Chapter 24
twenty-four
. . .
SIENNA
I held my breath, flattening myself against the hallway wall beside the grandfather clock.
The mirror across the hall offered just enough of an angle to spy on the kitchen without revealing my position.
If my floorboard creaked, Brock would catch me eavesdropping and shut down, and I needed to find out how much pain he was really in.
"Don't start, Colt," Brock grumbled.
"Sit down. Dusty moves faster than you."
In the reflection, Brock gripped the edge of the sink. He grimaced, rolling his left arm, then tipped the coffee pot one-handed. His shoulder was healing, but between physical therapy and tossing hay bales all afternoon, he was stiff as a board.
Colt snatched the coffee pot from his grip to pour the mug himself. "I mean it. Sit."
Muttering under his breath, Brock dragged out a chair and dropped into it. Moose immediately claimed the space beneath the table, resting his massive head across Brock’s boots with a weary huff. Even the dog knew Brock needed pinning down.
Brock dragged a hand over his thick fur, and Moose melted into the touch, eyelids drifting shut.
For a moment, silence settled over the room.
Then the dog's ears snapped up. He sniffed the air, lifted his snout, and trotted straight into the hallway—right toward me.
I waved my hands, silently shooing him back. Unbothered, Moose pressed his wet nose against my thigh. I caught his muzzle in my palm and gripped his collar before the metal tags could jingle.
Frozen in place, I tuned back into the argument.
"I have two local draws this week to grab points before Pendleton," Brock argued. "I need to get on a bronc."
"Like hell you do. You're taking the rest of the week off, and if I catch you working, I'll hide your tools and lock up your saddle."
"Dad blew his back out, and Wyatt's working Sheridan. The ranch won't run itself."
Static crackled from the yellow radio clipped to Colt's belt.
"Dad's running on ibuprofen and watching another UFO documentary," Wren's voice blasted through the speaker.
The back door clicked open. Moose pulled free from my grip and trotted toward the sound.
I exhaled, pressed against the wallpaper. In the reflection, Wren strode inside, peeling off her leather work gloves and dropping them on the counter.
"Colt, your mic's stuck open again." She turned her glare on Brock. "And you know we can handle things just fine without you."
"We have to move the herd to the winter pasture by the fifteenth."
"Then we'll hire a day hand," she countered. "We can afford it now that we have the Ryder money. Let it go."
Brock’s jaw tightened. Sitting out went against his nature.
He let out a heavy sigh and rubbed the back of his neck. "Fine. But if you guys break the tractor again—"
Colt grinned and slapped his shoulder. "I'll fix it myself. I'm the captain now. Go take a bath, you stink of diesel."
Heavy boots scraped against the linoleum. Brock pushed back from the table and turned toward the hallway.
I clapped a hand over my mouth, spun around, and hurried up the stairs. The seventh step creaked under my foot, making me wince, but I didn't stop until I reached the guest room.
Once inside, I opened my laptop and checked the analytics for the Ryder & Co. campaign.
Wren was right. The affiliate links were bringing in enough money to give the ranch some breathing room.
I'd just pulled up the last spreadsheet when my phone buzzed on the mattress. Avery was requesting a video call.
Dread settled in my gut. She never asked to see my face unless something was wrong.
I smoothed my hair, tucked the loose waves behind my ears, forced a smile, and swiped to answer.
"Hi Avery. Is everything okay?"
She sat behind her desk, crisp in a white blazer, a gray sky stretching across the windows behind her. Her fingers drummed a gold pen against the glass desktop. She didn't smile back.
"I need to ask you something," she said. "And I need you to be honest with me."
"Of course."
She held my gaze. "Is there something going on between you and Brock Wilder?"
I forced out a laugh. "What? No. Why would you ask that?"
"Someone forwarded me a video from a local fair. It clearly showed you and your client, with his arm wrapped around you."
My heart hammered against my ribs. After the Ferris wheel at the Douglas County Fair, we hadn’t bothered to hide. Rain had soaked through my shirt, and Brock had tucked me under his arm to shield me from the downpour.
Of course someone had filmed it. For more than a month, we’d fed the rumors after Cheyenne, letting his followers wonder without ever giving them an answer.
“You’re his publicist, Sienna. You know how this reflects on the agency.” The gold pen stopped tapping. “So, let me ask you directly. Are you sleeping with him?”
I didn't blink. One more lie wasn't going to break me.
“I’m not involved with him like that,” I said. “You told me to lean into the mystery, so we stand close when we're out in public. It drives engagement.”
Avery stared at me, searching my face. I gave her nothing. Out of frame, my nails dug into the rough denim of my thigh.
I was already on thin ice with her. The Ryder account was outside my normal role, and Avery hated anything that looked like I was building an exit plan.
Avery leaned back, dropping the pen. "Okay, but if this gets messy, I won't clean it up for you."
The screen went black.
I set the phone onto the mattress and sat down on it, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyelids until I saw colors in the darkness.
Avery knew. She was just waiting for final proof to fire me.
I needed Brock.
I slipped downstairs, the floorboards cool beneath my bare feet. Brock’s door stood cracked open, the bedroom dim and quiet. A breeze drifted through the screen door, rustling the Stetson hung over the bedpost.
From the en suite, I heard the heavy rush of water filling the tub, then the squeak of the tap shutting off. Steam curled into the room, carrying the sharp scent of pine and Epsom salts.
I crossed the rug and stopped in the bathroom doorway.
Brock stood beside the porcelain clawfoot tub, wiping his hands on a towel. He hadn’t shaved in days. Without the rodeos, he’d let the scruff grow in. It made him look rougher, less like the polished version everyone else saw.
His gray sweats rode low, exposing the sharp lines of his hips and a dark trail of hair disappearing under the cotton band. My gaze lingered there, and heat crept up my neck.
Avery had just threatened my career, but right then, taking in the hard lines of his body, I couldn't bring myself to care.
He looked up. The second he saw me, whatever tiredness he'd been carrying disappeared.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“My boss called me.”
He tossed the towel aside and crossed the tile. His hands cupped my shoulders. "Tell me."
"Someone sent her a video of us at the fair. She asked if we were sleeping together."
His thumbs stroked the line of my collarbones. "What did you say?"
“I lied. Told her we play it up for the socials.”
He let out a slow breath, blue eyes steady on mine. "Good. You handle her however you need to. Tell her you hate my guts, as long as it protects your job."
I leaned my forehead against his chest. His skin was hot from the steam. “What if she finds out?”
He pulled me flush against him, tangling one hand in my hair. “It won’t be like this forever.”
We stood entangled, his steady heartbeat thudding against my ear, the damp bathroom air lingering around us.
"You spend all day managing everyone else's problems," he murmured. "Let me carry you for a minute."
He hooked his fingers under the hem of my shirt, his gaze asking for permission.
I nodded and lifted my arms.
He stripped the cotton off, tossing it onto the vanity. His knuckles grazed my ribs as he unhooked my bra, letting the straps slide down my arms. Kneeling, he worked the button of my jeans, sliding the denim and my cotton underwear down my hips in one fluid motion.
I stepped free. He gathered the pile, setting it on the closed toilet lid before standing to take my hand.
I stepped over the rim of the bathtub and sank into the water. The heat hit like a drug, Epsom salts soaking into every tight place I’d been holding—shoulders, jaw, the knot between my ribs.
Brock shoved his sweats and boxers down and climbed in behind me. The tub was a tight fit, but he arranged himself with his legs bracketing mine. I let out a long breath as my back settled against his bare chest.
“Lean forward a little,” he said.
He grabbed a plastic cup from the ledge, filled it with water, and poured it over my hair. Then, he reached for the shampoo bottle, lathering the soap between his palms before working his fingers into my scalp.
The sharp scent of peppermint filled the steam as he massaged slow circles from my temples to the base of my skull. Gentle pressure, over and over, finding every knot and easing it loose.
My eyelids drifted shut. The only sounds were the soft lap of water and his breathing, deep and even behind me.
He rinsed the soap away, his fingertips dragging down the nape of my neck, tracing the water's path over my shoulders and down to my waist. I melted into his touch, letting out a relieved moan.
He went still. Then, I felt him through the warm water. The hard press of him swelling against my lower back.
"Ignore it," he rasped, his voice vibrating against my ear. "I can't help it. You make a sound like that and my body just reacts."
I turned my head, brushing my cheek against his jaw. The coarse stubble scraped my skin, dragging a slow, delicious burn down the side of my neck. A shiver went through me.
"I don't want to ignore it."
"Then I won't," he promised quietly. "But let me finish taking care of you first."
He filled the cup again and tilted my head back. Water streamed through my hair as his fingers worked the remaining soap free. When it ran clear, he gathered the wet strands and draped them over one shoulder, exposing my neck. His mouth pressed there.
I melted against him. My body felt loose, heavy, and safe in a way it hadn't in weeks. The water lapped gently against the sides of the tub.
As I shifted, my shoulder blade brushed his left arm. The muscle there was still tight, corded with tension.
"Is the heat helping your shoulder?" I asked.
His hand slid from my hip, gliding up my stomach, until his palm cupped my breast. His thumb dragged across my nipple, then pinched it.
My breath hitched.
He leaned in, his mouth hovering at my ear.
"The warm water takes the edge off," he murmured, his gravelly voice sending a shiver down my spine. "But you know what would actually help?"
He pulled me backward, seating me fully in his lap. The thick, hot press of his cock settled firmly between my thighs.
“Being inside you.”
My eyes fluttered shut.
“Then let me help,” I breathed.