16. Luke
LUKE
By February, I'm happier than I've been in years.
Maybe ever.
It's there in the way I wake up with Mila sprawled across my chest, stealing all the blankets.
How she's turned my organized chaos into actual organization, color-coded and efficient in ways that shouldn't be sexy but absolutely are.
The sound of her laugh echoing through the office when something ridiculous happens—which is often, because ranch guests are creative in their ability to create problems.
She fits. Into my space, my routine, my life. Like she was always supposed to be here and I just didn't know what was missing until she showed up.
But beneath the happiness, fear grows like ice under snow—quiet, hidden, dangerous.
Because Mila still talks about my home like it's not quite real.
"This weather is insane," she says one morning, staring out my kitchen window at fresh snow. "Like, actual movie weather. Nobody lives like this in real life."
My coffee tastes bitter suddenly. "People live like this."
"You know what I mean." She waves her mug vaguely. "It's all so... picturesque. Like we're in some alternate universe where everything's simpler and prettier and not as messy as the real world."
The real world. Where she used to live. Where she might go back to.
"Yeah," I manage. "I guess it is pretty different from the city."
She doesn't seem to notice the tension in my voice, already moving on to complain about her laptop freezing again. But the comment sits heavy in my chest for the rest of the day.
She does this sometimes. Mentions how "surreal" ranch life feels. How she "can't believe people actually live this way." How it's like "playing cowgirl for a while."
Playing. Temporary. Not permanent.
I want to ask what she means. If here could ever be real life for her, or if I'm just... what? A detour? A scenic rest stop before she gets back on the highway toward wherever she's actually going?
But I don't ask.
Because I'm terrified of the answer.
March arrives with muddy ground and the first hints that winter might actually end eventually. The ranch starts preparing for spring—equipment maintenance, early trail rides for the brave guests, plans for summer operations.
Mila's been here a year now. A year of her chaos and laughter and endless questions. Half a year of her making my life immeasurably better just by being in it.
And I'm falling for her.
Probably already fallen, if I'm honest. Somewhere between the first time she reorganized my disaster of a filing system and the night she convinced me to build that ridiculous snowman.
Maybe even earlier—that first day when she showed up at the ranch looking for company and I couldn't stop noticing details about her I had no business noticing.
It doesn't matter when it happened. Just that it did, and now I'm completely gone for this woman who treats the ranch like a temporary adventure.
"You're brooding again," Mila announces one afternoon, not looking up from her laptop.
"I'm working."
"You're staring at the same email you were staring at twenty minutes ago." Now she does look up, eyebrows raised. "What's going on in that complicated brain of yours?"
Everything. Nothing I can say without sounding desperate or needy or like I'm trying to trap her here.
"Just thinking about summer bookings," I lie. "We're already at capacity for July and it's only March."
"That's good, right?"
"It's great. Just means everything needs to run perfectly or we'll have angry guests."
She studies me for a moment longer, then returns to her screen. "Well, lucky for you, I'm excellent at managing angry guests. And everything else that breaks around here."
"Yeah. Lucky for me."
The words come out more sincere than I intend, and she glances up again with a soft smile that makes my chest ache.
"Someone has to keep you from working yourself into an early grave," she says lightly. "Might as well be me."
For how long? I want to ask. How long will you keep doing this before you realize you miss your old life? Before you decide the ranch isn't enough anymore?
But I just smile and return to the email I still haven't actually read.
That night at my cabin, Mila drags me away from the ranch reports I brought home.
"Absolutely not." She physically removes my laptop from my hands. "You've been working since five this morning. We're taking a break."
"I have to finish reviewing these?—"
"You have to remember how to be a human person who does things besides work." She's already moving toward the kitchen. "When's the last time you cooked an actual meal instead of eating takeout at your desk?"
I can't remember. Everything before Mila showed up blurs together into endless days of work and responsibility and not much else.
"That's what I thought." She starts pulling ingredients from my fridge—when did I buy fresh vegetables?—and sets them on the counter. "You're helping. And before you protest, yes, you have time. The ranch will survive one evening without you hovering over every detail."
"I don't hover."
"Luke. You check your phone every three minutes like the whole operation will collapse if you're not constantly monitoring."
Fair point.
We end up making pasta together—or rather, Mila makes pasta while I chop vegetables under strict supervision. She's bossy in the kitchen, correcting my knife technique and stealing tastes from the pan when she thinks I'm not watching.
"See?" She bumps my hip with hers. "This is nice. Domestic. Very real-life."
There's that phrase again. Real life. Like this isn't already real.
"Yeah," I say quietly. "It is nice."
She looks up at me, something soft in her expression. "You deserve nice things, you know. Not just work and more work until you forget what you actually enjoy."
"I enjoy this."
"Good." She turns back to the stove. "Because you're stuck with me now. I've decided someone needs to forcibly drag you away from the office occasionally, and apparently I'm elected."
Stuck with you. If only.
We eat at my small kitchen table—when's the last time I actually used this for a meal?
—while Mila tells me about a ridiculous guest request she fielded today.
Something about wanting to book a "romantic cowboy experience" for their anniversary but being allergic to horses, hay, and the outdoors in general.
"I suggested they might enjoy literally any other vacation," she says, gesturing with her fork. "But apparently Montana is 'trendy' now so they absolutely have to come here."
"What did you tell them?"
"That we'd do our best to accommodate their needs while gently suggesting maybe a spa resort would be more their speed." She grins. "They booked the deluxe cabin anyway. Your problem now, Blackwood."
"My problem?"
"I just take the bookings. You have to actually deliver the impossible cowboy fantasy."
I shake my head, but I'm smiling. This is what she does—makes the stress lighter, the impossible feel manageable. Like as long as we're tackling problems together, everything will work out.
"Thank you," I say abruptly.
She pauses mid-bite. "For what?"
"This. Making me actually stop and have dinner. Reminding me there's more to life than work."
Something flickers across her face—surprise, maybe, or something deeper. "You don't have to thank me for wanting to spend time with you, Luke. I like this. Being here with you."
"I like it too."
"Good." She reaches across the table and tangles our fingers together. "Because I plan to keep forcibly inserting myself into your routine until you remember how to relax."
"I can relax."
"When? When was the last time you took a whole day off just because you wanted to?"
I can't answer because we both know the truth—I don't take days off. Haven't in years. The ranch always needs something, and I'm always the one who handles it.
"Exactly." She squeezes my hand. "So we're making a new rule. At least one day a month where you step back and let someone else handle the emergencies. Dean and Dad can manage. The world won't end."
"Mila—"
"I'm serious, Luke. You can't take care of everyone else if you don't take care of yourself first." Her voice softens. "And I want to take care of you. Let me do that. Please?"
Something in my chest cracks open. Because nobody's ever said that to me before. I'm the one who takes care of people—always have been. Since Mom died, since the ranch nearly failed, since everyone started depending on me to hold things together.
But Mila sees me. Not just the guy who fixes problems or shoulders responsibility. She sees the parts of me that are tired and lonely and want someone to share the weight.
And she wants to be that person.
"Okay," I hear myself say. "One day a month."
Her smile could light the whole cabin. "I'm holding you to that."
"I know you will."
Later, after we've cleaned up and she's curled against my side on the couch, I think about how easy this is. How natural it feels to have her here, in my space, tangled up in my life.
How much I want it to last.
Her phone buzzes and she glances at it, then laughs. "Sadie wants to know if I'm still alive or if you've successfully turned me into a hermit."
"What are you going to tell her?"
"That I'm very much alive and happily hermiting, thank you very much." She types out a response, then sets the phone aside. "Though I should probably actually see her soon. I've been neglecting my best friend duties."
"You can invite her over."
"To your cabin?" She raises an eyebrow. "You'd willingly submit yourself to Sadie's interrogation?"
"I have nothing to hide."
"Luke. She will absolutely grill you about your intentions and whether you're treating me right. Are you prepared for that level of scrutiny?"
Actually, I'd welcome it. Because my intentions are clear—I want Mila here, with me, for as long as she'll stay. I'm treating her as well as I know how. And if Sadie wants to verify that, I'll answer every question honestly.
But I just pull Mila closer and say, "I can handle Sadie."