7. Mila
MILA
The first snow arrives in early November, fat flakes drifting down like something out of a movie I would've kept walking without taking the time to notice. Now I stand on the guest lodge porch watching it accumulate on the mountains and feel something uncomfortably close to peace.
"You're staring again," Sadie says from behind me.
I turn to find her carrying a box of Christmas lights, grinning like she knows exactly what I'm thinking.
"I'm not staring. I'm observing."
"Sure. That's why you've been frozen there for ten minutes." She drops the box at my feet. "Make yourself useful. Harper's inside having a minor meltdown about garland placement."
"Why am I not surprised?"
"Because you've been here long enough to know how she operates."
The casual observation lands harder than it should. Long enough. Like I've been absorbed into the fabric of this place without even noticing.
Inside, Harper's standing on a ladder muttering to herself while holding three different garland options. Her hair's falling out of its ponytail and she's got that intense focus she gets when she's decided something matters more than it actually does.
"The silver looks cheap," she announces. "But the gold is too formal. The mixed might be trying too hard."
"It's garland," I point out. "No one's going to judge you."
"I'll judge me."
"Fair."
I grab the mixed garland and start draping it along the mantel while Harper continues her internal debate. Sadie joins us with the lights, and within an hour the lodge looks like Christmas exploded in the best possible way.
We step back to admire our work.
"Not bad," Sadie says.
"We're amazing," Harper corrects. "Mila, you're officially in charge of the holiday dinner decorations."
"I don't remember volunteering for that."
"Too late. You're already essential." She bumps my shoulder affectionately. "Face it. You're stuck with us."
The words wrap around something soft in my chest. Dangerous. Because getting attached to this place, these people, feels like setting myself up for inevitable disappointment.
But I can't seem to stop.
The following week I ride out with Harper and Sadie, the three of us taking the trail that winds through the valley toward the ridge. The landscape's transformed under snow, everything softened and quiet in a way that makes the world feel smaller. Safer.
"You're getting better," Harper observes, watching me guide Juniper around a fallen branch.
"Don't sound so surprised."
"I'm not surprised. I'm impressed. There's a difference."
Sadie rides up beside me, easy and confident in the saddle like she was born there. "You planning to stick around through winter?"
The question's casual but weighted. I keep my eyes on the trail ahead.
"Haven't decided yet."
"Liar."
"Excuse me?"
"You've already decided. You just haven't admitted it to yourself." She grins when I glare at her. "What? I'm right. You've been here months claiming it's temporary while slowly putting down roots."
"I haven't put down roots."
"You organized the entire holiday event schedule. You know every ranch hand by name. You steal Luke's hoodies on a regular basis."
"That's—those are just things people do when they're somewhere for a while."
"Exactly." Sadie's smile turns knowing. "You're somewhere for a while. Not just passing through."
Harper makes a thoughtful noise from her other side. "She's got a point. You've kind of embedded yourself here."
"I have not embedded myself."
"You literally reorganized Miguel's tack room last week because you said the chaos was offensive."
"It was offensive."
"And you baked cookies for Marcus's daughter's birthday."
"Everyone likes cookies."
"And," Sadie adds, "you've been working at the ranch almost full-time for three weeks now."
I open my mouth. Close it. They're not wrong.
Somehow without meaning to, I've woven myself into the daily rhythm of Blackwood Ranch.
Morning coffee with Harper. Lunch breaks spent trading sarcastic commentary with the ranch hands.
Afternoons buried in the office with Luke, fixing his disaster of a filing system and streamlining processes he's been doing manually for years.
Luke.
Who I'm definitely not thinking about.
Who I absolutely don't notice every single time he walks into a room.
"Speaking of the ranch," Harper says carefully, "how's working with Luke going?"
"Fine."
"Just fine?"
"What else would it be?"
Sadie and Harper exchange a look I pretend not to see.
"Nothing," Sadie says innocently. "Just making conversation."
"You're terrible at making conversation."
"I really am." She doesn't sound remotely apologetic. "But seriously. He seems less stressed lately. That's your doing."
"I just help with admin stuff."
"You do way more than that and you know it." Harper's voice goes soft. "You've made yourself necessary. In the best way."
The words stick with me long after we return to the barn. Made myself necessary. Like it's something I chose rather than something that happened while I wasn't paying attention.
By mid-November, I know the names of every guest currently staying at the ranch. I've learned which families prefer early morning trail rides and which couples want romantic sunset dinners. I've memorized Marcus's daughter's favorite color, Miguel's coffee order, Carter's wedding date.
I've become part of the ecosystem without meaning to.
One afternoon I'm in the barn helping Miguel sort tack when Wyatt appears, leaning against the doorframe with that particular brand of knowing amusement older men seem to specialize in.
"Afternoon, Mila."
"Wyatt." I don't look up from the bridle I'm untangling. "You here to bother Caleb or just generally cause problems?"
"Both. It's called multitasking." He steps inside, watching me work. "You settling in okay?"
"Define settling."
"Putting down roots. Making yourself at home. Planning to stick around past the initial 'this is temporary' deadline you set for yourself."
I finally look at him. "Does everyone on this ranch have opinions about my life?"
"Small town, sweetheart. Everyone has opinions about everything." His grin softens into something almost gentle. "For what it's worth, it's nice seeing you here. You're good for the place."
"I organize filing systems. It's not exactly heroic."
"You do more than that." Wyatt crosses his arms, considering me thoughtfully. "You make people laugh. You remember things about them. You show up." He pauses. "That matters more than you think."
My throat tightens unexpectedly. "I'm just doing what anyone would do."
"No. You're doing what Mila Torres does. Which is apparently make herself indispensable while pretending she's just passing through."
Before I can respond, he tips his hat and walks away, leaving me standing there with a tangled bridle and entirely too many feelings I don't know how to process.
The thing about winter in Montana is that it's both brutal and breathtaking. The kind of cold that bites through layers and makes your lungs ache, but the landscape looks like someone painted it specifically for aesthetic effect.
I've always loved winter in the mountains.
Even now, walking from my car to the office in the pre-dawn darkness with snow crunching under my boots, I can't help appreciating the sharp beauty of it. The way the world feels hushed. Expectant.
The office is dark when I arrive, but that's not unusual. Luke gets here early but I've started beating him most mornings because I hate the idea of him doing all this alone.
I flip on the lights, start the coffee maker, and settle at my desk to tackle the mountain of work that somehow never stops growing. Guest inquiries. Booking confirmations. Menu planning for the holiday dinner. Equipment maintenance schedules.
The list is endless.
But I'm getting good at this. Better than I expected. There's something satisfying about bringing order to chaos, about making systems work efficiently when they've been held together with duct tape and determination for too long.
An hour passes. Then two.
I'm deep in a spreadsheet when the door opens and Luke walks in, stopping short when he sees me.
"Morning," I say without looking up.
"What are you doing here?"
"Working. Same as you."
"It's six-thirty."
"I'm aware." I save the spreadsheet and finally meet his eyes. "There's coffee."
He just stands there, backlit by the hallway light, looking entirely too good for someone who probably slept four hours. His hair's messy like he didn't bother checking a mirror, and his flannel's only half-tucked into his jeans.
I shouldn't find that attractive.
I absolutely find that attractive.
"You don't have to come in this early," he says finally.
"Neither do you."
"It's my job."
"And I'm helping with your job. So here I am."
Luke crosses to the coffee maker, moving with that quiet efficiency he brings to everything. "You're going to burn out."
"Says the man who works sixteen-hour days."
"That's different."
"How?"
"Because I—" He stops. Exhales. "Because I've been doing this for years. I'm used to it."
"That doesn't make it sustainable." I lean back in my chair, studying him. "When's the last time you took a day off?"
"I take days off."
"When?"
He doesn't answer.
"That's what I thought." I turn back to my computer. "So I'm staying late tonight to help you catch up. Don't argue."
"Mila—"
"Not arguing, Luke. I'm staying. Deal with it."
The silence that follows is heavy but not uncomfortable. More like he's trying to figure out how to respond when we both know I'm not going to budge.
Finally he just shakes his head, almost smiling. "You're stubborn."
"I prefer determined."
"That too."
We fall into our usual rhythm—working in companionable quiet, occasionally trading observations about difficult guests or logistical nightmares. But there's an undercurrent now. Something that's been building since that almost-kiss by my car three weeks ago.
Something neither of us knows how to address.
The hours blur together. Morning shifts to afternoon. Afternoon bleeds into evening.
By the time I look up again, it's dark outside and the office is lit only by our desk lamps and the glow of computer screens.
"You should go home," Luke says quietly.
"So should you."
"I've got a few more things to finish."
"Then I'll stay until you're done."
"Mila—"
"I'm staying, Luke." I meet his eyes across the dim space. "You don't have to do everything alone. That's why I'm here."
Something shifts in his expression. Vulnerable. Almost raw.
"Why?" His voice is rough. "Why do you care so much about this?"
The question catches me off guard. Honest in a way that demands honesty in return.
"Because you work too hard," I say finally. "Because I hate watching you grind yourself down trying to hold everything together. Because—" I stop. Swallow. "Because I care about you. And I know that's probably not what you want to hear but it's true."
The confession hangs between us.
Luke stands slowly, moving around his desk toward me. Each step deliberate. Measured.
My heart hammers against my ribs.
He stops in front of my chair, looking down at me with an expression I can't quite read. "You care about me."
"Apparently."
"That's a terrible idea."
"Most of my ideas are terrible. I'm consistent."
His mouth quirks slightly. Almost a smile. "We should go. It's late."
"Okay."
But neither of us moves.
The office suddenly feels smaller. Warmer. Like the walls have contracted around us, leaving no space for anything except this moment and the tension crackling between us.
"Come on," Luke says softly. "I'll walk you out."
We gather our things in silence, turning off lights and locking up. Outside, the cold hits like a slap, sharp and immediate. My breath fogs in the air between us as we cross toward where I parked.
The ranch is quiet. Just wind through the pines and the distant sound of horses in the barn.
We reach my car and I turn to face him, keys already in hand.
"Thanks for staying," Luke says.
"Thanks for letting me."
We're standing too close. Close enough that I can see the way his breath clouds in the cold. Close enough to notice the exact shade of his eyes in the dim light from the barn.
Close enough that when he lifts his hand to my face, cupping my jaw with callused fingers, I stop breathing entirely.
"Mila." My name is rough. Uncertain.
"Yeah?"
"I shouldn't?—"
"I know."
But he leans in anyway. Slow enough that I could stop him. Should stop him.
And I almost let it happen.
Almost.
But at the last second I press my hand against his chest, stopping him just before our lips meet.
"Wait."
Luke freezes. "What?"
"I can't." The words taste like failure. Like giving up something I desperately want. "I can't do this to you."
"Do what?"
"Ruin your life." I drop my hand but don't step back. Can't seem to make myself move away even though I should. "Luke, you're—you're good. You're steady and responsible and you have your entire life figured out. And I'm?—"
"You're what?"
"A mess." The admission comes out quieter than I intended.
"I'm chaotic and I don't plan things and I've spent so many months claiming I'm leaving while secretly hoping maybe I could stay.
I don't know what I want. I don't know who I'm supposed to be anymore.
" I finally meet his eyes. "You deserve someone who has their shit together.
Not someone who's going to disrupt everything you've built. "
"What if I want disrupted?"
"You don't. Not really." I force myself to step back, putting necessary distance between us. "You're just—you're used to taking care of people. And I'm another project. Another thing to fix."
"That's not?—"
"It is." My voice cracks slightly. "And I care about you too much to let you make that mistake."
The words hang between us, heavy with everything I'm not saying. Everything I can't say.
Because the truth is I'm falling for him.
For his quiet strength and his terrible sense of humor and the way he notices things about people. For how he takes responsibility for everything while never asking for anything in return.
I'm falling for Luke Blackwood and it terrifies me because I'm still not sure I'm supposed to be here. Still not convinced I'm the kind of person who gets to stay in places like this with people like him.
"I should go," I whisper.
Luke doesn't argue. Just stands there watching me with an expression that makes my chest ache.
I climb into my car before I can change my mind. Before I can close the distance between us and kiss him the way every part of me is screaming to do.
As I drive away, I catch him in the rearview mirror—still standing exactly where I left him, hands shoved in his pockets, breath fogging in the cold Montana night.
And I hate myself a little bit for being too afraid to take what I want.
For being too afraid to be myself.