28. Storm
I’m standing in the cottage bedroom, tugging on a blue sweater I’ve already decided I don’t like.
It’s clean and goes with my jeans, but it’s a little short at the waist—something I’ve never been self-conscious about.
But this is dinner with the Thorne men—more like a clan now, with Rose, Willow, the kids.
And . . . me, the hired help. Our local, reliable horse girl.
I shouldn’t be going.
Everyone will know Silas spent the night. It’s going to be awkward. There will be questions. Probably not judgement, knowing this family. And . . . I’m pretty sure Ginger’s told Connor who Max’s father is. And now that Silas and I are . . . something, will he ask me about it?
I catch Silas behind me in the mirror, pulling me from my thoughts. He’s leaning against the doorway, watching me with a grin.
He left reluctantly a little while ago, back to Wilder’s to change. Now he’s dressed in loose jeans, a white polo that hugs his arms, a fresh bandage at his bicep peeking out from under the sleeve.
“You’re overthinking it,” he says, reading me too easily.
“I am not.” I turn back to the mirror. “It’s a reasonable amount of thinking.”
He pushes off the door frame and comes closer, hands settling at my hips like they belong there now. “You forget, you fit at that table more than I do.”
I scoff, leaning back against his strong chest. “I fit in ranch life more than you do. Family dinner is a whole other language.”
“Fine—overthink all you want. Still not letting you bail.”
Before I can argue, there’s a hard knock at the door.
“That’s Chase and Pepper,” Silas tells me, tapping my hip before stepping out of the room.
I don’t have a chance to ask what they’re doing here. If they’re coming to dinner with us—which would be a relief, making tonight a lot less intimidating.
Other than on-screen, I’ve only seen Chase Reeves once here on the ranch—some time ago for an event.
I remember him being tall, broad in that professional athlete way.
Effortlessly confident. The kind you’d expect from a team captain.
He strides in like he owns the place. His wife, Pepper, beside him.
Glossy auburn hair and long perfect legs.
I’ve never met her, but you’d have to be living under a rock to not know Pepper Woods.
A few years ago, there was a million-dollar price on her head as the runaway bride of the president’s son.
She ran off just before his election, and the man was getting his bride back—one way or another.
I’m not sure how she got out of that ordeal, but I know there was another wedding where she ended up running off again—on the back of Chase’s motorcycle.
“Brought your SUV,” Chase says, dropping the keys at the coffee table.
“And your jacket.” He tosses Silas’s team jacket on the couch.
It’s unmistakable. Red and white and printed with his last name and number.
Pepper approaches me first, her pretty eyes scanning me, and it makes me want to tug on the hem of my sweater to cover exposed skin.
“You must be Storm.”
“And you’re Pepper,” I say, extending my hand.
“It’s so nice to meet you.” She pulls me in for a hug instead and whispers in my ear. “Don’t tug on that, it’s perfect and you’ll ruin the fabric.” She pulls back with a wink.
“It’s too short,” I say, surprised at my ease with her.
“Oh please, honey, I went to see Chase’s family wearing a black silk curtain around my waist.”
I laugh. “I’m sure it wasn’t a curtain.”
“It was a curtain!” Chase confirms. “She pulled it off my deceased brother’s windows and sewed it on.
” He walks over to where we’re standing, reaching his hand out to me.
“Storm, it’s a pleasure. We’re headed to a family dinner too,” he cocks his head back to his wife’s outfit.
“As you can see, she hasn’t leveled up much. ”
Pepper smacks his arm and I chuckle. She looks adorable in a mini skirt, boots, and cashmere sweater.
“You always look amazing, but I’ve only seen you in the one uniform.”
Her eyes light. “You watch the games.”
“You watch the games?” This comes from Silas.
I flick my eyes at him. “I watch the intermission.”
There’s about ten more minutes of this and even though it’s not his family, somehow it puts me at ease about tonight’s dinner.
“Oh, and you guys can drive that SUV right on out of here, Silas can’t be driving.” That thing is heavier than his sports car and he’s already pushed it driving that thing around.
Pepper frowns. “But the car’s for—”
“And that’s our cue, Pinky,” Chase says, taking his wife’s arm and leading her toward the door.
She glances back. “See you soon.”
I smile and wave as they rush out. “I like them,” I say coyly and reach for my boots. “Why’d they rush off?”
“Probably running late—as are we.” He fiddles with the keys, then crosses to me, holding them out. “Mind driving over there?”
“It’s a full house,” I say, partially to myself and partially to Connor, sitting at the head of the table to my right.
Mr. Thorne lets his gaze drift around the table as people slowly scatter. Ginger and Rose, clearing dishes, Dallas preparing dessert and Willow tending to Emmit in the living room. “Doubled in size in just over a year,” he rasps.
I smile softly. “Must be strange for you.”
“It’s . . .” he nods like he’s placing the word, “different. Louder . . .” he trails off.
Ginger places a pot of tea in front of us and sets a hand on his shoulder. “Happier.”
He grumbles, glancing at Silas who moved to the opposite side of the table to engage in a game with Max and Ellie. “Yeah, happier.”
Silas seems to lose the game but laughs through his defeat along with the kids. He whispers and points to Wilder and the kids run off in giggles.
My heart warms watching my kid. Max never gets this. Big family dinners, sleepovers, maybe a sense of belonging to something bigger than Dad and I ever offered him.
Our family dinners were quiet. It’s been the three of us since Max was five. And it’s never been this . . . happy, lively . . . fun. They mostly consisted of Dad grumbling over something or Max filling the silence with stories from school.
“How’s your dad?” Connor asks with a tired sigh. His tone laced with regret.
Silas moves back to the seat next to me, setting a hand on my thigh.
“Better,” I say honestly. “Just went to see him a few days ago.”
Dallas and Rose return, setting a few dessert platters on the table. “We should try and pay him a visit soon, too, huh, Dad?” Dallas looks at me. “If you think he won’t mind.”
“I think he’d like that—even if he doesn’t show it. But probably best if I run it by him.”
Connor scratches his beard, clearing his throat. “Life’s too short to hold a grudge. I know it, sure he knows it too.”
“Well, if he’s anything like his daughter,” Silas winks and squeezes. “None of us have a shot.”
Willow sets the baby down and Wilder demands a rematch with the kids after pie.
“I know y’all don’t eat this much sugar every Sunday,” I call out, eyeing the spread of pumpkin pie, pastries, and ghost-shaped cookies. I hold back my comment about the rock-hard abs on these men being exhibit A.
“Course not,” Wilder confirms, sliding into a chair beside Rose. “And these dinners are every other Sunday.”
“Still too much for some people,” Dallas comments low from across the table. “With or without an away game.”
Ooof.
Silas’s jaw tightens but he doesn’t respond.
Wilder catches it and leans back. “Careful bro, he’s injured. Might be fragile.”
The older brothers snicker and seem to be the only ones who find anything funny.
“Here now, aren’t I? And I could take you both out.”
Connor snorts. “With one arm?”
Silas doesn’t look at him when he answers. “Not just one arm, my left one.” His confidence sure hasn’t taken a hit.
Dallas holds up his hands like he’s actually concerned. “No need for violence. Probably how you got yourself into this mess. I’m just saying . . . Sundays were always . . . optional once you made it big.”
We both know he can’t deny that. But I think I’m starting to see why. Silas glances at me—as if a reminder to keep his cool. Then leans in for a cheese Danish with ease. “You know what’s not optional? You cooking and hosting these for the next twelve months.”
“What?” Willow shrieks.
Dallas winces. “Did I forget to mention that, Sunset?”
She glares at him. “I think you did.”
The teasing and snickering continue—but this time, it’s not from the boys who started it.
Dallas’s grin is tight when he turns back to Silas. “Perhaps my little brother can tell you why.”
Silas doesn’t take the bait and looks at the middle one. “Oh, I think Wilder’s better suited for that.”
Wilder looks up mid-bite, his mouth full as he speaks, “Wha?”
“The reason Dallas agreed to host Sunday dinners for a year.”
Dallas growls. His eyes flicking to me quickly before diverting. “Never mind. I’ll tell you later, Sunset.”
I narrow my eyes at my boss. “You lost a bet, didn’t you?”
I pick up an awkward vibe from all the Thorne men around the table. “Oh no. It was about me, wasn’t it?” I groan.
“No!” Two guilty brothers call out from across the table.
“Ugh, do I want to know?” I whine, mostly to myself.
“It was his idea.” Dallas’s thumb flicks at Wilder.
“Only because you were being a dick about the whole thing.”
“What whole thing?” I demand.
“It was—” Dallas holds up his hands. “Forget it. Look, if we drop it now, Willow and I will host for two years. Deal?”
“Dallas!”
Rose and Wilder call Deal and high five each other as Silas bursts out laughing. His blue eyes glimmering as he leans into me. “You are gold at this table.”
A flutter stirs low in my stomach at his words, and I hate how warm it makes me feel—considering they’re joking about something that technically concerns me.
I murmur back to Silas. “You are telling me what that’s all about later.”
He seems unfazed, popping a blueberry. “No problem, Bee. I had nothing to do with it.”
I turn to Mr. Thorne, who I know is hearing us. “Did you?”