25. Ozzy
Ozzy
I stare at my reflection and immediately regret every decision I’ve ever made.
The mirror doesn’t lie—it never has. And right now, it’s telling me I look like a little girl who's trying to cosplay a rancher.
Curled hair in a too-high ponytail. Barely-there makeup because I wasn’t sure how much was too much for a first date with a man who owns more flannel than patience.
Fitted jeans, a white tank, and the final humiliation: a red-and-black plaid shirt I borrowed from the hallway coat rack and have no business wearing.
When I did a web search for ‘country winter date outfit,’ this is what popped up. Cheerful women laughing on hay bales with their perfectly waved hair and their glossy boots and their men standing behind them like protective, lumberjack-shaped golden retrievers.
What am I doing? This isn’t me.
I tug at the sleeves, trying to loosen the fabric across my chest. The buttons pull in the wrong places. The collar won’t sit right. The weight of trying to look the part is pressing down on my ribs, squeezing me into someone I don’t recognize. Someone who thinks she belongs here.
But I don’t belong here or anywhere. I’m a girl in borrowed boots, held together by scar tissue and stubbornness. My life has been a series of barely surviving. Of pretending I’m something I’m not so the world doesn’t eat me alive.
I fumble with the clasp of my necklace—the one with the seal Jackson gave me. The first few times I wore it, it only lasted a second. Now I can go a couple of hours. I like rubbing my thumb over the seal’s grooves.I find it’s actually really comforting.
So is the idea of Jackson waiting for me somewhere, probably nervous in his own gruff, silent way. Suddenly, I feel like throwing up.
I’m still staring at the mirror like it owes me a refund when a sharp knock hits the door, causing me to flinch.
“Shit.”
My hands scramble to smooth my hair, adjust my shirt, and yank the necklace chain so the pendant lies flat against my chest.
When I open the door, I’m greeted by… sweat.
More specifically: Theo , covered in sawdust and temper, sweat beading on her forehead like she just ran a marathon through hell.
“If someone don’t get fucked tonight after the horseshit I just got roped into,” she says, storming past me like a personal tornado, “I’m gonna be pissed.”
She gives me a once-over, and her expression crumples like an old receipt. Her lip curls. “The fuck are you wearing?”
I wilt at her comment. Stamping my foot, I throw my arms in the air and spin on my heel.
“I-I can’t go! I don’t have the right clothes.
I look stupid, and he’s going to see me and wonder what the hell he was thinking asking me out, and then I’ll die, and it’ll be really awkward for you guys because you’ll have to?—”
“Oh my God,” Theo groans, flopping dramatically onto the foot of my bed. “You’ve officially lost your mind.”
“I just want to look the part for him!” I whine, standing in the center of my room like a very poorly dressed scarecrow. “You know, fit in, belong. Like maybe for one night, I’m the kind of girl who gets to date the hot, stoic cowboy with the heartbreak eyes.”
Theo stares at me for a second. “Ozzy… Jackson ain’t lookin’ for a part. He’s looking for you.”
That makes me shut up. Because the truth is, I don’t really know who I am anymore. But I know who I’m not. I’m not a ranch girl. I’m not some sweet, uncomplicated girl-next-door who bakes pies and rides horses and looks good in Wrangler jeans.
I’m a trauma patient in borrowed flannel.
Theo sighs and pushes off the bed. She moves toward my closet with the attitude of someone about to fix a national crisis. “It’s outside, so it’ll be cool. Let’s dress for the weather, not the Internet’s expectations.”
“I don’t want to mess this up,” I whisper.
She pauses and turns to me with softer eyes.
“You won’t,” she stresses, “not unless you keep pretending you’re someone you’re not.” She claps her hands. “Now! You start your actual makeup, the one that makes your eyes look like they’ll kill a man. I’ll find you something that doesn’t look like you mugged a scarecrow.”
A slow smile tugs at my mouth. “Deal.”
Maybe Theo is right and tonight, I don’t need to be anyone else. I just need to be the girl who makes Jackson Rowe lose his damn mind.
I barely recognize the girl in the mirror.
Not because she doesn’t look like me—but because she does .
For the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel like I’m me.
Not the washed-out, medicated, shapeless version I had to become just to survive.
Not the ghost of a girl trying to blend in with ranch life or disappear into other people’s expectations.
This version? She’s bold and sharp. She looks like someone who deserves to be wanted.
My hair’s down, tumbling over my shoulders in loose waves.
My makeup’s confident but controlled—mascara thick, winged eyeliner sharp enough to kill a man, and a dark plum lip stain.
The outfit Theo picked is perfect. A black and grey striped sweater dress that slouches off one shoulder, just enough to tease without trying too hard.
My favorite tattered black leggings, shredded enough to flash the skull-patterned fishnets underneath, and my well-worn black Docs. I look like myself.
Theo grins at me from the doorway like she just finished restoring a classic car. “Much better.”
I nod slowly, smoothing the fabric at my hips, half-daring myself to feel worthy of this. “Yeah,” I murmur. “It is.”
We step into the hallway, passing the living room where Morris naps in his recliner. I pause long enough to check his chest—rise and fall, soft and steady—before slipping out the front door with Theo. The sky’s already turning amber, the sunset spilling honey across the yard.
Jackson’s at the tailgate of his truck, loading something into the bed with his back to me. He’s in a dark henley rolled at the sleeves and jeans that hang just a little too well on his hips. I expect him to turn and wave, maybe shoot me one of those sheepish grins.
But he turns?—
—and stops breathing.
His eyes sweep over me like he’s trying to memorize every line, every curve, every shadow. Like I’ve hit him over the head with a brick made of black lace and lipstick.
“Wow,” he murmurs, low and hoarse.
I freeze for a second, then offer a nervous smile and whisper, “Hi.”
He laughs, kind of—more like a stunned exhale; like he’s been holding his breath since the second he saw me. “Hey, beautiful.”
And just like that, my insides detonate.
I nod, cheeks burning as he closes the tailgate and walks over to open the door for me like a damn gentleman. Theo shoots me a smug look and disappears back into the house with a wink.
Jackson closes the door after I climb in, then jogs around to the driver’s side and pulls out onto the road.
The first ten minutes pass in silence, heavy and sweet like molasses.
His hand grips the steering wheel tighter than usual.
Mine fiddles with the hem of my sleeve, already anxious about where we’re going, what to expect, how to not make this weird.
Eventually, I crack.
“So… where are we going?”
“Parking lot,” he says simply.
I blink. “Our date is… in a parking lot?”
He half-shrugs, not looking at me. “You don’t like crowds. And I know the woods aren’t exactly your happy place. Parking lot has neither.”
I’m about to tell him that sounds like the dumbest date concept ever when we pull in and I see it.
It’s not just any parking lot. It’s an abandoned drive-in theater, the screen still towering in the distance like a forgotten monument. The lot’s cracked and overgrown, nature clawing its way back in.
Jackson hops out of the cab and opens the truck bed, flicking a switch on a coil of soft string lights that twinkle to life around the edge of the canopy.
Inside the bed, he’s laid down a mattress—an actual mattress—with plush blankets, pillows stacked like clouds, and a picnic basket perched in the center.
Music hums from a speaker, mellow and slow and damn near perfect.
“Jackson…” I breathe. “What…”
He hops down, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, so I’ll admit, like… ninety percent of this was Indy’s idea.”
I choke out a laugh, still frozen in place.
“She said sandwiches were too boring, so—ta-da—charcuterie board. Basically a party platter that costs more. Bottles of sparkling grape juice because I know you don’t drink.
And for dessert…” He grins and holds up a small, portable campfire in a tin.
“S’mores. We can roast marshmallows and everything. ”
It’s not perfect…it’s insanely perfect.
I don’t even think. I just move. I step forward, wrap my arms around his neck, and press my lips to his in a kiss that says ‘thank you’ and ‘you wreck me’ and ‘I’ve never been kissed like this before’ all at once.
He groans into it, hands finding my waist. The second he lifts me, I wrap my legs around him without shame, my Docs hooked behind his back.
His mouth is hot, familiar, demanding—but sweet. God, so sweet.
When we break apart, he’s breathless, lips flushed and pupils blown.
“Baby,” he rasps, “as much as I’m enjoyin’ this, I didn’t bring you out here for that.”
I smirk, tugging on his shirt. “No?”
He’s about to argue when his eyes drop to my chest.
More specifically—my necklace and his whole face changes.
“You’re wearing it,” he whispers, his fingertips grazing the chain softly. He pulls the poppy pendant out so it catches the light. “You’re wearing it around your neck.”
I nod, my voice suddenly softer. “Only for short periods right now. I’m still getting used to it.”
He swallows hard. “You have no idea what that means to me.”
Jackson climbs up into the truck bed, then pulls me gently toward the makeshift blanket nest. His hand slides into mine.