.

Normal. The word echoed in my head. I'd spent my whole life trying to be normal, to hide the part of me that wanted to curl up with a stuffed animal and be taken care of. The part that made my family look at me with disgust when they found out. The part I'd promised myself would stay buried here at Warwick Ranch.

I felt it rising now, that familiar retreat into my little space. The urge to make myself small, to speak in a higher voice, to seek comfort and safety. My fingers tightened around my fork. No. Not here. Not now. I forced myself to take a bite of stew, to focus on the flavor, the texture, anything to ground myself in the present.

". . . don't you think, Cherry?"

Maya's question yanked me back to the conversation. I blinked, realizing everyone was looking at me.

"Sorry, what?"

"I said, don't you think it's better to start with the gentler horses when you're new? Tyler here thinks you should just jump on whatever's available."

"Oh." I cleared my throat. "I mean, I guess it depends on experience, but—"

My response died as the mess hall suddenly quieted. The change was subtle at first – a few conversations trailing off, then more, until there was a noticeable dip in volume. Heads turned toward the entrance, and I followed their gaze.

A tall figure stood in the doorway, surveying the room with a calm, assessing look. Even from across the hall, his presence filled the space. Conversations resumed, but at a lower volume, with a note of respect that hadn't been there before.

"That's him," Maya whispered, nudging me. "The boss. Grant Warwick."

I couldn't look away. Grant Warwick moved with the confidence of a man who knew every inch of his domain. He nodded to people as he passed their tables, stopping occasionally for brief exchanges. His dark hair was neatly trimmed, his face tanned and weathered from years outdoors. He wasn't smiling, but there was something approachable in his expression – a quiet authority rather than stern intimidation.

"Doesn't eat with the crew often," Hank commented. "Must be checking on how the new folks are settling in."

My heart thumped against my ribs. New folks. Me. I was the only new hire this week, according to Maya. Would he come talk to me? What would I say? My palms grew damp, and I wiped them against my jeans under the table.

Grant stopped at a table across the room, resting his hand on an older ranch hand's shoulder as they spoke. His hands were large, with visible calluses even from this distance. Serious hands. Boss hands. I watched him laugh at something the ranch hand said, the seriousness of his face transforming for a moment.

My stomach fluttered. Something about him made me feel small in a way that had nothing to do with my little side. He exuded a natural authority that triggered a response in me – a desire to please, to be good. I looked down at my half-eaten stew, suddenly aware I'd been staring.

"He'll probably come say hello," Maya said, reading my discomfort. "Don't worry. He's not as scary as he looks."

But that was just it. Grant Warwick didn't look scary to me. He looked . . . safe. And that frightened me more than any gruff cowboy ever could.

I tracked Grant's path through the mess hall like prey watching a predator, though the danger I sensed wasn't about harm. It was about being seen—really seen. His boots made deliberate steps across the worn floorboards, his posture straight without seeming stiff. A quiet word here, a nod there. The room shifted around him, conversations adjusting to his presence without him demanding it. He moved through his kingdom with the ease of a man who'd earned his crown through sweat and calluses rather than inheritance.

"Don't stare," I whispered to myself, forcing my gaze down to my cooling stew. But my eyes betrayed me, drawn back to him like metal to a magnet.

Now that he was closer, I could make out more details. Grant Warwick was in his early thirties, I guessed, with dark hair touched by silver at his temples. His face was all angles – strong jaw, straight nose, high cheekbones that caught shadows in the mess hall's warm lighting. Laugh lines creased the corners of his eyes, a counterpoint to the serious set of his mouth. He wore a simple button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle.

But it was his hands that caught my attention most – large, strong, with blunt fingertips and prominent veins. Working hands. Capable hands. Hands that could build or break, comfortor command. I swallowed hard, feeling a strange tightness in my chest.

"Hey, Grant!" Maya's voice jolted me from my daze. She was waving, gesturing him over. "Come meet our new ranch hand!"

My heart stumbled. The fork slipped from my suddenly numb fingers, clattering against the bowl. Heat flooded my face as I fumbled to retrieve it, nearly knocking over my water glass in the process.

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