Chapter 5 Saoirse
FIVE
SAOIRSE
I’m still sitting at the island long after Flint leaves for the ranch, staring at his coffee cup, wondering if I’m dreaming. My own mug is empty. My brain is not. My brain is a snow globe of utter chaos.
I’m pretty sure I just agreed to be his “dessert” tonight.
My face is still hot from his tongue stroking mine, his hands in my hair, and his words thrumming in my bloodstream.
It’s not even nine a.m., and I feel like someone flipped my world upside-down and gave it a firm shake just to see what would fall out.
The house is too quiet without him. Or maybe I’m just too noisy in my own head, thinking about what it means that I’m here, living in his space, cooking in his kitchen, using his fancy shower. A girl could get used to this. If she wasn’t careful, a girl could get her heart broken, too.
I snap myself out of it by rinsing my mug and Flint’s and setting them in the dishwasher.
The kitchen’s so pristine it makes my teeth ache.
No drips, no crumbs, no evidence that a full-grown man lives here.
Even the fridge is intimidating—stainless steel, four times the size of the one in my apartment, fully stocked with everything you could possibly need. I’m half afraid to touch anything.
There’s no way I’m going to let him cook tonight after working all day long, so I get to work.
I stalk the perimeter of the kitchen, searching for inspiration. I’m formulating plans for dinner when I spot a door tucked around the corner from the refrigerator.
I open it, expecting maybe a laundry room or a broom closet, but instead, I find myself in a huge, four-car garage. The floor is polished concrete, so shiny that I can see my reflection, and every wall is lined with all kinds of tools and storage units. A mechanic’s wet dream.
There’s a gleaming red Mustang parked in the last stall. No dust, no fingerprints, nothing to suggest it’s ever been driven. I stand and stare for a long moment. Man, that's a beautiful car.
Along the front wall of the garage is a massive chest freezer.
It looks like the kind of thing a serial killer would use to store trophies, but when I open it, all I find are tidy, labeled bundles of beef, pork, chicken, and lamb, each one wrapped in white butcher paper and marked with black Sharpie.
Darn. There’s enough meat in here to survive the apocalypse.
I fish out a package of stew meat, slam the lid shut, and jog back to the kitchen, arms full and a grin plastered on my face. I can work with this.
First, I raid the butler’s pantry for reinforcements.
I’m expecting a few half-used spice jars, maybe some old cans of green beans, but what I find is next-level.
There’s a whole wall of shelves filled with every imaginable seasoning.
There are onions and garlic hanging from braided strings, vegetables in open bins, and a basket of potatoes.
I stand in the center of the room and just stare as an idea takes root. I know I saw a delicious-looking recipe on TikTok recently. I pull out my phone and scroll through my saved videos until I find the right one.
I stand my phone up against the bowl of fresh fruit on the counter and get to work.
The stew meat is still frozen solid, so I defrost it in the microwave for a few minutes. While it’s doing its thing, I chop onions like a ninja on a caffeine bender. My eyes water, but I refuse to break. Not when I’ve got chef goals and a cowboy to impress.
I peel and cut up the carrots and potatoes, then toss all the veggies in a bowl. The second the meat is defrosted, I brown it in a skillet. The recipe calls for a slow cooker, so I head back into the large pantry and search around. Sure enough, I find a brand-new-looking crockpot.
I combine all the ingredients and set the slow cooker for six hours. Now, I need to get myself ready.
I dig through my overnight bag, and my heart sinks.
I don’t have anything remotely decent. I sit down on the edge of the guest bed and weigh my options.
The stew is cooking slowly, and I have hours to waste before Flint gets home, so I have plenty of time to run and grab more clothes from my apartment.
My heart pounds as I fish my phone from the pocket of my yoga pants to shoot Flint a text.
Me
Hey. Would it be okay if I borrow your Mustang to go grab a few things from my apartment? I’ll be super careful.
Three little dots almost instantly dance across the screen, and I hold my breath, waiting for his reply. It takes less than ten seconds.
Flint
Absolutely not. I’ll have a ranch hand drive you.
I’m honestly devastated. Make that hurt. Or maybe even a little pissed off that he doesn’t trust me to drive his car. Before I’m able to think better of it, I hastily type out my reply.
Me
I swear, I’m a great driver. I’ll bring it back in one piece, promise.
This time, the reply is instant.
Flint
I don’t give a fuck about the car. I don’t want you going back to that apartment alone. A ranch hand will be there in 20 minutes to go with you.
Me
Thank you
Flint
You don’t have to thank me, Sugar Plum. What I have is yours. I just won’t let you risk yourself. You can drive the Mustang any time you want. Just not to that shitty part of town.
My heart melts. I should be a little perturbed he’s telling me what to do, but I’m not. I’m not going to lie. It’s kinda nice having someone look out for me. Actually, it’s freaking great.
I head back to the kitchen and check on our dinner. It looks like the stew is coming along great. I find my purse and set it on the edge of the breakfast bar so I’m ready when my babysitter arrives.
By the time I hear the rumble of a truck in the drive, I’m ready and waiting. I’m not sure what I expected, but when I open the door, I nearly swallow my own tongue.
Standing on the porch is a man who looks like he could have walked straight off a GQ cover, if GQ ever featured six-foot-five cowboys with a sleeve of tattoos and a jawline sharp enough to slice cheese.
He’s got blue eyes, hair a shade lighter than Flint’s, and a smile that’s half-wolf, half-Marlboro ad.
“Saoirse?” he asks, voice low and polite, like he’s asking for the time.
I nod, suddenly wondering if all ranch hands look like him.
“I’m Cole Carrington,” he says, extending a hand. “Flint asked me to drive you into town.”
Cole Carrington? Damn. This is what Flint came up with? He sent his millionaire boss to chauffeur me home? I slip my hand into Cole’s, a little startled by how warm his grip is, how gentle. But sparks? Not one—not even a flicker. Nothing.
“Thanks,” I say, and my voice comes out a notch steadier than I expect. “Hope I’m not dragging you away from anything important.”
Cole just shrugs, easygoing. “I needed to make a run into town anyway. We’ll swing by your place, grab your things, and I’ll stop at the hardware store before heading back. If that’s okay with you?”
“That works for me.” Now, I know I've stepped into the Twilight Zone.
He leads the way to a black pickup truck, double-cab, spotless inside and out.
I climb in, buckle up, and try not to stare at the ridiculous array of gadgets and dials on the dashboard.
This thing is a space shuttle compared to my ancient Mazda.
We ride in silence for the first mile, Cole focusing on the road while I obsessively check my phone just to do something.
“So,” Cole says, glancing over, “Flint told me you’re a teacher.”
“That’s right,” I mumble, not knowing what else to say. I stare out the window, watching the fields blur past. “First grade.”
Cole glances over at me, eyes crinkling at the corners. “First grade, huh? That sounds like pure chaos.”
He isn’t wrong. A laugh escapes me. “It’s pretty much controlled mutiny,” I admit.
Cole’s gaze finds me. “You like it, though. Teaching.”
I nod, letting myself grin because it’s true. “Yeah. Even when they try to give me a heart attack before noon.” I can’t hold back a smile. “They’re adorable little terrorists.”
Cole gives me a look with one eyebrow cocked. “Flint says you’re tough as hell. Didn’t believe it until I heard you survived a night at the Silver Spur in an elf outfit.” His mouth twitches. “That took guts.”
I want to die. I groan and drop my head back against the seat. “Has everyone in Silver Spoon Falls heard about that?”
Cole laughs. “Not everyone. The cowboys who were there that night told me about it.” He swings the truck down Main Street. “Heard half the hands say you walked in like you owned the place. Blaze said you threatened to tase Flint if he got handsy.”
“Oh my God.” My face goes beet red. “I’m never going to live that down.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Cole laughs. “All the guys were impressed as hell. You made their week. Nothing those boys like more than someone who can go toe-to-toe with Flint. Most people are terrified of him when he’s pissed.”
“I’m glad I could entertain them.” My snark comes out before I’m able to stop it.
Cole just grins, not the least bit bothered. “You’ll fit right in around here. The ranch has a strict ‘no doormats allowed’ policy. If you can keep Flint on his toes, you might be promoted to legend.”
I snort. “Being a legend is a goal of mine.”
He just shrugs those linebacker shoulders. “Gotta love goals.” He pulls the truck into my apartment lot and parks, eyes sweeping the buildings like he’s casing the place for a SWAT raid.
He walks me across the patchy parking lot, boots crunching on glass and gravel. His giant body somehow blocks every possible line of sight to me. I almost laugh at how intense he looks. “You know I’ve lived here for four months without any issues,” I tell him as we climb the rickety stairs.
“It’s a goddamn miracle,” he grumbles under his breath as we reach my door. He puts one huge palm on the peeling paint and says, “I don’t want to invade your space, but I’m standing right here, okay? If you need anything, just shout.”
My stomach flutters as I nod like a dork. “Thank you.”