Page 31 of Lost in the Reins

He reaches for my handlebars, and our fingers brush. “Might go better if you actually release the throttle.”

“I knew that.” I didn’t know that. “I was just... testing your response time to damsels in distress.”

“That what you are?” His eyes meet mine, holding something that makes my breath catch. “A damsel in distress?”

“Depends.” I let go of the throttle, hyperaware of how close he’s standing. “Is it working?”

The corner of his mouth ticks up. “Might be. Though my heroic rescue might work better if you’d actually let me?—"

The ATV chooses that moment to lurch forward, sending a wave of creek water over both of us. I sputter, wiping mud from my face, only to find Wes doing the same. Water drips from his hair, and there’s mud streaked across his jaw, and somehow, he still looks unfairly attractive.

"Don't," he warns, catching my expression.

"Don't what?"

"Don't say whatever you're thinking about putting in your next book."

I grin, unable to help myself. "What makes you think I was going to write about this?"

"Because I know that look." He grabs the handlebars again, this time, managing to guide the ATV onto more solid ground. "Same one you got when Bernard chased you around the feed shed."

"I would never write about that." I pause. "Much."

His laugh—deep and real—echoes across the creek. "Sure, you wouldn't." He steps back, surveying our mud-covered state. "Though I have to admit, this might be a new level of authentic ranch experience."

"Definitely not something I've written about before." I wring water from my shirt—his shirt—suddenly aware of how the wet material clings. His eyes follow the movement, and something hot unfurls in my stomach. "Though I'm starting to think maybe I should."

"Yeah?" His voice drops lower, making my pulse jump. "And how would you write this scene?"

I swallow hard, caught between wanting to make a joke and wanting to see what would happen if I told the truth. Because the truth is, I'd write about how his eyes darken when he looks at me or how the air feels charged despite the cold creek water. I'd write about the way my skin prickles with awareness every time he's near or how his quiet strength makes me feel both completely safe and utterly terrified.

Instead, I say, "Probably with less mud. And better dialogue. Maybe a sunset instead of morning light. Definitely with a more graceful heroine."

"I don't know." He reaches out, brushing mud from my cheek with his thumb. The contact sends electricity shooting through me. "Seems pretty perfect as is."

And just like that, the boundary between research and reality blurs a little more.

"We should..." I gesture vaguely toward the fence we're supposed to be checking. "The break. We should check the break."

"Right." He steps back, and I immediately miss his warmth. "The fence."

But as we remount our ATVs—mine significantly muddier than before—I catch him watching me with an expression that makes me think maybe I'm not the only one struggling with boundaries anymore.

Martha would be thrilled.

Chapter Fourteen

Paisley

The hot shower washed away the last traces of creek mud and ATV adventures, leaving my muscles loose and warm. Now, wrapped in clean flannel—Wes's again, because apparently, I've stopped even pretending to wear my own clothes—I'm settled into the corner of the worn leather couch, still full from the best home-cooked meal I've had in years. Who knew Wes Montgomery could make enchiladas that would put my favorite Manhattan restaurant to shame?

The fire he built crackles and pops in the stone fireplace, painting everyone in flickering gold as logs shift and settle. Outside, Montana darkness presses against frosted windowpanes, but in here, everything glows with contentment and warmth. A Jenga tower rises precariously from the coffee table—evidence of how far I've come from my takeout-and-Netflix existence. Three weeks on this ranch have changed more than just my wardrobe choices. They've shifted something fundamental, something I'm not quite ready to examine too closely.

I never expected to find peace in the form of a teetering wooden tower, yet here we are: three rugged cowboys, one precocious ten-year-old, and a romance writer who's starting tosuspect her characters have been living in the wrong version of reality all along.

"Your turn, city girl." Jake's grin is pure evil as the tower sways ominously. "Let's see those steady writer hands in action."

"No pressure," Colt adds helpfully. "Just your team's dignity at stake."

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