Chapter 28 Sadie
TWENTY-EIGHT
SADIE
Sadie wasn’t entirely sure how she’d ended up mucking a stable. One minute, Carmen had dared her. The next, she was ankle-deep in something that definitely wasn’t mud, armed with a shovel and an overinflated sense of determination.
The snow had stopped, the sky was blue, and Quentin had very generously offered to drive her back to set that morning. But like a fool. A proud, stubborn fool. She’d said no.
It could be fun, she’d claimed.
Fun, apparently, was sweating inside Carmen’s backup overalls—designed for someone with at least six more inches of leg—while her oversized boots tried to launch her into low orbit with every step. She clomped around like a baby giraffe learning how joints worked.
Maybe it was the novelty. Maybe it was the weird, desperate urge to impress Quentin’s terrifyingly competent family. Or maybe she had simply flushed her common sense down the metaphorical toilet and waved as it disappeared. Either way, her crash course in farm life had been aggressive.
Feeding pigs felt like tossing snacks into an underground fight club. A chicken with clear homicidal tendencies had chased her halfway across the yard. And a goat with serious ex-con energy had gotten way too comfortable in her personal space.
And yet, somehow, she didn’t completely hate it. Aside from the sneezing.
She was allergic to every molecule in this place.
Grass, hay, the very air that had ever brushed up against a tree.
She had sneezed so many times a cow had stopped chewing long enough to judge her.
But even that couldn’t ruin the strange, buzzy feeling humming under her skin.
The air, when it wasn’t actively attacking her sinuses, felt cleaner.
Like her lungs were finally getting their act together.
And then there was Quentin.
God. She liked him more than she wanted to.
She had tried not to. Tried to cling to her grudge like a moral high ground life raft, proof she hadn’t forgotten how badly he had hurt her.
But after hearing the truth, after seeing the weight of it still living behind his eyes, that anger had started slipping through her fingers.
If she was being honest, and she hated that part, it had been fading for a while. Hating him had become a habit, a reflex. A shield. But somewhere along the way, she had stopped meaning it. And now, with his apology still echoing in her chest, something inside her shifted.
He hadn’t meant to get her fired. He hadn’t wanted to make her feel small. She could see that now.
For years, she had carried that moment like it was a verdict on her worth, when really, it had been a mirror for her worst fears. Her insecurities. That ugly little voice in her head that had been waiting for permission to doubt herself.
But she wasn’t that girl anymore. The indie projects, the long nights, the scrappy sets, the constant proving had earned her confidence the hard way. She knew she was good. Actually, she was great. And no one, least of all Quentin, could take that from her.
“I think we’ve tortured you enough,” Carmen said from behind her, lips curved in a sly grin. “You’ve passed the test. I just wanted to see if you’d actually muck.”
Sadie turned, wiping sweat off her brow with the back of her wrist. Her borrowed clothes clung to her, and she was fairly certain the smell of barn had permanently fused with her soul.
“You’re twisted,” Sadie said, laughing. “Like, actual Bond villain energy.” She sneezed violently. Somewhere, a chicken squawked in alarm.
“I’m not used to company,” Carmen admitted with a shrug.
“And I might have gotten a little carried away. Quentin hasn’t been around much since Delores passed.
He mostly just hires more ranch hands and wires Mom a small country’s GDP every month.
But he never brings people here. Ever. This place is usually more locked down than Area 51 during alien mating season. ”
Sadie froze under Carmen’s gaze, suddenly feeling like a deer caught in very judgmental headlights.
Her stomach dropped as a horrifying realization settled in. She hadn’t been brought here for a casual weather detour. She had been granted access to the inner sanctum. The sacred family compound. The emotional bunker.
She was eating homemade empanadas with his mother. She was shoveling actual manure. She was wearing borrowed overalls. She was doing suspiciously girlfriend-shaped activities.
“Things must be serious between you two,” Carmen added lightly, but her words landed like a grenade.
Sadie immediately choked on her own spit. She coughed so hard she nearly folded in half, one hand braced against the stall wall as she tried not to pass out and spiritually merge with the barn floor.
“Serious?” she croaked. “Oh my God, no. Absolutely not. We are not serious. We are barely functional.” She sucked in a breath, eyes watering. “I just stopped wanting to hit him with farm equipment like an hour ago.”
Her frantic hand gestures sent the shovel flying from her grip. It clanged against the concrete, startling several chickens into a full-blown panic.
But Carmen was undeterred, cutting her off with a knowing smirk. “Quentin wouldn’t bring you here if he didn’t trust you. And that alone is huge.”
Sadie’s mind whirled. Trust? Huge? What alternate dimension had she fallen into?
“No, no, no,” Sadie said quickly, shaking her head so hard she nearly gave herself whiplash. “This is a misunderstanding of catastrophic proportions. We are not dating.”
Her cheeks instantly betrayed her, blazing bright red as she added, “We’re just… friends.”
Which felt like a lie. Friends didn’t have highly questionable sexual tension and a history of unresolved emotional trauma.
Carmen raised one perfectly groomed brow and crossed her arms, unimpressed. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that. You young kids never want to label anything. Just floating around being slam pieces, side pieces, emotional support accessories. Too many pieces, if you ask me.”
Sadie’s jaw dropped.
“Slam pieces?” she repeated weakly. “Is that a real phrase you just said to my face?”
“Absolutely.”
“Aren’t you only, like, thirty-one?” Sadie asked, grasping desperately for logic.
“Thirty-two,” Carmen corrected with a dramatic sigh, as if those twelve months had aged her into ancient wisdom.
“But you twenty-year-olds are built different. My hand brushed Piggy Pete’s once and I envisioned our entire future.
Meanwhile, you’re out here doing… whatever this is with my brother and calling it friendship. I’m deeply concerned.”
Sadie stared. “Piggy Pete?”
“Focus.”
“I am trying, but the name Piggy Pete is demanding attention.”
“What are y’all talking about?” a deep voice interrupted. Of course, Quentin chose this exact moment to show up, stepping into the horse stall with a suspicious look that said he already regretted asking.
“Slam pieces,” Carmen said cheerfully.
“Piggy Pete,” Sadie blurted at the exact same time.
Quentin froze mid-step. “I’m sorry, what.” He turned slowly to his sister, horror written across his face. “Carmen. Please tell me Piggy Pete is not your slam piece.”
Carmen scoffed. “Like you’re one to talk.”
Sadie buried her face in her hands. “I cannot believe this is my life right now,” she muttered, wishing the ground would just open up and swallow her whole and put her out of her misery.
Carmen, completely unbothered, turned to Sadie with a wicked grin. “Girls have needs too, right, Sadie?”
“Leave me out of it!” Sadie yelped, backing away in blind panic. In her hurry, she lunged for the shovel she’d dropped earlier and immediately stepped on the blade.
The handle shot up and smacked her in the forehead with a loud thwack. Stars exploded behind her eyes. Then came gravity. Then came the sky. Then her butt, landing squarely in the muck.
“Oh, honey, are you okay?” Quentin’s voice rang out, panicked. He dropped to his knees unfazed by the questionable ground conditions. Most people would hesitate before belly-flopping into farm sludge. Quentin clearly wasn’t most people.
Sadie groaned, dazed and humiliated, as Quentin’s warm, callused hands gently cupped her face, tilting it toward him with a softness that made her brain melt. His thumb brushed beneath her cheekbone, his brown eyes scanning her face with an intensity that made her stomach flip.
“I mean, other than the fact that I just got assaulted by a shovel and baptized in horse poop? Living the dream.” she quipped weakly, her cheeks warming under his gaze.
“Seriously, Sadie,” he said, his voice low, each word carrying that calm he seemed to radiate. “Are you okay? Do you feel dizzy? Anything?”
“Yeah, I’m okay,” she replied, though her voice wobbled. She couldn't think straight. Was it the head injury, or was his ridiculously woodsy, fresh-cut-grass scent actively conspiring against her thought process? Because wow, unfair.
He gently touched the swelling bump on her forehead and she hissed.
“Let’s get some ice on this bump,” he murmured, his concern doing absolutely nothing to stop the warmth spreading in her chest.
Before she could protest, he just picked her up. Like she was a stray kitten or a wayward sack of potatoes. No hesitation. No visible effort. Just straight-up scooped. Sadie’s brain immediately blue-screened.
“Oh,” was all she managed, because honestly, what else was there to say when a man casually lifted you like gravity was merely a suggestion. She wasn’t tiny. She was a whole adult with bones and gravity and yet here he was, carrying her like she weighed as much as a misplaced thought.
And then, as if she weren’t already having a crisis, he pressed a soft, fleeting kiss to the top of her head. Sadie’s soul left her body. That was an unfairly intimate thing to do to someone currently experiencing mild brain damage.
Behind them, Carmen made an exaggerated gagging noise. Sadie peeked over Quentin’s broad shoulder, locking eyes with her. Carmen silently mouthed two words.
Just friends?
Sadie groaned and buried her face against Quentin’s chest, partly to avoid Carmen and partly because his chest was right there, warm and solid and objectively the best pillow she had ever encountered.
“You still with me?” Quentin asked, his voice laced with amusement. “You’re awfully quiet, it’s a little unnerving.”
He flashed a grin, all white teeth and easy charm. His teeth gleamed against the warm bronze of his skin, the late morning light spilling over him like liquid gold. It caught in his lashes, lit the curve of his jaw, and turned him into something unreal. Too pretty.
“You think so?” Quentin’s brows lifted, amused.
Her eyes snapped to his, mortified. Oh God. She definitely said that out loud.
His smile widened, slow and dangerous, the kind that curled heat low in her stomach. His laugh rumbled in his chest, and she felt it vibrate against her cheek.
“I’ve been thinking the same thing about you,” he said softly. “Since the first day on set, actually. Right after you gave me that look like you were fantasizing about stabbing me with a makeup brush.”
“I was. A tapered contour brush could absolutely maim if you know what you’re doing.” Her cheeks burned. “Also, I just hit my head, so I’m pretty sure I’m not legally responsible for anything I say right now.”
Quentin chuckled again, softer this time, and leaned just a little closer, enough to make her breath catch. “Then I’ll remember it for you.”
By the time they reached the main house, her pulse was still playing catch-up. He set her in a kitchen chair with a kind of ridiculous gentleness that made her chest ache in ways she wasn’t remotely prepared to unpack.
Then he turned to the freezer, rifled through it, and resurfaced like some rugged, ranch-raised Florence Nightingale, holding with a bag of frozen peas.
“You’re a walking hazard,” he said, pressing the bag carefully to her forehead. His fingers brushed her skin, light and warm. “A danger to yourself.”
Not as dangerous as you, she thought.
He didn’t move away. Just kept holding the peas in place, his fingers skimming her temple like it was nothing, completely unaware of the chaos he was wreaking on her nervous system.
What was this man doing to her? Dangerous things. Carmen was right. Whatever this was, it sure as hell wasn’t friend-like.