Page 27 of Lost in the Reins

"Perfect. I need boring." She drops into the chair across from me, stealing my cold coffee with the casual confidence of someone who's gotten too comfortable here. "My agent's been hounding me for authentic small-town details. What's more authentic than a supply run?"

Jake snorts. "Watching paint dry might be more entertaining."

"You don't have to—" I start, but she's already got that look. The one that means she's made up her mind and arguing will just waste breath better spent on actual work.

"Actually, I do." She takes another sip of my coffee, nose wrinkling at the temperature. "Unless you want my next book to feature a small town where everyone drives Teslas and gets their coffee from artisanal roasters."

The drive's quiet except for the truck's familiar groan over each pothole. Paisley's got her writer's look again—taking in everything, probably turning our worn-down ranch road into something fancy for her next book.

Main Street stretches out before us, unchanged as ever. Same crooked awnings shade the cracked sidewalks where Sarah used to walk with me, insisting there was more to life than endless ranch work and calloused hands. Martha'sOPENsign still flickers, marking time like it has for twenty years now. Bill Murphy holds court outside the hardware store, permanent as the mountains themselves, in the same spot he's claimed since I was Emma's age.

"This is incredible." Paisley's practically vibrating with writer's energy beside me. "It's like every small town I've tried to write, except..."

"Real?"

"Exactly!" She turns that thousand-watt smile on me, the kind that makes my chest tight in ways I don't want to examine too closely. "I have to ask… Does every single person in town need to stare at us like we're the main attraction at a circus?"

I grunt, guiding the truck into Wilson's parking lot while painfully aware of how news travels in a town this size. Leaving the ranch is like stepping into a fishbowl—every move analyzed, every interaction fodder for tomorrow's coffee shop gossip.

"Wes Montgomery, as I live and breathe!" Martha's voice carries across the street like a dinner bell, and I resist the urge to duck back into the truck. "And with company, no less!"

Paisley straightens beside me, curiosity bright in her eyes as Martha practically bounces across the street, her usual checkered apron fluttering like victory flags.

"You must be the writer everyone's been talking about." Martha beams at Paisley like she's discovered buried treasure. "Lord knows we've been dying to meet you. This one”—she jerks her thumb at me—"keeps you hidden away at that ranch like some kind of secret."

"Not hidden," I mutter, shifting my weight. "Just busy."

“‘Busy,’ he says." Martha rolls her eyes with the dramatic flair of someone who's known me since I was stealing cookies from her kitchen. "Like we haven't all been wondering about the mysterious romance writer who's got our most notorious hermit actually leaving his mountain."

The tips of my ears burn. "Supply run?—"

"Can wait ten minutes while you two have some pie." Martha's tone brooks no argument, same as when Sarah and Iwere kids, trying to sneak out without eating. "Just pulled a fresh berry crumble from the oven."

Paisley glances at me, lips twitching. "I have heard rumors about your pie."

"Best in three counties," Martha declares proudly. "Though you wouldn't know it from how rarely this one visits." She fixes me with a look that probably worked better when I was twelve. "Your sister always said you'd work yourself into an early grave if someone didn't force you to take breaks."

Sarah's name catches me off guard, and I almost step back. But Paisley moves closer, her shoulder touching mine lightly, not saying anything.

"Well, we can't have that." Paisley’s voice carries just enough warmth to anchor me. "I still need him functional for research purposes."

Martha's eyes narrow slightly, catching the movement, and I know that look. It's the same one she wore when Sarah first brought Paul around, like she's already making wedding plans.

"Research, is it?" Martha's smile could power half the county. "Then you absolutely must come to the Fall Festival next weekend. For research purposes, of course. Can't write about small-town life without experiencing our signature event."

"Fall Festival?" Paisley perks up like one of Emma's barn cats spotting a mouse.

"Don't encourage her," I warn, but it's too late. Martha's already launched into her festival committee chairperson speech, complete with animated hand gestures that send her apron strings dancing.

"Biggest event of the season! The whole town turns out. Square dancing, pie contests, hayrides?—"

"Waste of time," I cut in, but Paisley's already got that look—the one that means she's filing away details for her next book.

"It sounds perfect," she breathes, and Martha practically glows.

"Oh, you must join the planning committee! Who better than a real romance writer to help with this year's theme?"

I feel my shoulders tense. "Theme?"

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