Bonus Scene
Vincent
The staff lounge smelled like brown sugar and cinnamon, Ollie's pumpkin pie cooling on the counter.
I leaned against the doorframe watching the catering team pack up serving dishes from tonight's Thanksgiving dinner.
We'd kept it small this year, just a skeleton crew of staff and the handful of guests who'd chosen to stay through the holiday to avoid their own families.
Most of our workers preferred spending Thanksgiving with family, and we'd encouraged everyone to take the time they needed.
“Excellent execution tonight,” Ibrahim said, appearing beside me with that silent efficiency he'd perfected. The man moved like smoke. “The kitchen staff performed admirably despite the reduced crew.”
“Ollie outdid himself.” I grabbed two plates from the stack, cutting generous slices of pie. “Come on. Let's get some air.”
Ibrahim raised an eyebrow but followed me through the French doors onto the terrace. The November night was crisp but not uncomfortable, the heated lamps casting a warm glow over the scattered seating areas. Most people had stayed inside, leaving us essentially alone.
I handed him a plate and settled into one of the cushioned chairs. He took the seat across from me, somehow making outdoor furniture look formal.
“You seemed distracted during dinner,” Ibrahim said, tasting the pie with a small nod of approval.
“Did I?” I took a bite. The spices hit exactly right, sweet but not cloying, the crust flaking perfectly. Ollie was a genius. “Just tired. Holidays are exhausting.”
“You dislike holidays.”
It wasn't a question. Ibrahim had that irritating habit of stating observations like facts, which they usually were.
“I don't dislike them. I just don't see the point of forcing celebration on a specific date.” I set down my fork. “Everyone pretending to be grateful for things they take for granted the other three hundred sixty-four days of the year.”
“Interesting.” Ibrahim's dark eyes studied me over the rim of his fork. “Most people find comfort in ritual.”
“I'm not most people.”
“No. You are not.” He resumed eating, each bite measured and precise. “Though I wonder if your aversion to holidays stems from discomfort with sentimentality rather than the rituals themselves.”
I should have known better than to let Ibrahim get philosophical after a long day. The man could analyze a grocery list and find deeper meaning.
“Maybe I just don't like turkey,” I said, deflecting.
“We served duck.”
“Well, there you go. Mystery solved.” I grinned, but it felt forced even to me.
Silence settled between us. Outside the veranda, the pools glowed aquamarine in the darkness, cabanas lit with soft amber light. A couple walked past, wrapped in robes, heading back to their villa. The Ranch was quiet tonight, most guests having retired early after the meal.
“Dusty's doing well in Marfa,” I said, just to fill the silence. “Heard through the grapevine that the building purchase is moving forward. Should close soon.”
Ibrahim nodded. “Mr. Miller was ready to leave long before he admitted it to himself.”
“Theo's engaged to his prince. Did I tell you that?”
“You did. Last week.” Ibrahim set down his empty plate.
“I did?” I hadn't realized. “Well, it's good. People moving on, building things. That's what this place is for.”
“Indeed.” His tone was neutral, but I caught something underneath it. “The Ranch provides space for transformation. People come here seeking something, and if we've done our work correctly, they leave having found it.”
“Exactly.” I stood, restless energy crawling under my skin. “That's success. That's the whole point.”
“Then why do you sound unconvinced?”
The question landed harder than it should have. I pressed my palm against the wrought-iron gate, watching the property beyond. “I'm not unconvinced. Just... observing.”
“Vincent.”
His voice carried that particular quality that meant he wasn't going to let this go. I turned to face him.
“What?”
“You've been in a peculiar mood for weeks.” He stood, moving closer but maintaining that careful distance he always kept. Professional. Measured. “Not quite irritable, not quite melancholic. Something in between.”
“Maybe I just don't like the holidays,” I said again, but the deflection was weaker this time.
“Perhaps.” Ibrahim's gaze was steady, unrelenting. “Or perhaps you're restless.” A pause, then, “Have you spoken to your family recently?”
“No.”
The word hung between us. I wanted to laugh it off with some clever comment, but my usual armor felt thin tonight.
“The Ranch runs smooth,” I said instead. “Staff is happy, guests are satisfied, revenue is strong. Everything's exactly where it should be.”
“That is not an answer to my observation.”
“Jesus, Bram.” I ran a hand through my hair. “Can't a guy just eat pie without getting psychoanalyzed?”
“Of course.” He moved back to the chair, settling with that infuriating calm. “Though avoidance is typically more revealing than whatever you're avoiding.”
I wanted to argue, but he was right. He was almost always right, which was both his greatest asset and most annoying quality.
“I'm fine,” I said, the lie tasting bitter. “Just ready for the holiday season to be over so we can get back to normal operations.”
Ibrahim was quiet, his expression unreadable. Then he stood, crossing to where I stood by the gate.
“Normal operations,” he repeated. “You find that preferable to celebration.”
“I find it preferable to forced gratitude and nostalgic bullshit, yeah.”
“Interesting choice of words.” He stood beside me now, both of us looking out at the property. “Given that gratitude and nostalgia are typically associated with connection. With meaning.”
“What's your point, Bram?”
“No point. Simply an observation.” He turned toward me. “Thank you for the pie, Vincent. I should review tomorrow's schedule before retiring.”
He headed toward our offices, and I had the strange urge to call him back, to say something that would explain this weird mood I couldn't shake.
But what would I say? That watching people leave to build lives elsewhere made me feel stuck?
That Thanksgiving reminded me how hollow success felt when you had no one to share it with?
“Hey,” I said instead. “Thanks for sticking around tonight. I know you probably had better places to be.”
Ibrahim paused, glancing back with something almost soft in his expression. “There is nowhere I would rather be than ensuring The Ranch operates smoothly. That has always been true.”
“Right. Work.” I forced brightness into my voice. “What would we do without it?”
His eyes held mine for a beat too long. “Indeed. What would we do?”
After he left, I stood alone on the veranda, surrounded by the iron fencing that suddenly felt like I was on display in a cage. Everyone could see in, but what was there to see? A successful businessman sitting on a patio, eating pie by himself on Thanksgiving.
I grabbed my jacket and headed out into the resort, needing air, needing movement.
The November wind bit through my shirt as I walked the property. Most of the villas were dark, empty. The main lodge glowed behind me, warm and inviting.
I ended up at the meditation garden, sitting on one of the stone benches. The fountain burbled softly, water catching moonlight. We'd added this space last year after several guests requested more contemplative areas. I'd commissioned it, approved the design, cut the ribbon at the opening.
I'd never actually used it until tonight.
The Ranch stretched around me—villas, pools, spa complex, private cabanas. Everything we'd built, everything we'd created. A sanctuary for people seeking pleasure without judgment, exploration without shame.
I'd helped hundreds of people discover themselves within these grounds. Watched them arrive broken or confused or desperate, watched them leave whole or clearer or satisfied.
And here I sat, the man who'd built it all, feeling like a stranger in my own creation.
My phone buzzed. Email from the booking coordinator about December reservations. Nothing urgent, nothing that couldn't wait until morning.
I silenced it and looked up at the stars. Clear tonight, the kind of Texas sky that made you understand why people wrote songs about it. Beautiful and vast and utterly indifferent to whatever existential bullshit I was working through.
“Gratitude and connection,” I muttered to the empty garden. “Fuck off, Ibrahim.”
But he wasn't wrong. He never was.
I sat there until the cold drove me back inside, until professionalism demanded I stop wallowing and start planning for tomorrow. The Ranch didn't run itself, and I had responsibilities.
Tomorrow would be better. Tomorrow I'd shake off this mood, get back to normal operations, stop overthinking things that didn't need thinking about.
Tomorrow I'd be fine.
Tonight, I was just tired of holidays.
As you can tell from the last scene, Vincent’s story does indeed continue in Unlucky - The Ranch Book 3. Pre-order it here!
He came to The Ranch to disappear. He found the one man who truly saw him.
Dr. Jackson Thibodaux was once a brilliant pediatric oncologist with a perfect life—until the day his husband died.
Now he's just another companion at The Ranch, an exclusive resort where the world's most powerful men pay fortunes to live out their fantasies.
It's the perfect place to punish himself for surviving.
Vincent Stone has spent years building The Ranch into an impenetrable sanctuary for desire. He's charming, untouchable, and never met a rule he wouldn't break—until a growling, broken doctor arrives who seems determined to self-destruct. Vincent can't look away.
When a family emergency the week before Christmas forces Vincent to strike a dangerous bargain—Jackson's medical expertise in exchange for a new identity that will let him disappear forever—they embark on a road trip that shatters both their defenses.
Five days. A sick child who needs saving.
Two men who can't stop circling each other like wounded animals.
But some promises are made to be broken, and some ghosts refuse to stay buried, and somewhere between twinkling lights and hospital waiting rooms, their walls begin to crack.
As Christmas approaches and their return to The Ranch looms, Jackson must decide: take the escape he's been offered, or choose the life—and the man—that might finally be worth living for.
Because sometimes the best gifts come in broken packages, and even the most wounded hearts can find their way home for the holidays.
A high-heat MM romance about survival, second chances, and the men who break all the rules.
Third in The Ranch series but can be read as a standalone. Contains explicit content, emotional trauma, and a guaranteed HEA wrapped up in a holiday bow.