Chapter 2
Tex
I didn’t come here to find a woman; I came to support a brother.
Wyatt “Saint” Callahan, our team’s anchor and the grumpiest bastard I’ve ever loved, was invited to show up tonight by Henry Sutton.
Henry’s wife, Shay, learned about a woman in need of a safe place to land.
Someone running from something. Shay understands running; she did enough of it before Henry caught her.
The woman didn’t ask for rescue; she asked for a chance, and Shay turned to Wyatt because he’s the kind of man you send in when someone needs a shield.
Sawyer “Tank” Granger and I are just here to back him up. We’re a quiet presence, moral support. SEALs don't show up solo, not even for matchmaking auctions.
I’m supposed to be watching Wyatt embrace his brooding protector role, observing the numbers rise as the women walk onstage, one by one.
I’m not supposed to be affected.
But then she steps out.
And everything shifts.
Red lipstick, wild curls, and a grin that dares you to chase her, as if she just stole your truck.
She walks onto that stage like she owns it.
Except she doesn’t. Not really. I notice the tiny flinch she hides with swagger the moment she hits the spotlight. Her eyes dart around, scanning for exits before taking in the crowd. The smile is too bright, too practiced. She’s wearing armor. And I recognize armor that’s been worn too long.
The second our eyes meet, something detonates.
It’s not just heat; it’s recognition, as if I’ve been waiting for this chaos my entire life, unaware until she looked at me.
“Uh-oh,” Tank mutters beside me.
I glance at him. He’s cradling his arm. The idiot who nearly dislocated his shoulder raising his paddle for Jessie, the redhead who just went before. He’s still watching her like she’s the only woman in the room.
“You’re one to talk,” I retort.
“Yeah, but I knew I was in trouble. You look blindsided.”
“I am.”
I turn back to the stage. She’s still looking at me.
For one fleeting second, she stumbles. Her breath hitches. Our eyes lock, and at that moment, the auction, the lights, the stage, the crowd all fade away.
All I can see is her.
Something vulnerable flickers behind that practiced smile for an instant before she locks it down. But I saw it. The exhaustion beneath her bravado. The loneliness she’s trying to outrun.
She strides across the stage with confidence, as if she’s untouchable, like a flame that needs no one. I don’t buy it for a second.
The auctioneer begins the bidding.
I raise my paddle.
What am I doing?
I haven’t made an impulsive decision in twelve years. For over a decade, I’ve stuck to schedules and routines, carefully building fences around my life. I’ve controlled every variable I could because the ones I couldn’t nearly cost me the lives of the men I love.
“Bid from number seven.”
Her chin lifts, and her mouth curves. It’s not quite a smile, more like a challenge. Yet her eyes keep darting back to mine, as if I’m the only thing in this room that makes sense. I understand that feeling.
Another bid.
I raise my paddle again.
I don’t think. My body moves with the same instinct that kept me alive in Kandahar. But this time, it’s not about taking cover; it’s about keeping her. Keeping her safe. Keeping her close.
With each new bid, I respond without hesitation. And every time I do, she watches me more intently, not as if she’s flattered, but as if she’s trying to determine whether I’m dangerous or safe.
I want to be both.
“Sold! To bidder number seven!”
The gavel strikes, and the room comes back to life.
Jane beams at me.
And it wrecks me.
It’s not a soft smile. Not one of gratitude or relief. It’s the smile of a woman who just got exactly what she wanted and has no idea what to do next. That makes two of us.
“You good?” Tank asks in a low voice.
“Nope.”
He laughs. “Welcome to the club.”
I came to support Wyatt, to blend into the background, and to provide moral support. Instead, I just claimed a woman I know nothing about, except that her gaze made twelve years of careful control feel like a cage I’m desperate to escape.
I have no idea what to do with her, but I know I’m not giving her back.
Backstage is quiet. Warmer.
Jane is waiting when I push through the curtain, wearing a denim skirt that accentuates her legs, a chambray shirt that has seen better days, and boots that look like they’ve walked a thousand miles of ranch road. She looks like trouble. She looks like home.
She doesn’t seem surprised to see me; just amused.
Her eyes flick to the Stetson perched on my head. “Nice hat.”
I nod at the battered hat on her head. “Yours has stories.”
A smile flickers across her face, but for a moment, her blue eyes cloud with shadows, tightening something in my chest.
“It has.” She shrugs, placing a hand on her hip. “So, congrats?”
“For what?”
“Winning the auction,” she replies. “You outbid three bankers, one rancher, and a guy with a screaming eagle tattoo on his neck.”
“I wasn’t plannin’ to bid at all,” I admit.
Something like hurt flickers across her face, quick and bright, before she masks it. Her chin lifts. “Then why did you?”
“Saw somethin’ I didn't want anyone else to have.”
That gives her pause.
Her eyes narrow, but now they contain heat instead of hurt. “I wasn't aware I was a collectible.”
“You’re not,” I say. “You're rare. That’s different.”
Her blue eyes widen, but she quickly regains her composure. “Damn. Do you always come in that hot?”
“Only when it matters.”
She stares at me for a moment too long, as if trying to determine whether I’m real. I know that feeling.
She studies me and extends her hand. “I'm Jane Cutter.”
I take her hand. It’s small and calloused, a sign she’s no stranger to hard work. Her pulse races against my fingers, matching mine.
“Jackson Briggs,” I reply. “Just call me Tex.”
A smile curves her lips. “Let me guess: born in Texas, and you never let it go?”
“Pretty much.”
Before I can say more, a woman in a charcoal blazer approaches—Gwen, according to her badge.
Gwen smiles at Jane like they’re old friends before turning to me. “Got a minute for some paperwork, you two?”
Jane nods, and we follow Gwen to a nearby table, where she pulls out two crisp copies of the agreement and slides pens across the surface.
“Standard cohabitation contracts,” Gwen explains, walking us through the terms.
It’s a temporary arrangement with a probationary period.
Either of us can walk away at any time—no questions, no explanations required.
We each receive a copy of the contract, including emergency contacts and follow-up check-ins.
We have seven days to decide if this is genuine or just adrenaline masquerading as fate.
Jane smirks. “So if I decide this cowboy isn’t my flavor of crazy, I can bail?”
“You can,” Gwen replies with a calm nod. “No penalties, no pressure. If it’s not a fit, you walk.”
Jane glances at me sideways. “Or run.”
I hold her gaze. “As long as it’s toward me.”
The words slip out before I can stop them. Jane’s breath hitches slightly, enough for me to know she felt it too.
For a moment, neither of us moves. The air shifts and tightens.
It’s too soon for promises, yet something in her eyes suggests she heard one anyway.
She reaches for the pen. Our fingers brush as I hand it to her, and the contact sends a jolt through me.
She signs first; her strokes quick and decisive.
I sign afterward, slower, aware that I’m committing to something I don’t fully understand yet.
But I want to understand. I want to understand her.
Gwen collects the documents and places them in a sleek folder. “Congrats, you two. You’ve got seven days to figure out if this feels like fate or just a footnote.”
She walks away without waiting for a response.
Jane mutters, “Well, damn. She gives off the vibe of a hot librarian who secretly owns a taser.”
I glance at her. “You plannin’ to tase me already?”
She reaches for her waistband as if going for a weapon, and my training kicks in. I’m half a second from reacting when she grins.
“They gave us goodie bags backstage. Mints, mascara… and a taser.” She waggles her eyebrows. “I’m armed and dangerous.”
I stare at her, then laugh—surprised, genuine, and rusty from disuse. “You’re trouble.”
“The best kind.”
We walk toward the back exit. She doesn’t ask where we're going, and I don’t question why she’s here. Some conversations can wait.
My truck is parked to the side. I open Jane’s door, but she isn’t looking at me. She’s watching Tank help Jessie into his truck nearby. Jessie glances over, and Jane tips her hat in a small salute. Jessie smiles back—the first genuine smile I’ve seen from her all night.
Then Jessie ducks into Tank’s truck.
Jane turns back to me. “Still time to run, you know,” she says, her tone light but serious.
I nod once. “You’d be the one I’d chase.”
Her eyes widen, and her mouth drops open slightly. Then she nods abruptly and climbs in.
I move around the truck and slide behind the wheel.
Jane is fiddling with her seatbelt, yanking at it and muttering under her breath.
Before I can think better of it, I reach across and help her click it into place.
She goes still, and my hand hovers near her hip for a moment too long before I pull back.
“Thanks,” she says, her voice sounding strange.
“Anytime.”
Tank pulls up alongside us, with Jessie a quiet shadow in his passenger seat. He rolls down the window.
“Good luck, Saint,” he calls to Wyatt. His gaze moves to the woman at Wyatt’s side. “You’re in safe hands, Sadie.”
Then his gaze flicks to me. “Don’t be weird, Tex.”
I flip him off. “Says the man who nearly threw out his shoulder biddin’ on a woman.”
He grins. “Worth it.”
Jane watches the exchange with interest. “So, you’re Tex, he’s Saint, and the big, bearded guy is...?”
“Tank.”
“Tank. Of course.” She nods as if it makes sense. “Call signs?”
I nod. “We were in the same unit. Navy SEALs.”
Jane raises an eyebrow. “Were?”
“When we left the service, we settled at Havenridge Ranch.” I keep my eyes on the road because it's easier to talk without looking directly at her. “It’s a working ranch, but it’s also home to a veterans’ program, a place for guys strugglin’ to find a soft landing.”
She’s quiet for a moment, then asks, “And you? Are you struggling?”
The question catches me off guard. People don’t usually ask so directly. “I was,” I reply. “Less now.”
“What changed?”
I glance at her. “I built a lot of fences.”
She snorts. “That’s either a metaphor or the most cowboy thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“Both.” I shrug. “Saint and Tank had it worse. They barely made it out of Kandahar. I was the one who carried them.”
The humor drains from her face. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. They’re alive. That’s what matters.”
Jane is quiet for a moment, then her mouth twitches. “Well, at least I know you’re not a serial killer.”
I huff a laugh as I navigate the snow-laden road toward Havenridge.
“Not a serial killer,” I say. “Just a man who doesn’t sleep much and finds fixing fences comforting.”
Jane’s mouth curves. “You say that like it’s weird.”
“Most people don’t like boundaries. I do. They make sense.”
She tilts her head, studying me like a puzzle. “Huh.”
“What?”
“Nothing. You’re just...” She waves her hand dismissively. “Not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
She shrugs. “Someone looking for a project. A woman he could mold into something... easier.”
The word stings. Easier. As if she knows she isn’t.
“Is that how you see yourself?” I ask. “Difficult?”
Her laugh holds a sharp edge. “That’s the polite term.”
I let the silence linger before saying, “I don’t want easier, Jane.”
Her breath catches, audible even over the engine.
“I just want real.”
She falls silent for a moment, then rests her boot on the dash and says, “You may come to regret that statement, cowboy.”
The snow crunches beneath the tires, and silence stretches between us.
It should feel awkward, two strangers driving through the dark toward a cabin after just signing a contract. Instead, it feels like the calm after a storm, as if we both stopped holding our breath.
Then she smirks. “But if I find out you have a dungeon in that cabin, I reserve the right to flee into the woods.”
I smile, slow and sure. “If you run, I’ll catch you.”
She hums thoughtfully. “Guess we’ll find out if I want to be caught.”
Twenty minutes to the cabin. Twenty minutes filled with her questions, laughter, and noise I usually avoid. But I don’t want to avoid it. I want to drown in it. And that’s how I know I’m already in over my head.