1. Sunny #2
We start walking. Well, he walks, I limp along beside him trying not to wince.
He notices immediately, of course. Without a word he stops, crouches down, and checks my ankle with careful hands.
Big, calloused fingers gentle against my boot.
The touch zings straight up my leg and settles somewhere much higher and more inappropriate.
“Swelling already,” he mutters. “Ride with me.”
Before I can protest, or enthusiastically agree, he’s lifting me again, settling me in front of him on his big black horse.
His chest presses to my back, arms caging me in as he takes the reins.
I fit against him like I was designed for this exact spot.
My head tucks just under his chin. If I turned my face, my lips would brush his throat.
Down, girl. You’ve known him six minutes. Do not start planning the wedding on Wedding Cake Mountain.
But the thought makes me giggle. Harlan’s arm tightens fractionally around my middle. “Something funny?”
“Just thinking how this is the most romantic near-death experience a girl could ask for,” I tease, voice light and bubbly even as my heart thunders.
“Complete with tall, dark, and brooding rescuer. My book club ladies would eat this up. ‘Sunny and the Grumpy Cowboy’, it’s got bestseller written all over it. ”
He huffs. Actual air moving my curls. Progress. “Not much of a reader.”
“Liar. I bet you’ve got a whole shelf of well-worn Louis L’Amour paperbacks hidden somewhere. Or maybe secret romance novels under your mattress. No judgment. I’m a sucker for a happy ending.”
The horse moves at a steady walk, rocking us gently together.
Every shift presses me closer to him. I can feel the heat of his body seeping through my coat, the solid strength of his thighs bracketing mine.
My mind’s a whirlwind of romcom tropes: forced proximity, one bed (please let there be a one-bed situation), grumpy-sunshine perfection.
We crest a rise and Haven 7 comes into view below, a cluster of sturdy cabins nestled against the mountain, smoke curling from chimneys, horses in a snowy paddock, the main lodge glowing warm and welcoming.
It looks like a postcard. Like the place where broken girls go to heal and maybe find the kind of love that sticks.
Harlan’s voice rumbles against my ear. “You staying at the Timber Creek B&B?”
“Supposed to. New barn help. I’m great with animals.
Terrible with directions. Excellent at naming every horse after baked goods.
” I tilt my head back to grin at him. Our faces are inches apart.
His eyes drop to my mouth for the briefest second before snapping back up.
The air between us crackles like static before a thunderstorm.
He felt that too. I know he did.
“Name doesn’t suit you,” he says after a beat.
“Sunny? It’s because I’m relentlessly cheerful. My mom said I came out smiling and never stopped. Even when life hands me lemons, I make lemon meringue pie and invite everyone over.”
His mouth does that almost-smile thing again. “Explains the pink coat.”
I gasp in mock offense. “This coat is iconic. It’s my emotional support outerwear. Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. And it goes with everything. Who doesn’t love pink?”
He doesn’t reply, but his arm stays snug around me the whole way down the trail.
When we reach the edge of the compound, a few people wave.
Harlan gives them curt nods, classic strong-silent-type, but doesn’t loosen his hold until we’re right outside a neat cabin with a wide porch and a sign that just says “Harlan” burned into the wood.
He dismounts first, then reaches for me. This time when my feet hit the ground my ankle protests loudly. I hiss, and suddenly I’m being scooped up again, cradled against his chest like a damsel in a western.
“Inside,” he says. Gruff. Final. But his hands are gentle as he carries me up the steps and shoulders the door open.
The cabin smells like pine, leather, and coffee. Simple furniture, a big stone fireplace already crackling (someone must have come by), and one very prominent king-sized bed visible through the open bedroom door.
One bed. Called it.
Harlan sets me on the couch and kneels to tug off my boot. His fingers work the laces with surprising dexterity. “I’ll call Eli to check this out. He’s the medic.”
“I’m okay, really. Just a twist.” But I don’t pull away. I watch the way his dark hair falls over his forehead, the flex of muscle in his forearms, the absolute focus he gives my stupid ankle like it’s the most important thing in the world right now.
When he looks up, our eyes lock. The charged silence stretches. His gaze is intense, protective, with something hotter flickering underneath. Like he wants to wrap me in blankets and never let the world touch me again. Like he’s already deciding I’m his to keep safe.
My heart does a cartwheel. Dangerous, Sunny. This man could ruin you for all other cowboys.
I smile anyway, bright and wobbly. “So, Harlan, got any of that famous Montana hospitality? Maybe some coffee? Or should I just keep talking until you crack a real smile? Because I’ve got stories. So many stories.”
He stands slowly, towering over me, but there’s the tiniest softening around his eyes. “Stay put.”
As he heads to the kitchen, I sink back into the couch cushions, ankle throbbing, heart racing, and a ridiculous grin spreading across my face.
Welcome to Haven 7, Sunny. Population: one very grumpy, very gorgeous cowboy who just hauled you out of trouble like it was his job.
And something tells me this is only the beginning of the best kind of trouble.