Lost in the Reins

Chapter One – Paisley

Chapter One

Paisley

I need to pee.

Badly.

Three cups of coffee and Spanx a size too small are not the best combination for a Monday morning meeting with my agent.

“Paisley, I want you to understand that I always want what’s best for you. I’m not showing you this to upset you. I simply want you to see the reality of the situation.”

I wince at the computer screen that she’s turned around on her desk. Six hundred and forty-three Amazon reviews, and she’s somehow found the most brutal ones to use as examples. I grip my leather portfolio tighter, the material creaking in protest as Miranda clicks through to yet another scathing review.

"Here's another gem." Miranda taps her manicured nail against the screen. "'The only authentic thing about these cowboys is how fast I returned this book. Save yourself the trouble and read an actual ranching manual instead.'"

"I did research." The defense comes out weaker than intended. "I watched every season of Yellowstone . Twice."

"Darling." Miranda's sigh could wilt fresh flowers. "That's like saying you learned brain surgery from Grey's Anatomy ."

I blink several times, wishing I would have lied and claimed I had taken ill from last night’s takeout. “I’m a romance writer.” I shrug. “I write fantasies for a living, not memoirs. I don’t need to live an experience in order to write about it.”

“True,” Miranda drawls, “but your ‘fantasies’ must have some authenticity.”

Who says? I mean, a real cowboy probably smells like horse manure after a long day of work. Who wants to imagine kissing that at the door? No one. That’s who. I see no harm in embellishing a little.

“Okay, so I dirty them up a little more and write them in knock-off jeans.” I grin, acting like I just solved world hunger in under a minute.

Too bad Miranda doesn’t return my enthusiasm.

"The market has changed," she says instead, turning her screen to reveal sales graphs that make my bladder crisis seem like a minor inconvenience. "Readers want real cowboys. Real ranches. Real..." She pauses with surgical precision. "Romance."

"I write real romance! Just because my cowboys shower regularly and own more than one shirt?—"

"Your last book had a rancher doing yoga at sunrise." Miranda's perfectly arched eyebrow could win Olympic medals for judgment. "In designer athleisure wear."

"It was a meditation subplot!" I shift in my seat, both from defensive indignation and increasing urinary desperation. "Very on-trend. Besides, who says cowboys can't practice mindfulness?"

"The same readers who are returning your books faster than last season's fashion mistakes." She pulls up another screen that makes my stomach drop faster than my latest rankings. "Face it, darling. Your cowboys are about as authentic as your spray tan.”

I glance down at my streaking fake bronze glow. I knew I shouldn’t have gone with a new brand. Apparently, there was a good reason it was 50 percent off.

“So, what's your solution?" I cross my legs tighter, praying my bladder holds out a little longer. "More dirt? Less yoga? I could give them some dramatic backstory involving cattle rustlers?—"

“We think you need experience.”

My brows rise. “I’m a bestselling author with ten years of writing experience. You really think I need continued education on the art of writing romance?”

“Actually”—Miranda flashes me a frightening smile—“I think you need a trip out West.”

“Like a vacation?” Because I’m down with that. It’s been years since I’ve taken time off. Though, I’d prefer somewhere a little more tropical, where they have those cute little cabanas you can rent. Ah, that would be so magical.

"No, darling. Not a vacation." Miranda's tone could freeze fresh margaritas. "Three months on a working ranch in Montana. Learning what real cowboys actually smell like after a day's work."

My tropical cabana fantasy evaporates faster than my bladder control. "Montana? As in... real cowboys? With actual cattle?"

"Whispering Pines Ranch." She slides a printout across her massive desk like she's dealing cards in a game I'm definitely losing. "Fourth-generation operation looking to diversify into heritage tourism. They've agreed to host a writer-in-residence in exchange for marketing consultation."

"Writer-in-residence?" I stare at the photo of what looks distressingly like an actual working ranch, complete with mud and cattle and probably snakes. "You mean like actually living there? With real cowboys who don't do sunrise yoga?"

"That's generally what 'residence' means." Her smile could power half of Manhattan. "Consider it a working sabbatical. Three months to learn what authentic ranch life feels like. To put some real dirt in those love scenes."

"And if I say no?"

Miranda's perfectly manicured finger taps another graph—this one showing my advance repayment schedule. "Then we redirect your contract to contemporary urban romance only. Though given your current sales trajectory..."

She doesn't finish. She doesn't have to. We both know my career's hanging by a thread.

“I understand.” I really don’t, but Miranda doesn’t seem to be in the mood to make more concessions. “But what if I still fail?” I shake my head, my mind going in a thousand different directions. “What if I learn about real cowboys and still receive bad reviews? We all know reviews are subjective and don’t necessarily reflect the quality of the book. Those same readers could still think my characters lack authenticity.”

Miranda stands, moving to her floor-to-ceiling windows where Manhattan sprawls like an overpriced inspiration board. "Darling, right now, they're not thinking anything about your characters because they're not buying your books."

Ouch. That hits harder than it should.

"This isn't just about reviews.” She turns back, fixing me with that laser-focused stare that probably makes junior agents cry. "It's about reinvention. Finding your authentic voice. Learning what real cowboys actually..." She pauses, wrinkling her nose delicately. "Experience."

"Real cowboys probably experience a lot of things I don't want to write about." Like sore butts and chafing. And more than likely bad internet. “Miranda, I think you are overestimating my skill level. I can’t help out a ranch with animals. I kill houseplants. On purpose, sometimes, when they get too needy."

"That's exactly the point." Miranda returns to her desk, pulling out what looks suspiciously like airline tickets. "Three months at Whispering Pines will give you more authentic material than all your Yellowstone marathons combined."

"But—"

"No buts." She slides the tickets across her desk with ruthless efficiency. "Your flight leaves next week. Pack practical clothes, leave the designer boots, and try to keep an open mind about the whole"—she waves her hand vaguely—"cowboy aromatherapy situation."

I stare at the tickets like they might bite. Montana. Three months of actual ranch work with real cowboys who probably don't appreciate being compared to Pinterest models.

"What if they hate me?" The question slips out before I can catch it. "What if I'm too... city girl?”

"Then you'll write about that." Miranda's smile softens fractionally. "Real experiences make for real stories, darling. Even the uncomfortable ones."

"Fine." I stand, gathering what's left of my dignity along with Miranda's travel arrangements. "But if I get trampled by a horse or eaten by a snake, I'm leaving you a very pointed review online.”

Two hours and one panic attack in the ladies' room later—during which I seriously considered changing careers to become a professional bathroom attendant—I'm hunched over my laptop in my favorite coffee shop, panic-googling Whispering Pines Ranch .

The barista, Lyle, hovers nearby with the coffee pot, probably worried I'm having some kind of caffeine-fueled breakdown. My browser history reads like a cry for help: Can city girls survive ranch life? How to not get kicked by horses, " and my personal favorite, Do cowboys actually smell like Old Spice?

"Maybe switch to decaf?" Lyle suggests, eyeing the tower of empty cups I've constructed like some kind of caffeinated Jenga stack.

"Decaf won't fix this.” I gesture at my laptop screen where images of actual working ranches mock my designer sensibilities. "I have to live on a real ranch. With real cowboys. For three months."

"That doesn't sound so?—"

"They have snakes, Lyle. And probably spiders. Big ones. The kind that could carry off small children."

He tries to hide his smile but fails miserably. "At least you'll have good material for your next book?"

"If I survive." I click through another photo of what appears to be actual cow-related activities. "Look at this! Those are real cows. With real... cow stuff. And the cowboys don't even have professional lighting for their Instagram posts."

My phone buzzes—another text from my sister, Jenna: Please tell me you're not seriously considering this. Remember that time you cried at the petting zoo?

I was five, I text back. And that goat was unnecessarily aggressive.

What is she doing? Trying to scare me even more than I already am?

Another buzz: Dad's still laughing about the time you wore stilettos to that pumpkin farm. You couldn’t even find a pumpkin because your heels kept sinking into the ground when you walked.

That was different , I respond, ignoring Lyle’s increasingly concerned looks. I couldn’t find my tennis shoes!

I click back to the Whispering Pines website, which looks like it was designed when dial-up was still cutting edge. But there's something about its lack of polish that makes my stomach clench. These aren't the carefully curated ranch photos I use for book research. This is... real.

A new email pops up from Miranda: Sent you the ranch owner's info. Try not to ask him about sunrise yoga in your first conversation.

With trembling fingers—thanks, eighth cup of coffee—I open the attachment. And promptly choke on my biscotti.

Wes Montgomery stares back from my screen, looking nothing like the clean-cut cowboys I write about. He's leaning against a fence that's definitely seen better decades, work shirt rolled up to reveal forearms that make my writer's brain short-circuit. But it's his expression that catches me: intense, focused, like he's carrying the weight of that fourth-generation legacy in his eyes.

I click through the attached bio, each detail making my anxiety spike higher. Single father. Struggling ranch. Looking to diversify into heritage tourism while maintaining traditional operations.

Great. Just great. A hot, brooding cowboy with emotional baggage and a kid. Because this situation needed more complications.