3. Jace
Chapter Three
JACE
I pull up outside of Lindsay’s apartment above the ranch gift shop at 4:57 AM, killing the engine but leaving the heat running. I take a moment to breathe in the quiet.
To remember all the reasons why I need to let this stupid crush go.
Lindsay deserves to be happy, and if that happiness is with someone else, then I need to be the kind of friend who supports that.
Even if every time I think about her with another man, it feels like someone’s taken a hot brand to my chest.
I’ve spent the last hour setting up the truck exactly how she likes it—her favorite blanket from the ranch house folded in thirds the way she showed me (“It keeps the warmth in better, Jace”), and her go-to road trip playlist queued up on my phone.
Two gas station coffees sit in my cup holders—the fancy cappuccino she claims is “basically milk with anxiety” but drinks anyway, and my plain black that she’ll inevitably steal half of. I’m so attuned to her habits that it’s become second nature, this choreography of caring for her without letting it show too much.
I grab my phone from the center console and text her:
Me: Your chariot awaits, princess.
Lindsay: It’s not even 5 yet!
Me: Some of us believe in being on time.
Lindsay: Did you remember to bring the tacos?
Me: Yep, got em right here. And they’re getting cold.
Lindsay: Coming!!!
The front door of her building opens and Lindsay walks out.
She’s wearing that oversized cream sweater that keeps slipping off one shoulder, paired with her favorite worn jeans that hug every curve. Her dark hair falls in waves around her face and she’s doing that little shuffling run she does when she’s cold.
It’s so freaking cute that I almost groan.
I grip the steering wheel harder, forcing myself to remember the decision I made after she turned down my New Year’s invitation.
Friends. We’re friends. Best friends.
And I’m not going to ruin that just because my heart doesn’t know how to stay in its lane.
“Look who’s actually on time,” she teases as she climbs in, bringing a burst of cold air and the scent of her vanilla shampoo with her. “And he comes bearing gifts.”
“You’re my navigator, remember?” I hand her the cappuccino, careful to keep my eyes on the cup instead of the way her sweater has slipped further off her shoulder. “Can’t have you falling asleep on me.”
“Please.” She takes a long sip. “Like I could sleep through your old man country music.”
“First of all, George Strait is a legend.” I pull out onto the empty street. “Second of all, this is your playlist, princess.”
Lindsay yawns. “Glad to know I’ve at least had some influence on you.”
There are shadows under her eyes that suggest she didn’t sleep well, and I fight the urge to brush my thumb across them, to ask what’s keeping her up at night.
“So,” I say instead, merging onto the highway. “These signs better be worth freezing our butts off at five AM.”
“They are.” Her whole face lights up, and damn if it doesn’t make my heart stumble in my chest.
She launches into the history of each sign, and I find myself smiling despite everything.
This is what I fell for first—her passion for everything she does, whether it’s modernizing our marketing or preserving the ranch’s history. She talks with her hands when she gets excited, nearly spilling her coffee twice, and I have to resist the urge to catch her gesturing fingers in mine.
“—and Mr. Henderson said his grandfather painted them himself, can you believe it?” She pauses, catching her breath, and I realize I’ve been staring at her instead of the road. At the way her eyes sparkle when she’s excited, at the dimple that appears in her right cheek when she really smiles. “What?”
“Nothing.” I force my eyes forward, reminding myself of all the reasons why I need to stop looking at her like that. “Just wondering how someone can be this energetic before sunrise.”
She huffs, pulling the blanket up to her chin. “Says the man who gets up at four AM to check the cattle.”
“That’s different. That’s work.”
“And this isn’t?”
“This,” I say, gesturing between us, “is you dragging me on a ten-hour road trip because you fell in love with some rusty metal.”
“They’re not rusty, they’re vintage.” But she’s smiling, and for a moment it feels like normal. Like we’re just Jace and Lindsay, best friends who bicker and laugh and definitely don’t think about each other in the middle of the night when the world gets too quiet.
Then her phone buzzes, and the smile falls from her face as she reads the message. That same shadow I’ve been seeing lately passes over her features, and she turns to look out the window.
“Everything okay?” I hate how careful my voice sounds, how much I’m trying to hide the jealousy that burns in my throat.
“Yeah,” she says too quickly. “Everything’s fine.”
It’s a lie.
I know it’s a lie because I know all her tells—the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, how she suddenly finds the passing scenery fascinating. We’ve been friends long enough that I can read her like one of those romance novels she thinks I don’t know she keeps hidden in her desk drawer. But lately, she’s become a chapter I can’t quite understand.
The sun is starting to peek over the horizon, but it’s a losing battle against the dark clouds rolling in from the west. The first few snowflakes are starting to fall, dancing in the headlights like tiny stars.
My weather app’s been lighting up with storm warnings all morning, but Lindsay was adamant about getting these signs today. When she sets her mind to something, there’s no talking her out of it—it’s one of the things I love most about her, even when it drives me crazy.
Her phone buzzes again, and this time she makes an impressed little sound in the back of her throat.
“What is it?” I ask, trying to keep my tone casual.
“Oh, it’s just Rachel.” Lindsay turns the phone to show me a photo of some sleek-looking bookshelves. “She’s officially starting her interior design business now that she’s done with the dating apps.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Uh oh. What happened?”
“Remember that guy she was seeing? The one who seemed promising?” Lindsay shakes her head, still looking at her phone. “Apparently he ghosted her after she showed up to dinner wearing a dress covered in Shakespeare quotes.”
I snort despite myself. “Seriously? That’s what scared him off?”
“Right? I told her it’s his loss.” Lindsay’s voice gets that protective edge it always does when she talks about her friends. “She deserves someone who appreciates her weird.”
“Everyone’s got their own brand of weird,” I say, thinking about how Rachel’s literary enthusiasm matches Lindsay’s passion for ranch history. “Some people just haven’t figured out how to embrace it yet.”
Lindsay turns to look at me, something soft in her expression. “That’s... surprisingly insightful, cowboy.”
I shrug. “I have my moments.”
She’s quiet for a minute, fidgeting with the corner of the blanket. “Do you think she’ll find someone? Who gets her?”
The question feels loaded somehow, like we’re not just talking about Rachel anymore.
“Yeah, I do. Sometimes the right person’s been there all along, you know? You just have to be brave enough to see it.”
The words hang between us, heavy with meaning I shouldn’t be putting there.
Lindsay’s already finished her coffee and is eyeing mine with those big brown eyes that have always been my undoing. Without a word, I hand it over, trying not to notice how our fingers brush in the exchange, or how that small touch sends electricity racing up my arm.
“My hero,” she says softly, and I have to look away from her smile before I do something stupid.
Like beg her to tell me who she’s meeting on New Year’s Eve, to give me a chance to prove I could be better for her.
An hour into our drive, the visibility has gone from bad to worse. The snow is falling harder now, thick flakes that promise the storm isn’t messing around. Lindsay’s been quiet for the past twenty minutes, obsessively refreshing her weather app and chewing her bottom lip—something she only does when she’s really worried.
“This doesn’t make sense,” she mutters, tapping her phone screen harder than necessary. “I checked three different forecasts last night. They all said the storm wasn’t supposed to hit until tomorrow afternoon.”
I squint through the windshield, trying to make out anything beyond the wall of white. The wipers are fighting a losing battle, and the wind is starting to push at the truck in a way I don’t like. “Weather’s got a mind of its own out here.”
“But the signs—” Her voice catches. “Mr. Henderson is expecting us. He specifically said today was the only day?—”
“Hey.” I reach over without thinking and catch her hand, stilling her nervous movement. “It’s going to be fine. We’ll figure it out.”
She stares at our joined hands for a moment before pulling away, and I try not to feel the loss. “I should have checked again this morning. I should have?—”
The truck slides slightly, and I tighten my grip on the wheel. “What you should do is help me look for somewhere to stop. We’re not making it to Antler Creek in this.”
“But—”
The protective instinct that always flares up around her is in full force now. “No buts, sweetheart. I’m not risking it.”
Lindsay looks like she wants to argue, but another gust of wind rocks the truck and she presses her lips together. “Okay. Yeah. You’re right.”
“There’s a ranch about two miles up that runs a B&B. The Circle J, I think. We’ll stop there. Wait until this storm passes.”
It takes us fifteen tense minutes to find the turnoff, and another five to navigate the winding driveway. Through the curtain of snow, the Circle J B&B emerges like something out of a winter postcard.
It’s a sprawling two-story ranch house with a wraparound porch and warm yellow light spilling from every window. Smoke curls from the river rock chimney, and someone’s hung evergreen wreaths with red ribbons on the front doors.
Under different circumstances, it would be romantic as hell.
I park as close to the entrance as I can, knowing Lindsay’s going to make a fuss about me being overprotective. Sure enough, when I jump out to help her down from the truck, she gives me that look—the one that says she’s perfectly capable of handling herself.
But the snow’s already halfway up to our ankles, and the wind is whipping her hair around her face, and sometimes a man’s got to risk annoying the woman he loves to keep her from falling on ice.
Somehow, we manage to make it to the front door of the inn in one piece. Before we can knock, the door swings open, bringing with it a rush of warmth and the mingled scents of cinnamon and woodsmoke.
The woman who greets us is exactly what you’d expect from a ranch B&B owner—silver hair in a neat braid, laugh lines around her eyes, and a warm smile that reminds me of my mama.
“Lord have mercy, you two look half-frozen,” she says, ushering us inside. “I’m Grace Jenkins. Been watching folks battle their way up our drive all morning. This storm’s turned into a real doozy.”
The entryway opens into a great room that could have been pulled straight from a magazine—soaring ceilings with exposed beams, a stone fireplace tall enough to stand in, and comfortable leather furniture arranged in conversational groupings. A massive Christmas tree still stands in the corner, its white lights twinkling against antique ornaments. Several other couples are scattered around, all looking as wind-blown and grateful for shelter as we must.
“We’re really sorry to drop in like this,” Lindsay starts, pulling off her snow-crusted gloves. Her cheeks are pink from the cold, her hair a mess of static and snowflakes. “We were trying to get to Antler Creek, but the storm?—”
Grace waves off the apology, moving behind a weathered desk that looks like it’s seen a century of travelers.
“Don’t worry about it, honey. You’re hardly the first folks to get caught out in one of our surprises. Though—” She pulls out a heavy leather ledger, running one finger down the page with a slight frown.
Something in her tone makes me tense.
I’ve heard that note before, usually right before someone’s about to tell me something I don’t want to hear.
Sure enough, after a few moments of page-flipping, she looks up with an apologetic smile. “Well folks, I’m afraid I’ve got good news and bad news. Good news is, I do have one room left.”
“And the bad news?” Lindsay asks.
Grace’s eyes flick between us, and I swear I see something knowing in her expression. “Bad news is, it’s got just the one bed.”