Beau Hatless in Oklahoma #2
Winnie snorted beer through her nose, coughing and laughing simultaneously. "Harold was a menace. Attacked the mailman twice before someone finally relocated him to a farm that appreciated his energy."
"This ranch has the most chaotic animal population I've ever encountered," I said. "Pickles the demon rooster, homicidal rabbits, peacocks named Harold—"
"Don't forget the goat that ate half of Cassie's truck interior," Winnie added.
"There's a goat?!"
"Not anymore. He's at Tyler's place now, terrorizing different vehicles."
Halfway through the meal, after Pops had cracked the Dom Pérignon with a flourish that sent bubbles fizzing everywhere, he leaned back in his chair and studied me with that gentle curiosity he had. "So Beau—tell me about your daddy. He still runnin' that company like it's his whole world?"
The question landed soft but heavy, and I set down my fork carefully. "Yeah. Sterling Corp is... everything to him. Work's his religion, success is his god. We talk, but it's always about business—quarterly reports, expansion plans, who I need to network with. Never really... personal."
"That's a lonely way to live," Pops said, no judgment, just observation. "My daddy was hard too. Didn't talk much about feelings. But we had the ranch—workin' side by side, that was how we connected. Didn't need words for that."
"My dad and I don't have that. We have board meetings masquerading as dinner.
" The champagne was loosening my tongue, making honesty spill easier.
"I love him, I think. But we're strangers who happen to share DNA and a last name.
My mom's the same—her calendar's booked with charity galas and society lunches. There's no room for actual... family."
"Sounds hollow," Winnie said quietly, her eyes soft on mine.
"It was. Is." I met her gaze. "Being here feels different. Like people actually see me instead of just the name tag."
Pops nodded slowly, refilling glasses. "That's what family should be, son. Seein' who someone really is, not who they're supposed to be."
The words settled warm in my chest, and we shifted to the living room with the champagne bottle and leftover beers. Pops dug out a battered deck of cards and taught me spades—his favorite, involving bids and strategy that twisted my champagne-buzzed brain into knots.
"You're bluffing," Winnie accused after I won a trick, eyes narrowed in mock suspicion.
"Pure skill. I'm a natural."
"You bid nil with three face cards. That's not skill, that's suicide."
"Optimistic suicide."
She won the next four tricks in a row, crowing triumphantly each time. As she leaned forward to collect the cards, her oversized tee shifted—gaping just enough that I caught a glimpse of cleavage, the soft swell of her breasts, the shadow where fabric couldn't quite hide her curves.
Heat slammed through me, immediate and visceral.
My brain—traitorous, hormone-addled, champagne-soaked—veered straight into dangerous territory, imagining what she'd look like if I peeled that shirt off slowly, tasting every inch of newly exposed skin.
Her head tipping back as I kissed down her neck, hands fisting in her hair.
The sounds she'd make if I pressed her into the couch cushions, her legs wrapping around my waist as I—
Fuck. I shifted hard, crossing one leg over the other to hide the insistent throb in my jeans. This was a problem. A serious, physical problem that Winnie remained completely oblivious to, humming along to the Merle Haggard song Pops had put on the radio, shuffling cards with easy focus.
Two weeks without sex, surrounded by nothing but cows and manual labor, and now? My hormones had apparently decided that Winnie—my boss, my childhood friend, the woman who'd saved my life today—was the perfect target for every pent-up fantasy I'd been suppressing.
She tucked a curl behind her ear absently, and I imagined threading my fingers through those curls, tilting her head back to access her throat, feeling her pulse jump under my tongue. Her nails would drag down my back, leaving marks, her voice breaking on my name as I—
"Beau? Your turn."
"What?" My voice came out rough, and I cleared my throat. "Right. Cards. Focus."
"You look flushed. Too much champagne?"
"Something like that." I tossed a card blindly, missing the suit entirely because I was too busy trying not to picture her straddling my lap, that tee bunched up around her waist, my hands gripping her hips as she—
Jesus Christ. Get it together.
"You're distracted," she observed, gathering the trick with a smirk. "Already conceding defeat?"
"Never. Just... strategizing."
"Sure you are."
The game blurred into comfortable rhythm, our banter easy and warm, Pops chuckling at our competitive jabs.
He finally bowed out around ten, stretching with an exaggerated groan.
"Alright, you young fools. This old man's hittin' the hay.
Y'all don't stay up too late—we still got mornin' chores, and Beau's got a hat to find. "
"Night, Pops," we chorused, and he disappeared upstairs, leaving us alone with the last of the champagne and a quiet that felt charged somehow.
Winnie curled into the far end of the couch, bare feet tucked under her, glass dangling from her fingers.
Lamplight caught gold undertones in her dark curls, highlighted the curve of her jaw, the full bow of her lips.
She looked peaceful, completely unguarded—the same Winnie from those childhood summers, all fearless energy and unexpected kindness.
And it actually came back to me, she'd been my anchor back then.
The girl who'd shown me that fireflies weren't just bugs but tiny magic, who'd defended me from teasing cousins, who'd made a terrified city kid feel brave enough to try anything.
My first real friend, chosen not for what my name could do but for stupid jokes and shared secrets under the stars.
How the hell had I let that fade? Buried those summers under layers of parties and pretense, like they were childish things to outgrow instead of the foundation they should've been.
"I need to tell you something," I said, champagne making me reckless. "And it might be the alcohol talking, but I think it needs saying."
She tilted her head, curious. "Okay?"
"I had the biggest crush on you when we were kids.
Not romantic—we were too young for that.
But I thought you were the coolest person alive.
You knew everything, could do everything, and you never made me feel stupid for not knowing.
Following you around made me feel... brave.
Like I could handle anything as long as you were there. "
Her expression softened, something vulnerable flashing across her face. "Beau—"
"And then we stopped coming after Nana died, and I just..
. forgot. Moved on with my life like you didn't matter, like those summers were just vacation memories instead of the best part of my childhood.
" I looked at her directly. "But they did matter.
You mattered. And I'm sorry I forgot that for so long. "
She was quiet for a long moment, thumb tracing the rim of her glass, eyes distant. "We were kids. Life got complicated. We talked about it already, grief makes people do weird things—like disappear instead of dealing with it."
"I know, but still doesn't make it okay that I vanished on you."
"No. But you're here now. That's gotta count for something."
"Does it?"
"Yeah. It does." Her smile was small but genuine, carrying weight.
"Those summers mattered to me too. You were the only kid who didn't care that I was different—the Black girl with white grandparents on a ranch in the middle of nowhere.
You just wanted to catch frogs and hear about the horses. That meant a lot."
The confession hung between us, precious and fragile.
"I'm really glad I ended up back here," I said quietly. "Even with the screaming and the lost hat and my complete inability to stay on a horse without incident. I'm glad the universe—or my asshole father—dropped me here. With you."
"You're definitely drunk," she said, but her voice was warm.
"Drunk and honest. There's a difference."
She lobbed a throw pillow at my head, and I caught it, laughing, and for just that moment everything felt perfect—like the chaos and the fear and the embarrassment had all been leading to this exact feeling.
Sitting on a worn couch with someone who'd known me before I learned to perform, rediscovering the easy connection we'd lost.
Even if my jeans were still uncomfortably tight and I desperately needed another cold shower.
Some things, I was learning, were absolutely worth the wait.
BEAU
Pops secret
Pawhuska, Oklahoma
14H30
"The best way to keep a secret is to have two people who care more about each other than the truth."
– Unknown
***
Three weeks in, and I no longer flinched at the smell of horse manure.
This was either significant character development or a sign that my olfactory nerves had simply given up and died.
Either way, Winnie would probably beat my ass with a riding crop if I complained about it again, so I’d learned to keep my mouth shut and breathe through my nose like a functional adult.
(Which was, frankly, surprising even to myself.)
The expensive sandalwood soap I’d brought from Dallas? Completely overpowered by eau de ranch. I smelled like hay, sweat, and something vaguely horse-adjacent that no amount of showering could fully eliminate. My father would be horrified. Z would probably laugh himself sick.
But the weird thing? I was kind of okay with it.