17. Hailey
Hailey
I feel awful watching Reed leave with that forced cheerfulness, but I keep telling myself it's for the best.
If letting him believe I have feelings for Dean is what it takes to make him back off, then so be it—even if it cuts deep to see that flicker of hurt on his face, the one he tried so hard to hide behind his smile. It was hard to watch. I hurt him, and I hate myself for it.
"It's fine," I tell myself, because I didn't have the strength to reject him.
All week I swore I would—but the second I saw him lying there in my bed, watching me with that low-lidded gaze, my throat went dry.
All I could think about was kissing him, crawling into bed with him, and riding him till kingdom come.
Even now, the images won't stop flashing through my mind—teasing me, tormenting me with what could've been.
I finally let out the breath I've been holding, but it does nothing to ease the tightness in my chest and shoulders.
A wild urge rises—to run after Reed and tell him the truth—but common sense wins out.
It's for the best. We needed to end it, for both our sakes.
The words loop like a mantra, enough to make me let go of the door handle.
I crack my neck and decide I need a shower before bed—I must smell like horse dung.
I've been learning so much over the past few weeks, and I'm grateful for it, but it's been exhausting.
Thankfully, starting next week, I'll be shifting into more logistics work with Dean, which means less stall mucking and a little more brain power.
The last time we talked, Dean asked if I planned to go all-in with livestock, and I think he assumed I was trying to start some kind of full-blown farm.
I guess I've mistakenly given off that vibe.
But I only have about twenty acres, and half of that's taken up by the lake, with another quarter lost to forest, so I don't have the space for livestock, even if I wanted it.
But in any case, that's not what I want. Not really.
I explained that I'm not trying to run a commercial farm.
I only want a little homestead—a family farm, like my parents used to dream about.
A few raised beds with potatoes, perhaps peas, onions, carrots, and cabbages, maybe hens for eggs.
Pumpkins in the fall. Enough for self-sufficiency.
And if I end up with any surplus, I'll trade it with other homesteaders or take it to the Saturday farmer's market.
That's it. Nothing big. A lifestyle choice, not a business venture. Something real. Tangible.
Dean nods, and I think for the first time, he starts to see I’m not just playing country-girl—I am serious about building a life here, quiet and simple as it may be.
Reed's offer to help renovate my roof shows he thinks I'm serious too—that he sees this isn't just some passing whim.
I sigh as Reed's expression fills my mind again, along with the memory of that assumption he made.
And the thing is… he's not entirely wrong.
I've found myself growing more attracted to Dean over the past few weeks—and even, oddly enough, to Lennon.
He still keeps his distance, but he's not actively hostile anymore.
And his daughter? She's so damn adorable she makes my back teeth ache.
Watching the two of them together softens something in me.
It eases a bit of the ache I carry from losing my own family.
Lennon reminds me of my dad—soft-spoken and gentle, but firm when he needs to be.
Dean is more commanding, but always fair, and he never underestimates me.
Still, what I feel for either of them doesn't come close to what I feel for Reed.
Reed makes me feel light. Happy. Brave, even. Like anything's possible.
They all move me in different ways—each one drawing out a different side of me.
It doesn't make any sense to be falling for three men, but that's what it feels like, no matter how many times I tell myself I'm being ridiculous.
Perhaps it's the grief—losing my aunt and uncle scrambled something in my brain.
Maybe this is another stage, one that comes before acceptance.
Or maybe it's plain old lust and loneliness.
Either way, it's not worth risking their friendship over.
Still feeling like absolute garbage, I shower and crawl into bed. It takes me almost an hour to fall asleep and I haven't been out for more than two when a knock rattles my door.
I'm a light sleeper by nature, so I jolt awake the moment I hear the knock. Groggy and a little anxious, I pad to the door and crack it open—only to find Dean standing there, wearing a grim expression.
"Sorry to wake you," he says. "But did Reed by any chance tell you where he was going? A few of the hands said they saw him leave your cabin earlier."
So much for being discreet, Reed. I blush and shake my head. "No, he didn't say anything. And we didn't, um… he came over, but I didn't…"
Thankfully, Dean understands without me having to finish the sentence. He gives me a clipped nod, though the worry never leaves his face.
"Is something wrong?" I ask.
"I'm not sure. He's not answering his phone, and it's pretty late."
"Yeah." I glance at the clock. It's past two a.m. "Is it… um, is it unusual for him?"
"To disappear at night? Not really," Dean says. "But he always takes his phone. Anything can happen on those roads, and a phone call is the only way I know he's not lying in a ditch somewhere. The phone's not off, but he's not answering. That's what worries me."
"Maybe he doesn't want to talk." I hesitate, then decide to come clean. "We had… sort of an argument when he was here. I think that might have something to do with it."
Dean raises an eyebrow, and I blush, suddenly unsure what to say.
"You turned him down?"
I nod. "Yeah. And I kind of… let him believe I had feelings for you.
" His eyebrows shoot up, and my face burns even hotter as I rush to explain.
"Not that I do—but he assumed, and I didn't correct him.
I figured it was the easiest way to make sure he didn't think there was still a chance between us. "
Dean's eyes stay locked on me, his fathomless gaze prickling across my skin like a thousand tiny needles. I can't find my voice—my chest is tight, my breath ragged—and finally, he coughs, breaking the silence.
The phone rings, saving us both. Dean reaches into his pocket to answer it, and only when he looks away do I manage to exhale and fan myself, trying to calm the heat building inside me.
"Hello?" he says.
I can't hear what the person on the other end of the line is saying, but I can see the tension tightening in Dean's face. His jaw clenches, deep lines forming on his forehead.
"Alright, I'm on my way," he says flatly, then hangs up and glares at the phone like it personally offended him.
"Well, that solves the mystery."
"What do you mean?"
"He's in jail."
My eyes widen. "Huh?"
"Apparently he got himself into some kind of bar fight," Dean says, rubbing a hand over his face, weariness dragging at his features. "This is the last fucking thing I needed tonight."
"I'll go with you." The words are out before I can think better of them.
Dean raises an eyebrow. "You sure that's a good idea?"
He has a point. If Reed had got into a fight because of me, me showing up at Dean’s side probably won't help matters.
"Probably not," I admit. My concern for Reed pushes me to go, but this isn't about what I want, it's about what he needs.
Dean nods. "I'll let you know what happens."
"Yeah, please keep me in the loop." He nods again and heads off.
Sleep is impossible. I lie there, staring at the ceiling, wondering how Reed ended up in a bar fight and whether he got hurt. The longer I stew, the more irritated I get. Who gets into a fight simply because they were rejected? I didn't think Reed was the type to lose his temper that easily.
I don't sleep, but I keep an eye on the window and an ear out for Dean's truck. When it finally pulls in, just before dawn, I bolt from bed and hurry toward the kitchen—the same direction they're headed. We arrive at the same time, from different doors.
Reed sees me first. He gives me a crooked smile, despite the big shiner blooming across his left eye.
"What happened?" I ask, reaching out to touch the bruise. He winces slightly at my fingers. "What did you get into a fight about?"
Dean snorts. "Oh, he'll tell you it wasn't about a girl, but it was."
"Nuh-uh," Reed says, scowling. "That's not what happened. Some woman was flirting with me and I wasn't interested, so she got her asshole brothers to jump me. I held my own—but the cops saw the damage and decided I must've started it."
Dean crosses his arms. "You realize they could've been armed? Or come at you with something worse next time?"
"Did you miss the part where I said I was ganged up on? How the hell is that my fault?" Reed snaps, then catches sight of me and visibly reins himself in. "It's not your fault, either, in case you're thinking about it. It's theirs, plain and simple. Anyway, I'm fine now."
"Are you sure?" I ask softly.
He gives me a crooked smile, trying his best to look nonchalant. "Yeah."
Later that morning, before daybreak, I head to Dean's office. I'd barely slept, but I can't lie around doing nothing—not with this guilt gnawing at me.
He's standing by the window when I arrive, staring out with a pensive look on his face. I step closer, and he glances at me once, his eyes sharp, intense.
He speaks before I can. "It's fine. He'll get over it."
"What?"
"You're probably blaming yourself," Dean says. "Don't. He's an adult. He fought because he wanted to—because he can't stop himself from doing stupid shit sometimes."
My feelings of guilt only sharpen. "I… I shouldn't have let him believe I was in love with you."
"That has nothing to do with this," he says, firm. "He doesn't get to decide who you have feelings for."
"Yes, but I shouldn't have used you like that," I say quietly. "It could mess with your friendship—your business—and that's the last thing I want."
"Hailey." He turns suddenly, cutting off my panic with one word and a gaze sharp enough to silence thought. "Stop."
It's the first time he's said my name, and the effect is immediate—a gasp escapes my lips, and a ripple of heat flashes through me. He said it in that deep, commanding voice, and it sends lust pouring through my veins like wildfire.
He notices.
I see it in the way his eyes darken, flicking to my lips. For a second, we both hesitate—suspended in something electric—and then he leans in, capturing my mouth with a groan that sounds more like surrender than desire.
The kiss is wild and unrestrained, stealing every breath from my lungs and leaving me dizzy. It's desperate—like we're both trying to devour something we've been starving for. He swears into my mouth, words slurred between kisses.
"Fuck, we shouldn't be doing this," he groans.
"Fuck. Fuck." But he doesn't stop—not kissing me, not touching me.
And I can't stop either. I know it's wrong, but I need this.
I need it so badly. His tongue tangles with mine, his taste already imprinting itself on me.
One hand cradles the back of my neck, his grip full of command and hunger, while the other anchors me to him.
I kiss him back with everything I have, curling my fists into his shirt to stay grounded.
" Please, " I whisper, not even sure what I'm asking for—just needing him… or needing something. Heat. Passion. A release from the ache that's burning through my body.
He answers by sweeping an arm around my waist and lifting me off the ground. A crash follows—the sound of his desk being cleared—and then I'm on it, perched and breathless.
He leans in again, his voice low and rough with hunger. "I want to taste you."
The way he says it—quiet, reverent, like a confession—sends a tremor straight through me. My breath hitches, my legs parting on instinct as his fingers slide along my thighs.
He unfastens my jeans slowly, giving me every chance to stop him. I don't. I lift my hips to help, desperate to feel his hands on me. He peels them down, tugging the denim over my knees, then hooks a finger into my panties and draws them away too—soft, sure, and unhurried.
"Jesus," he murmurs, the word caught between reverence and disbelief. "You're so damn beautiful."
He lowers himself into the chair, positioning himself between my legs like a man who's already decided he's not leaving until he's done his best to make me forget my own name. His hands slide under my thighs, anchoring me in place, and then he leans in—his breath hot, his mouth hungry.
The first flick of his tongue has me gasping.
The second has my head falling back, fingers scrabbling for the edge of the desk.
His mouth is sure, focused, like he's memorizing every reaction I give him.
The pressure is perfect. The rhythm relentless.
My body feels molten, every nerve firing at once.
By the time he adds his fingers—slow, deliberate—I'm already teetering on the edge. One more stroke, and I shatter, breathless and wrecked, his name tumbling from my lips like a prayer.
When I finally open my eyes, he's watching me, his lips slick, his gaze dark and unreadable. And I know—even before either of us speaks—that what has happened can't be undone.