12. Luke
LUKE
The office door swings open without warning, and I barely glance up before my dad's voice cuts through the silence.
"Dean's back."
My head snaps up. "What? When?"
"About an hour ago." Dad leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Drove in alone. No Colt. No Rhett. Just him and his truck."
That's unusual enough to pull my attention away from the spreadsheet I've been staring at without actually reading for the past twenty minutes. Dean always makes an entrance. Always brings the rodeo crew with him, turning the ranch into a rotating party of cowboys and chaos.
"He say why he's here?" I close my laptop, genuinely curious now.
"Nope." Dad’s steel-blue eyes assess me in that way he has—the one that sees too much. "Said he's laying low at his place for a while. Thought you might want to head over there. Check on him."
The unspoken meaning hangs in the air: and maybe get your head straight while you're at it.
I resist the urge to ask if I'm that obvious. "Yeah. I'll go see him."
"Good." Dad straightens from the doorframe but doesn't leave immediately. "Harper mentioned Mila seemed upset earlier. Left the office looking like she needed some air."
My stomach drops. "She's fine. Just needed a break."
"Right." The single word carries enough weight to flatten me. "Sure she did."
He leaves before I can defend myself, which is probably for the best since I don't have a defense. Because Mila wasn't fine, and I'm the reason she wasn't fine, and I've spent the entire day being a coward about it.
I gather my things mechanically, avoiding the desk where she sat all morning. Where I could smell her shampoo every time she moved. Where I heard every small sound she made—the tap of her nails on the keyboard, the rustle of papers, the soft sigh when I wouldn't look at her.
The guilt sits heavy in my chest as I head out to my truck.
The drive to Dean's cabin takes about eight minutes along the service road that connects all three of our places. His cabin sits between mine and Dad's, tucked into a grove of aspens that turn brilliant gold in autumn but are skeletal now against the gray November sky.
Dean's truck is parked out front, mud splattered up the sides like he drove straight through from wherever he'd been. No other vehicles. No sign of the usual entourage.
Something is definitely off.
I park beside his truck and climb out, boots crunching on gravel as I approach the porch. The door's unlocked—it always is—so I let myself in.
"You planning to rob me or just being rude?" Dean's voice carries from somewhere inside.
"Little bit of both." I follow the sound to find him in the kitchen, pulling beers from the fridge. He looks tired. Not rodeo-tired, which involves bruises and stiff movements. This is something deeper. Something in his eyes.
He tosses me a beer without comment, grabbing two more before jerking his head toward the porch. "Outside. It's too nice to waste."
Nice is generous. It's forty degrees and overcast. But I follow him anyway because Dean's always preferred cold air to closed spaces.
We settle into the worn wooden chairs on his porch, beers cracked open, silence stretching between us in the way it only can with family. Dean stares out at the trees, expression unreadable.
"So," I say finally. "What's going on?"
"Nothing."
"Right. That's why you showed up alone and unannounced in the middle of the season."
He takes a long pull from his beer. "Circuit changes. Reshuffling some events. Figured I'd take a break."
It's a lie. Or at least not the whole truth. Dean doesn't take breaks during the season unless he's injured. And he looks fine physically—no limp, no favoring a shoulder, no signs of the wear that usually sends him home.
But I don't push. We've never been the type of brothers who force conversations.
"How's the ranch?" Dean asks after another stretch of silence.
"Same as always."
"Guest numbers holding steady?"
"Yeah. Bookings are actually up for next season."
"Good." He nods slowly, still not looking at me. "That's good."
More silence. I watch a hawk circle overhead, riding thermals I can't see.
"What the hell crawled up your ass?" Dean turns to me suddenly, eyes sharp. "You look worse than I feel."
"I'm fine."
"Bullshit." He shifts in his chair to face me directly. "You've looked like you got kicked by a damn horse. What's going on?"
"Nothing. Just busy season prep?—"
"Dad said there might be something going on with a girl."
The beer pauses halfway to my mouth. "Dad said what?"
He's fucking meddling.
"You heard me." Dean's expression is almost amused now, which is infuriating. "He didn't give me details. Just mentioned you've been weird lately and it might have something to do with Sadie's friend. The one who's been helping you with the office work."
Heat crawls up the back of my neck. "There's nothing?—"
"Luke." Dean cuts me off, voice firm. "I've known you my entire life. I can tell when you're lying, and you're lying right now. So either tell me what's actually going on or stop wasting both our time pretending you're fine."
I grip my beer tighter, jaw clenching. The urge to deflect is overwhelming. To shrug it off and change the subject and keep everything buried where it belongs.
But maybe I'm tired of burying things.
"I slept with her." The words come out rougher than intended.
Dean blinks. Once. Twice. Then a slow grin spreads across his face. "Well, shit. Didn't see that coming."
"Don't." I point my beer at him warningly. "Don't make this into some joke."
"I'm not joking." He holds up his hands in mock surrender. "I'm genuinely surprised. Proud, even. When was the last time you did something for yourself that wasn't ranch-related?"
The question hits harder than it should.
"Last night," I mutter. "In the office. And now I've completely fucked everything up because I don't know how to handle it."
"Handle what? Sex? Pretty sure you've done that before."
"Not with—" I stop, frustrated. "Not with someone I actually care about, Dean.
Not with someone who works for me. Not with someone who's Sadie's best friend and who's only supposed to be here temporarily and who deserves a hell of a lot better than me spiraling and treating her like she's invisible the next day. "
The words spill out faster than I can stop them, months of suppressed want and fear and confusion finally breaking through the careful control I've maintained.
Dean's grin fades. "You treated her like she's invisible?"
"I didn't—" I press the heel of my hand against my forehead.
"I didn't know what else to do. She walked in this morning with coffee and that smile and I just...
I panicked. Because last night felt important and I don't know how to do important.
I know how to handle logistics and fix problems and keep everything running smoothly.
I don't know how to want someone this badly and not fuck it up. "
"So instead you're fucking it up by being distant and weird?"
"Apparently."
Dean shakes his head slowly. "Luke. Brother. I say this with love: you're being an idiot."
"Helpful."
"I'm serious." He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "You slept with a woman you clearly have feelings for, and instead of taking her out properly or talking to her like an adult, you're treating your relationship like it's something shameful. Like you did something wrong."
The accusation stings because it's accurate.
"I did do something wrong," I argue. "She works for me. She's Sadie's friend. She's only here temporarily because she needed a break from her life, not because she's planning to stay. And I took advantage of?—"
"Did she want it?"
"What?"
"Did she want to sleep with you?" Dean's voice is patient but firm. "Or did you somehow trick her into it against her will?"
"Of course she wanted it." The suggestion is offensive. "She initiated half of it."
"Then you didn't take advantage of anything." He takes another pull from his beer. "You both wanted each other. You acted on it. Now you're treating her like a mistake because you're scared. Am I getting this right?"
I don't answer, which is answer enough.
"You're already invested," Dean continues quietly. "Whether you want to admit it or not. You wouldn't be this torn up about one night if she was just some temporary employee. You care about her. She clearly cares about you. So stop making this more complicated than it needs to be."
"It is complicated."
"No, it's not." He shrugs. "You like her. She likes you. Ask her to dinner. See where it goes. Stop overthinking every possible way it could go wrong and just let yourself have something good for once."
The simplicity of it is almost laughable. As if I can just flip a switch and suddenly know how to be with someone. How to want something without immediately calculating all the ways it could fall apart.
"What if she leaves?" The question comes out quieter than intended.
Dean's expression softens. "Then she leaves. But at least you'll have tried. At least you'll have let yourself want something instead of just handling everyone else's lives while yours passes by."
The observation cuts deep because it's exactly what Mila said to me last night. That I deserve more than just work. That I'm allowed to want things for myself.
I've spent so many years being the dependable one. The one who stays. The one who manages everything so Dad doesn't have to and Dean can chase his dreams and the ranch keeps running smoothly. I don't know how to be anything else.
But maybe I don't want to be just that anymore.
The realization sits heavy in my chest, uncomfortable and undeniable.
"I don't know how to do this," I admit finally.
"Do what? Date someone?" Dean laughs, but it's not unkind. "Luke, you're thirty-four, not sixteen. Just ask her to dinner. Talk to her. Stop avoiding her like she's contagious. It's not that complicated."
"Everything feels complicated with her."
"Because you actually care." He stands, stretching. "That's supposed to feel complicated. It means it matters."
I stare down at my beer, thoughts churning.
Dean's right. About all of it. I am treating what happened like it's shameful instead of acknowledging that I wanted it—wanted her—more than I've wanted anything in longer than I can remember.
I've been so focused on all the reasons it shouldn't work that I haven't stopped to consider that maybe it could.
That maybe she actually wants me too.
The possibility terrifies me.
"She brought me coffee this morning," I say quietly. "Was nervous. Kept fidgeting with her sleeves. And I couldn't even look at her because I was too busy panicking about everything it meant."
"So fix it." Dean's voice is matter-of-fact. "Go tell her you're sorry for being an ass. Take her somewhere that isn't the ranch office. Show her you actually give a damn instead of making her guess."
"What if I'm not what she needs?"
"Then let her decide that." He heads toward the door, pausing to look back at me. "But stop deciding for her. She's a grown woman who knows her own mind. Give her some credit."
The words linger after he disappears inside, leaving me alone on the porch with my thoughts and a half-empty beer.
I'm already emotionally invested. Have been for weeks, if I'm being honest with myself. Maybe since the first day she walked into my office with that chaotic energy and those expressive hazel eyes and started reorganizing my entire system without asking permission.
She disrupted everything. Made herself essential. Carved out a space in my carefully controlled life that I didn't know was empty until she filled it.
And when I finally let myself have her, it felt like the most honest thing I've done in years.
So why am I treating it like a mistake?