Page 29 of Lost in the Reins

Something flashes in Jenny's eyes. "Does he now? How... domestic."

"Among other things." Paisley steps closer to me, her shoulder brushing mine in a way that feels like she’s claimingher territory. "You should see him with the horses. Or Emma. Really makes a girl rethink every cowboy she's ever written."

Wilson coughs, probably hiding a laugh. "Your total's on the screen, Wes. Want it on the account?"

“Yes.”

Jenny's eyes narrow slightly at that, and I know by sunset the whole town will be talking about Whispering Pines' finances. Again.

"Well." Jenny adjusts her designer purse with practiced precision. "I should get going. Mama's waiting. Nice meeting you, Paisley. Good luck with your... research."

The bell chimes her exit, leaving behind the ghost of expensive perfume and old regrets.

Chapter Thirteen

Paisley

It turns out jealousy looks a lot like a petite brunette in designer boots that probably cost more than my last advance. I've been replaying the encounter with Jenny Collins in my head for two days now, trying to figure out why I instantly wanted to mark my territory like one of Emma's cats.

Not that Wes is my territory to mark.

And yet.

The way Jenny looked at him, like she was remembering some shared history that I wasn't part of, made me want to do something dramatic. Like kiss him senseless right there in Wilson's Feed Store just to prove... what, exactly? That I could? That this stoic, impossible man who's been invading my thoughts lately might actually kiss me back?

Martha, bless her meddling heart, hasn't helped matters. She's been calling the ranch daily with "urgent" festival planning questions that somehow always lead to mentions of how handsome Wes looks in his formal western wear. At this rate, she'll have our wedding planned before I figure out if he even sees me as more than a city girl playing cowgirl.

Though lately, the way he looks at me when he thinks I'm not watching makes me wonder. It's different from those firstdays when I was just a nuisance from Manhattan disrupting his carefully ordered world. Now there's something else there, something that makes my stomach flutter and my words tangle in ways that would make my editor weep.

The Montana landscape rolls past the truck window, and I find myself cataloging details I would have missed three weeks ago. The way morning fog clings to the valleys like reluctant ghosts. How the grass ripples in waves that would make any ocean jealous. The precise shade of gold the sun paints across the distant mountains—the same gold that sometimes flecks Wes's eyes when he smiles. Not that I've been paying attention to his eyes. Much.

"You better not be writing in your head again," Wes says as we bump along an especially rough stretch of ranch road. The truck's ancient suspension protests every rut and hole, but somehow, he handles it all with the same quiet competence he brings to everything. It's infuriating, really, how someone can make even driving look like poetry in motion.

"I'm not writing," I lie, absolutely writing in my head. "I'm... appreciating the authentic ranch experience."

"That what you call it?" He navigates around a particularly ambitious pothole without taking his eyes off the road. His hands rest easy on the steering wheel, and I definitely don't notice how his forearms flex with each adjustment. Or how his profile catches the morning light in ways that make my fingers itch for a camera. Or a keyboard. Or maybe just to trace the line of his jaw and see if his stubble feels as rough as it looks.

Lord help me, I'm in trouble.

"You're overthinking again."

Wes's voice breaks through my mental spiral. We're bumping along the ranch's south road in his truck, headed to check out what Jake swears is a fence break. Probably caused by the stormthat rolled through last night, though my money's on Bernard staging a rebellion.

"I do not overthink," I lie, watching his profile in the early morning light. "I process. Analyze. Consider multiple narrative perspectives."

"Same thing." His lips twitch in that almost smile that does dangerous things to my heart rate. "Though I'm pretty sure whatever you're processing doesn't require quite that much frowning."

I touch my forehead, surprised to find it furrowed. "I was just thinking about Jenny."

The truck hits a pothole hard enough to rattle my teeth. Coincidence? Probably not.

"Any particular reason?" His voice stays carefully neutral, but I catch the way his hands tighten on the steering wheel.

"Professional curiosity." I adjust my borrowed flannel—his again, because apparently, I've developed an addiction to clothes that smell like leather and coffee and pure Montana masculinity. "She seems... interesting."

Wes snorts. "That's one word for it."

"There's a story there."

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