Chapter 3
Addison
The cabin is … nice. Nice, as in up to date, clean, well furnished. The taste, on the other hand … well, that’s questionable. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that a cabin deep in the woods on ranch property has a “rustic” theme. It’s just not really my vibe.
But it was kind of my Aunt Theresa and cousin Tate to offer it to me for the summer, so I’m going to make the most of it. Tate had shown me up here yesterday afternoon, and my first night had been, well, peaceful, to use the words of the hot-yet-irritating cowboy from yesterday.
Although I’m not about to tell him that.
I exit the cabin’s front door, stepping out onto the small porch and jogging down the wooden steps.
I’ve been leant a car to use while I’m here for the summer.
It’s Tate’s wife’s but since she’s very pregnant, sick a lot of the time, and has Tate doting on her hand and foot, she said she doesn’t need it for the time being.
I hop inside, start it up, and begin making my way through the forest and down the small hill to the ranch house. It’s only about a five-minute drive. Tate had insisted I come down for dinner today—apparently, it’s some monthly shindig the family puts on? I’m still a bit unclear.
In a few minutes, I pull up in front of the ranch house, parking the car and then heading inside.
The house, while just as rustic as the cabin, is gorgeous.
It was designed and constructed by my late uncle, Jim Thatcher, way back when he first acquired the property and started the ranch.
It’s where all my cousins grew up. I remember visiting during the summers as a kid.
It’s also where Tate and his wife are raising their kids.
“Addison!” a warm voice greets me as I turn the corner.
Theresa Thatcher is standing at the counter, rearranging the contents of her purse.
Her shoulder-length gray hair is pulled back with a clip, and the smile lines around her eyes ring true to the kind of person she is.
She comes around the counter, pulling me into a hug that’s both familiar yet strange.
It’s been so long since I’ve seen her, but her warmth instantly transports me back to childhood summers spent here.
“So sorry I wasn’t here to greet you yesterday.
Lucy felt so ill, so I took over watching the kids,” she explains.
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” I tell her quickly.
“Tate says one of the ranch hands helped you find the house.”
I nod. “Yep. Cruz.”
“Oh, Cruz is a sweetheart,” she says.
I wouldn’t use that exact word, but I’m not about to contradict her.
A shuffling noise has me turning to see Tate entering the room, followed by his wife, Lucy, and two adorable little girls—about the ages of six and two.
Tate greets me with a warm smile and a quick hug. “Addison, you’ve met my wife Lucy before, right?” he asks.
Lucy steps forward, pulling me into a hug as well. Wow, I forgot how big of huggers the Thatcher side of the family is. Can’t say the same for most of my other relatives. “Oh yes, we met at Levi’s wedding last year,” she says.
Levi. Tate’s brother. I do vaguely remember meeting her—along with dozens of other long-lost relatives. Typical wedding shenanigans.
“So nice to see you all again,” I say. “Thank you so much for letting me stay on the ranch for the summer. Seriously.”
Theresa waves off my comment. “Oh please, we’re thrilled you’re here.”
Tate grabs a set of keys off the counter. “We all ready?” he asks.
I glance quizzically between him and Theresa. “Where are we going?”
“Dinner,” he says simply.
“We’re going out?”
He shrugs. “Kind of. We’re going down to the mess hall. Every month or so, we splurge on a nice dinner for all the staff—this month, it’s steak.” He widens his eyes, scooping up his youngest daughter and heading for the door.
Lucy chuckles, following. “I think he gets more excited about these dinners than the employees,” she says to me as she passes.
I follow the family out to the large sedan parked out front, watching as Tate and Lucy get the kids settled into their car seats.
“You said ‘mess hall,’” I say to Tate. “Do the employees normally get meals onsite?”
“The ones that live here, yeah,” he answers.
“You have people living here?” I don’t know why this surprises me so much. I suppose it makes sense for a ranch this size to have people living on site. It just seems so … fancy, I suppose. The ranch has certainly grown since we were kids.
“Oh yeah—dozens of people. The bunkhouses and mess hall are actually pretty close to your cabin. I wanted to show you anyway because you’re free to go down and eat at the hall anytime.
You’re also more than welcome to come around the house too,” he adds, “they’ll just probably have better options down at the cafeteria. ”
I nod numbly, suddenly thinking of the two encounters I’ve had with the ranch hands so far. Neither have seemed overly friendly. Not rude, exactly, just …
I huff. It doesn’t matter, really. I’ve dealt with worse.
Once the kids are settled in, the rest of us climb into the sedan, Tate taking the wheel and heading off down one of the dirt roads leading away from the house.
It doesn’t take long for the bunkhouses to come into view.
A smattering of cabins of various sizes are spread out around a couple larger buildings in the center.
Tate pulls up, jumping out while Lucy and Theresa work on unbuckling the kids.
“This center building here is the mess hall,” Tate tells me once I get out. “That road on the other side of the clearing? A five-minute walk up there and it’ll run right into your cabin.”
I nod. “Great.”
I can already hear the buzzing from outside the hall as we approach.
Loud voices, laughter, the clattering of dishes.
When we enter, I’m immediately met with the largest group of, well …
men I’ve ever seen. And I don’t just mean the male species.
I mean men. Thick, muscular, tanned men.
And while not every one of them might meet the requirements of a male model, they’re definitely all in good shape. Very good shape.
It makes me a bit self-conscious. Even the women—albeit there are less of them—are thin, fit, and muscular.
I try my hardest to keep my jaw properly hinged as we step inside. Tate, Lucy, Theresa, and the kids immediately make themselves at home, greeting friends and chatting. I glue myself to Theresa’s side, feeling that she’s probably the safest to be stuck with.
“Addison!” Tate calls, beckoning me over to the other side of the room.
I glance at Theresa and then follow him, making my way over to where he’s standing with an older gentleman, an apron wrapped around his belly.
“This is Hank,” Tate introduces. “He’s the head chef here. I’ve already told him to expect you for meals.”
I smile.
“The staff has strict mealtimes,” Hank says, “but for you, I’ll make an exception.
” He winks. But it’s not in a creepy way—more the way a sweet, older uncle would.
It makes me laugh. “We’ve always got stuff available.
Even in the middle of the night.” He gestures to a corner at what looks like a cupboard filled with snacks. “You’re welcome here anytime.”
“Thank you,” I say to both of them.
“Oh, and this guy,” Tate says, glancing over my shoulder. “This guy you can bug for anything.”
I follow his gaze, turning, my smile slowly becoming less and less genuine as it lands on the target.
Behind me, hands in the pockets of his dusty blue jeans, stands the irritating cowboy from yesterday.
“Cruz, Addison. Addison, Cruz.”
“We’ve met,” I tell him.
“I know, just reintroducing you,” Tate says with a grin. “Cruz here lives near your cabin. He’ll be around if you need anything. In fact,” he pulls out his phone, “I’ll text you his number right now.”
“Oh, you don’t have to—” I start, but I feel the telltale vibration of my phone in my pants, and I realize he’s already sent it.
Tate stuffs his phone back in his pocket.
I grab mine, glancing down at the contact he’d just sent me. Cruz Conley. Ugh, even his full name is hot. Annoying and hot.
I shoot a forced smile in Cruz’s direction, and he shoots one right back. Great. He’s obviously just as irritated by Tate’s antics as I am. Which irritates me even more. I refuse to be a burden. Besides, what could I possibly need help with? The five-minute walk to the mess hall?
Someone distracts Tate, and he gives Cruz a quick clap on the back before departing, leaving the two of us alone.
Cruz purses his lips, looking disinterested.
“Don’t worry, I don’t need a babysitter. I brush my own teeth and everything,” I clip, trying to both rid him of this strange responsibility Tate has thrust upon him and also prove myself as independent.
“Good. Was a bit worried I’d get roped into some high-maintenance cabin makeover or something.”
I bristle. Is that really what he thinks of me? High maintenance and simply a chore to be avoided? I cross my arms. “Newsflash, cowboy: I’m perfectly capable of existing without your help.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “Existing, sure. But empirical evidence from yesterday suggests you might need help with orientation and the like.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine.” I roll my eyes. “And I’m not high maintenance!” I add.
“Says the woman whose suitcase weighs more than a hay bale.”
“It does not.” Although truthfully, I have no idea how much a hay bale weighs.
“You weren’t the one carrying it.”
“I lugged it across half the ranch!” I shoot back.
“You say that like it was someone else’s job to cart your shit around.”
My eyes widen, but I refuse to let him know he’s shocked me. I raise my chin. “If you hate this so much, then why don’t you just tell Tate you refuse to be my babysitter?” I throw up air quotes around the last word.
“Because, unlike you, I don’t quit when something’s inconvenient.”
My glare deepens—at both insults he’s just thrown my way. “Oh, I’m inconvenient now?”
He chuckles, low. “Princess, you’re the definition of it.”
I have half a mind to tell him off, to explain to him that he has no idea about my work ethic, about sticking to things when you’d rather be anywhere else, that inconvenience has been my entire existence—but I gather all my self-control to tamp it down.
I take a deep breath. “Well, I’ll try my hardest to stay out of your hair,” I bite out.
Cruz is silent for a moment, simply staring me down.
The silence lasts for one heartbeat, two, three, and then he says, “Well, Tate said I have to help you out if you need anything, so don’t hesitate to call.
” He smiles, but it’s fake, inclining his head toward my jeans pocket where the outline of my phone is visible.
I don’t know if it’s the implication that he’s only doing this because of his boss, our tense exchange, or simply how goddamn hot he looks right now, but irritation is bubbling up within me so intensely I’m surprised it’s not noticeably steaming out of my ears.
“I promise you I won’t be needing your help,” I assure him.
The corner of his mouth ticks up.
My eyebrows scrunch farther into a frown.
“If you say so, Princess,” he says with a shrug, his voice low. And the cowboy turns and walks off.