Page 78 of Lost in the Reins

He doesn’t speak. Just stares at me like he’s debating whether or not to believe this is real.

Bernard, offended by the lack of immediate action, honks again like a freaking referee. The spell breaks.

“You’re here,” Wes says, voice rough. Coffee drips from his hand from where he forgot to finish lifting the mug.

“I’m here.” I take a step forward, then another. My boots leave deliberate prints in the frost. “Though, uh… you are spilling coffee.”

His gaze drops to the cup, then back to me. A flicker of something crosses his face—hope, fear, maybe both. Then, finally, a real smile tugs at his lips.

“Wouldn’t want that,” he says. “Might have to make more.”

“Heaven forbid.” I’m close enough to see the exhaustion under his eyes, the tension in his jaw. The same shadows I’ve been seeing in my own mirror.

“I heard you switched to the expensive kind.”

His breath catches. “Emma talks too much.”

“She talks just enough.” I reach out, brushing my fingers against his where they grip the coffee mug. His skin is warm, rough, and stupidly familiar. “We should probably discuss that. Maybe over coffee?”

He glances at our hands. Then at my face. And just like that, I see the exact moment he realizes he’s not alone in this anymore.

“Paisley…”

“I know about the developer,” I cut in before he can start his usual self-sacrificing nonsense. “The bank, the tourist cabins, all of it.”

His jaw tightens. “Then you know why?—”

I grin, cutting him off before he can start with the noble suffering routine. “I do know why. And I also know how to fix it.”

Wes narrows his eyes, instantly suspicious. “Paisley?—”

“My book sold.” The words rush out in a single breath, my heart pounding as I watch his face for a reaction. “Miranda called me this morning. It’s not just sold—it’s huge, Wes. Seven figures.”

For a second, he just stares at me like I’ve announced I’m an alien here to steal his cattle. “Seven what now?”

“Figures. As in, over a million dollars.” I gesture wildly, trying to get him to keep up. “Like, real money. Not theI’ll pay you in exposurekind. Actual, life-changing money.”

His lips part slightly, like he’s still buffering. “Okay,” he says slowly, still looking at me like I’ve been out in the sun too long. “And what exactly does this have to do with the ranch?”

“Well,” I say, shifting my weight like a kid about to drop a bombshell on their parents, “the producers don’t just want the book. They want to film it. Here. On the ranch.”

Wes blinks. “What?”

“The actual ranch. This one. Where I wrote the book. They want to pay big money to use it as the filming location.” My hands fly to my hips, my excitement barely contained. “Wes, doyou get what this means? They’re willing to paya lot—enough to save the ranch. No tourist cabins, no selling off land to developers, no losing what your family built.”

His jaw tightens like he’s bracing for impact. “You’re telling me some Hollywood suits want to roll in here with cameras, actors, and who knows what else?—”

“Yes!” I cut in. “And they’re paying handsomely for the privilege. More than handsomely. Stupidly. Recklessly. Like, what-were-they-drinking-when-they-signed-this-deal money.”

Wes scrubs a hand over his face, exhaling like a man who just realized the universe is conspiring against his peace. “And you agreed to this?”

“Not yet,” I admit. “The producer is flying in this afternoon to discuss the details. Which, by the way, means you should probably shave. Or at least try to look slightly less like a brooding rancher romance novel cover.”

“I am a brooding rancher,” he mutters.

“Yes, but today, you need to be a negotiating brooding rancher.”

He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Paisley, do you have any idea what it’s like to have a film crew invade your home? The mess, the noise, the people?”

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