Make Me Yours (Millionaire Cowboys of Lucky Ranch #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Debt and Desire

Lilly

“Don’t get used to this, Sunny.”

My goldendoodle’s ears perked up as I tore the tag off a squeaky plush bone I’d pulled from the display shelf. “Inventory is not meant for freeloaders, even the four-legged kind.”

Sunny tilted her head, ears perked, eyes bright with the kind of anticipation that made resistance impossible.

With a dramatic sigh, I tossed the toy across the shop floor.

She scrambled forward, nails clicking against the wood before grabbing it, tail wagging like I’d just handed her the crown jewels.

“At least one of us gets a freebie,” I muttered, giving my apron a sharp tug.

The place reeked of roses and eucalyptus—sweet on the surface, suffocating if you stood in it too long. The cooler hummed like it owned the room, and every shelf gleamed with picture-perfect displays designed to scream buy me.

Too bad I couldn’t polish the numbers underneath. They were ugly enough to wilt the flowers on sight.

My phone was tucked between my ear and shoulder, the voice of Martin—my increasingly testy supplier—crackling through the line.

“Martin, I told you I’d review my books this week,” I said, straightening a display of fresh bouquets. “I’m aware my payments are late, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t sound quite so gleeful about it.”

Sunny lifted her head from the rug behind the coutner, the toy dangling from her mouth. Her golden eyes followed me as though she knew my frustration wasn’t just about invoices.

“Yes, I understand you have other clients,” I went on, pinching a brow with my free hand. “I’ll get back to you. I promise.”

It was the same line I’d been giving him for almost a month now. And every time I said it, it tasted more like sawdust.

I set a vase onto the counter harder than I should’ve, water sloshing dangerously close to the edge. In my head, my parents’ voices played on repeat—don’t worry about us, honey, the pension stretches far enough, the Lord always provides.

Yeah, sure. Fine enough that my brother had to wire them cash for a new water heater a few months ago. Fine enough that I’d sat at their kitchen table in Arizona, stared at their thinning hair and tired smiles, and written a check I couldn’t afford just so they could fix their air conditioner.

That check was the reason Martin’s invoices were stacked on my desk like a paper army, his clipped voice in my ear sharper by the day.

Their pride didn’t pay suppliers, and my attempt at being the “good daughter” had just about sunk me. Bloom & Vine had been my dream once. Now it felt like a battlefield lined with bills, and the only thing charging me was debt.

The movement caught me in the shop’s front mirror. A man’s reflection filled the glass, broad shoulders stretching a camo western shirt, jaw shadowed in stubble, presence impossible to ignore. My stomach tightened before my mind even finished his name.

Sawyer James.

Two weeks had passed since Callie and Rhett’s Hawaii honeymoon cruise.

Two weeks since I stopped waiting for him to make a move and decided to do it myself.

Reckless? Definitely. Worth it? I still couldn’t tell.

But then he was there, walking into my shop as if he hadn’t been haunting my dreams every night since.

“Do you have any ideas for Colt and Tessa’s twins’ first birthday?” he asked, voice low and steady, rumbling through me like distant thunder. Casual on the surface, but underneath…something off. Something restless.

The phone receiver nearly slipped from my hand. I pressed the mic tight against my chest, pulse hammering, forcing my mouth to move. “Take a look over there,” I said, gesturing vaguely toward the corner stocked with baby baskets, toys, and picture frames.

I spun back around, slipping into the role of “professional florist” like it was a costume I hadn’t quite grown into. My voice caught as I forced myself into conversation with Martin.

“Of course, I’m aware of your policy,” I murmured, though my eyes betrayed me, flicking to the mirror.

Sawyer didn’t hurry. He prowled the aisle like a bull dropped into a dollhouse, his broad frame swallowing up space meant for pastel receiving blankets and stuffed bunnies.

He didn’t touch a thing—just stared at the shelves like they were written in code he couldn’t crack.

Then, with a slow drag of his hand through his hair, he resettled that damn cowboy hat, the motion so familiar it punched the air out of me.

My chest pulled tight.

Martin droned on in my ear about invoice numbers, but all I heard was the sound of Sawyer’s palm grasping my waist, the press of his mouth in that cramped ship’s cabin.

I’d sworn it was a one-time mistake, a lapse I’d bury deep.

But staring at him in the glass, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to forget—or if I even could.

“Right, I’ll…review my books tonight,” I told Martin, forcing my voice steady before I hung up.

From my office door, I glimpsed Sawyer’s shoulders shift like he might turn, might catch me staring, and I ducked inside before he noticed. Cowardly, maybe, but the alternative was saying something I couldn’t take back.

From the crack in the door, I peeked again. He still hadn’t chosen anything. Still stood there, tall and alone, as though the shop itself was foreign territory.

My heart pounded, torn between marching out and helping him pick the perfect gift, or pretending I didn’t care whether he bought anything—pretending I didn’t care about him at all.

But before I could make up my mind, he turned and strode out, the sound of the door closing behind him final, almost sharp.

I dropped my phone onto the desk. Silence swallowed the shop whole, loud enough to make my pulse throb in my ears. I sank into my chair, staring at the glow of my laptop while every muscle hummed tight as a bowstring.

Sawyer’s image clung to me—broad shoulders dwarfing the shelves, that restless stance like he’d wandered into enemy territory but was too damn proud to retreat.

I should’ve gone out there. I should’ve played it cool, flashed a smile, and helped him pick out the cute, fluffy giraffe or a panda-print bib. That’s what any normal store owner would’ve done.

But normal women hadn’t spent a night on a cruise ship tangled up with Sawyer James. They hadn’t learned how dangerous it was to crave more from a man who didn’t believe in more.

I raked trembling hands through my hair and forced a glance toward the shop floor. From the office doorway, only the ghost of him lingered—his boots resonating against wooden planks, steady, unhurried, leaving.

I gripped the doorframe, heart thundering. I could still catch him. Step out, call his name, pretend I had an idea for the twins after all. Pretend my hands didn’t still remember the heat of his skin.

But my legs stayed rooted, betraying me. Wanting him was easy. Facing him? That was the hard part.

The memory of the cruise to Hawaii to celebrate Callie and Rhett’s marriage hit me like a wave—warm, dizzy, impossible to fight.

I’d gotten tired of waiting for Sawyer to make a move, so I marched straight into that cabin after dark, salt still clinging to my skin as if I’d dragged the ocean in with me.

The look on his face when I pushed the door shut behind me? Priceless. All shock and stubbornness, like he couldn’t decide if he should send me back out or pull me closer.

Spoiler: he went with option two.

His mouth had crashed into mine like he’d been starving for it. And those rough, calloused hands? Lord help me. They slipped under my robe, skimming over skin I hadn’t let anyone touch in years, leaving fire in their wake.

And then there was the morning after. Sheets twisted around my legs, his arm heavy over my waist, his breath warm against the back of my neck.

The ship rocked gently, and for one stolen second, it felt like we were suspended outside of time, in a world that belonged only to us. Then it was time to leave.

Too bad morning always comes.

I closed my eyes, fighting the swirl of emotions. If I went out there, what would I even say? Thanks for the reminder that I can’t stop thinking about you. Care to repeat our little mistake in a more convenient zip code?

Maybe I should go out there. Maybe I should call his name, close the distance, see if Hawaii still lingered for him the way it did for me. But my feet stayed planted, and I told myself it was safer this way—safer to pretend it hadn’t meant as much as my racing pulse swore it had.

And then I heard it—the low rumble of his truck engine turning over outside. The sound rolled through the walls of the shop, final and steady, like the ground giving way beneath me.

I moved to the window, parting the blinds just enough to see his profile behind the wheel. His jaw was set, his shoulders rigid, and his fingers gripped the steering wheel. He didn’t look back at the shop.

Sawyer just stared straight ahead as if the road before him held all the answers neither of us could find.

Relief flickered first. Relief that he hadn’t confronted me about us, hadn’t forced me into a conversation I wasn’t ready to have.

Then came the sting, sharper than I wanted to admit. Disappointment that he hadn’t stayed, hadn’t pressed, hadn’t given me any reason at all to believe Hawaii hadn’t been a mistake to him.

I leaned back in my chair, Sunny padding over to rest her head against my knee as if she could read the mess of my emotions. My hand drifted over her fur automatically, but my gaze stayed fixed on the empty parking lot beyond the front windows.

It was easier to pretend I didn’t care when he wasn’t standing right in front of me. Harder when I could still hear his voice asking me for something simple, and I couldn’t give him even that.

The sound of the door chime swung me upright before I could finish convincing myself I needed to move on. This time it wasn’t Sawyer. Just Marianne Carter, all energy and perfume, breezing into the shop like she owned the place.

“Lilly!” she sang out, sweeping toward the counter with the kind of purpose only a woman planning a dinner party could muster.

“I need something spectacular—twelve people, a long table, and you know I can’t do roses because of Tom’s allergies.

Think carnations, maybe? Or lilies. Not too funereal, though.

And I’ll need it for my dinner party next Friday evening. ”

I pulled the appointment book closer, flipped a page, and circled the spot with my pen. “Got it. Friday night. Hydrangeas, lilies, nothing funereal.”

At least Marianne always paid on time. Reliable money, even if it came wrapped in perfume and high-maintenance details.

Her words tumbled out as she leaned across the counter, and I let her enthusiasm wash over me. This I could handle. Arrangements, palettes, stem lengths—far easier than emotions I didn’t want to examine.

We talked options, me suggesting whites and blues with accents of greenery, her nodding with each flourish. The familiar rhythm of customer chatter settled me back into place, even if my pulse still hadn’t found its normal beat.

At least Marianne’s order would be paid in full, a bright spot against the stack of overdue invoices waiting on my desk.

Then she tilted her head, eyes narrowing with amusement. “By the way, was that Sawyer James I saw walking out a minute ago?”

My stomach dipped, but I managed a steady smile. “It was.”

Marianne’s laugh bubbled over. “Well, I’ll be. Never thought I’d see him in here buying gifts.”

I busied myself gathering snipped stems, careful not to let my hand tremble. “He didn’t buy anything,” I said lightly, as though it didn’t matter. “Guess even Sawyer James can’t commit to birthday gifts for a couple of kids.”

Marianne chuckled again, satisfied with the joke, and shifted the conversation back to vase sizes and ribbon colors. Within minutes, her order was sorted, and she left in a whirl of sunshine, promising she’d pick up the arrangement on Friday afternoon.

The door clicked shut behind her, and the quiet rushed back in. I exhaled slowly, my shoulders dropping.

Sunny padded over, nudging my hand with her nose until I scratched behind her ears. “Don’t look at me like that,” I whispered. “It was nothing.”

But the echo of Sawyer’s voice lingered in the space between the flowers and the silence, and I knew the truth I’d never admit out loud.

The sight of him—even for a moment—still made my pulse race.