Chapter 8
eight
Sawyer
The incessant buzz in my back pocket is almost as annoying as if there was a hornet trapped in there.
I press ignore for what feels like the thirty-second time today and shove the phone back down, ignoring Harrison.
He says he misses me, wants to change, as if that could just fix everything.
But when it comes to him, all I feel is numb. Not sad, not angry—just numb.
I sink onto a rough tree stump next to a small pile of wood that’s been set on fire, the heat currently warming my shins.
The flames are still devouring what’s left of the old barn in the distance, and everyone around me treats it like it’s Saturday night entertainment.
Laughter crackles louder than the blaze, the orange glow flickering across flushed faces and tipped beer cans.
Even Sheriff Dawson looks more amused than concerned.
Someone passed out s’mores supplies twenty minutes ago—because naturally, when a barn burns down, this crowd roasts marshmallows.
I jab mine into the fire then wave it around, watching it blacken almost instantly. Whatever. Feels fitting.
"Darlin’," a voice drawls from behind me, "what you’re doin’ to that marshmallow has got to be a felony in at least thirteen states."
I glance up as Charming drops onto the stump beside me, grinning like he's the security for Marshmallow Justice.
“Pretty sure the actual felony is the barn you’re all burning down,” I shoot back.
He shrugs. “Fair. But your technique’s still offensive.”
I glance at the blackened lump on the end of my stick and sigh. “I like them burnt.”
“You lit it up and then waved it around like you were signaling a rescue plane.” He grins, plucking the stick from my hand and tossing the charred blob into the grass.
I can’t help but smile. There’s something about him that draws you in—easy, magnetic, golden retriever cowboy energy in human form. The complete opposite of his brother. The one I shall not name, who might be more jerk than he is cowboy.
Charming carefully skewers a fresh marshmallow and holds it just above the flame. “Patience and just the right distance,” he says, “is how you get it all golden and gooey. Think of it like foreplay for s’mores.”
I nearly snort my drink. “That’s the metaphor you’re going with?”
He shrugs, completely serious. “I don’t make the rules. I just toast the marshmallows.”
“Well, you’re certainly making it weird.”
His grin only deepens. “You’ll thank me when you taste the difference.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Do you offer lessons to all the new girls in town, or am I just lucky?”
“Only the ones who burn dessert on purpose just to get my attention.”
I snicker as he offers me the perfectly toasted marshmallow, and I have to admit—it does taste better.
“You really are charming, aren’t you?” I say with a sigh. “How does someone so sweet have a brother like him?” I ask, glancing back at Trouble—his arm slung around a cute redhead with a case of the giggles.
"Trouble? He's not as bad as you think. Maybe a little rough around the edges, more cocky than he should be—but that's a bull rider for ya."
The flickering flames rise higher in the distance just as the last section of the roof caves in.
But there's another heat, an invasive one I start to feel that isn’t from the fire.
My skin prickles under the intensity of his stare—Trouble’s.
He should be focused on the woman twirling her hair at his side, not glaring at me, or whatever he’s doing.
"So you're saying he doesn't have a different girl in his bed every night? That he doesn’t think he's God's gift to the world?"
His eyes glint like he’s telling a secret as he leans in. "Those things might be true," he shrugs. "But he's also got this thing in his chest he has no idea is there. It's crazy because that heart of his probably takes up all the room in there. He'd do anything for any of us."
Something about his words stirs a flicker of curiosity in me. I study Trouble, wondering how that could possibly be true.
"Okay, so you’re clearly living up to your nickname,” I say with a smirk, then glance over at Trouble again, who’s still entertaining the redhead like it’s his job. “And he’s definitely earned his. But now I’ve gotta know—what’s the deal with the rest of the nicknames?”
"Granddaddy was a man of few words, but when he spoke, you listened," Charming murmurs.
"He called my oldest brother Danger." He nods toward Danger leaning against a pickup truck.
"Always armed, always on guard. He's got this primal instinct—protect first, question later.
But ever since he became a dad, there's a gentleness to him that never used to be there. "
I let the information settle, watching Danger, and I feel the weight of his name. His presence alone demands respect and caution. It’s not just a nickname for him either—he owns it, almost like he’s a walking warning sign.
"And Rogue, that idiot over there." Charming's voice pulls me back from my thoughts, the tease in his tone almost affectionate. "Has his own way of doing things. More wild than the rest of us but makes it work."
"Your grandad is a genius," I say, watching Rogue teach some kind of dance move to a few others.
"He was," Charming agrees. "And now you know about me and my brothers. Tell me why it's taken you so long to come visit your brother. He's practically part of our family, and we haven't ever seen you around."
"I always meant to," I confess, fingers tracing the ridges of the tree stump beneath me. "But my daddy never approved of me leaving for the city. It's just been easier to stay busy in Chicago and not have to deal with it."
"Runnin' don't ever do nothin'," he drawls, the southern twang wrapping around the words like the smoke above us. "Those things catch up to us whether we stay or go."
"Guess so," I nod just as my phone buzzes again. I yank it out, pressing the silent button with more force than necessary. The screen goes dark, swallowing Harrison's name back into its depths.
"Let me guess," he says, "that's Chicago calling?"
I exhale as I concede. "Yeah," I say, the words slipping out with an ease that surprises me. "And I wish it would stop. Not in the mood to deal with him tonight."
"If that's your man, you should wanna talk to him in any mood."
"He's no longer my man," I say too quickly. "Not since the incident with his assistant."
Charming's face softens, something flickering behind those big eyes—understanding, maybe.
And why am I even telling him this? I hardly know him, yet here I am, spilling all my dark secrets like he's my sixth grade diary.
There's a warmth about him, though, an inviting glow that almost makes me feel like I can trust him.
He grabs my empty bottle and tosses mine along with his into the fire. "Come on, let's get another," he says, reaching out a hand to help me up.
"And about what you were saying..." His voice carries over as we reach the bed of the truck. "If that's the case, Chicago better stay in Chicago."
"Who better stay in Chicago?" The drawl is unmistakable—Trouble, the man himself. A match stick perches between his lips.
Charming doesn't hesitate. "Her ex," he declares with a casual flick of his wrist, as if tossing out something distasteful, "cheated on her."
Trouble's gaze shifts to me, searching, like he’s trying to figure out my past. A flush rises in my cheeks—not from the fire but from the sudden exposure. It's one thing to open up to Charming and his easy smile, quite another to have that exposed to Trouble, who I can’t stand.
"Charming!" I gasp as my hand collides with his arm—more of a tap than anything, but enough to convey my annoyance and embarrassment.
"My fault," he says, a sheepish grin playing on his lips. He scratches at the back of his neck. "You gotta tell me when there's a secret around here otherwise I assume it’s Weston knowledge."
Trouble's gaze is still on me, and I swear there’s a flicker of pity in there. His arm is still draped casually around a girl who is looking at him like he just hung the moon and every star that surrounds it. The last thing I want is his sympathy.
Knox, ever the protector, steps closer. "He did what?"
"It's fine," I throw a hand up, my voice barely carrying over the crackle of the flames. "Can we not talk about it?"
My brother, standing beside me, finally nods. "Glad I never met him," he says, and now I’m frustrated that he knows, because what if Harrison and I get back together? How could he ever like him now?
The redhead who had been gawking at Trouble, now has her eyes set on me.
"You're absolutely gorgeous," she pipes up. I'm surprised by her compliment. For some reason, I wanted to not like her. Maybe it’s because of her god-awful choice in men. But then again, that’s not an area I have expertise in either. "You don't need a man like that."
There’s a gentleness to her, the kind you’d expect from a sweet small-town girl, as she leans into Trouble like she can’t get enough. He, meanwhile, seems somewhere else entirely.
"You should try a cowboy," she adds, her fingers trailing along the line of Trouble's jaw. He doesn't flinch or pull away, just smirks beneath the shadow of his hat brim. "They're loyal. Might not be great at commitment, but at least they're honest."
"I'll take your word for it," I toss back. Loyal but allergic to commitment? Sounds like a real catch.
I can understand the allure of a cowboy. Yeah, Trouble has that rugged, masculine thing going on—broad shoulders, bronzed skin, and tattoos on his arms—the whole Riley Green starter pack. Too bad that goat across the field probably has more emotional intelligence than he does.
"Alright y'all," the Sheriff yells. "You've had your fun, but it’s about time to clear out of here. Gonna have the fire team swing by and put the rest of this out."
"That's our cue," Knox jerks his chin toward his truck. “I’ll take you to your place.”
Trouble steps closer to Knox, smirking like he’s in on some secret. “I’ll meet y’all over there.”
I blink. “Over where?”
Knox just says, “Don’t you worry about it,” and heads for his truck. Which, naturally, makes me worry about it.
Five minutes later, we’re pulling into the gravel drive of the guest house I’m staying at. And Trouble beat us here. He’s leaning against one of the posts like he’s posing for some cowboy calendar.
I freeze halfway out of the truck. “Are you going to explain why he’s here?”
Knox raises a brow, like I’m the one missing the obvious. “What? You don’t know where you’re stayin’?”
“What do you mean?”
Without a word, Knox hops out of the truck and strolls toward the porch.
I tap on my chin, narrowing my eyes at Trouble. “Let me guess… You’re my new doorman? They’re a lot friendlier in Chicago. Usually they carry my bags inside, too.”
His grin spreads, slow and smug. “Not your doorman, sweetheart.”
“Then why are you standing on my porch?”
“Because it’s my porch. Guess it’s yours too, for the time bein’.”
Knox claps him on the shoulder like this is the most normal thing in the world.
“I asked Trouble to keep an eye on you since you’re stayin’ on his ranch and all.
There’s this big feud between the Stetsons and the Kennedys.
I’m technically part of the Stetson clan, so they don’t exactly like me either.
We always got to watch our backs with them.
Nothin’ to worry about, though. Just want to make sure you’re protected.
Trouble’s promised to scare off any men who get too close. ”
I arch a single, unimpressed brow. “You want him to protect me? Might as well give me to the pack of hungry wolves I saw earlier and call it a day.”
Trouble tips his hat, flashing that slow grin again. “When it comes to scarin’ off men, they say I’m a legend. You should consider yourself lucky.”
“Lucky?” I scoff. “Let’s not forget this is the same man who grabbed my ass without permission.”
“Once again, I thought you were the beauty queen.”
I turn my glare on Knox, ignoring Trouble. “By the way, this so-called bodyguard of yours doesn’t even know the beauty queen’s name. You sure you picked the right guy for the job?”
Trouble crosses his arms, still leaning against the post. “No one better than me. Don’t need to know names to keep you safe.”
My jaw tightens. “Fantastic. Can’t wait for the nightly curfew checks.”
Suddenly, I’m fourteen again, Knox looming in the hallway, playing the overbearing big brother deciding who can come within ten feet of me. It’s infuriating.
I shove past them, yank open the front door, and step inside before either of them can get another word in.
Of course. Because why wouldn’t his family own this place. Which means I’m not just anywhere—I’m on his land. His ranch. And the pieces suddenly click. PJ and her sons? They are the Stetsons.
This has got to be some kind of cruel joke.
I slam the door behind me hard enough to rattle the whole frame.