3. Chapter 3
Kayla
Ty Harlan’s house is enormous.
Not mansion enormous. There are no columns or fountains or unnecessary wings.
It’s a ranch house, broad and solid, sitting at the end of a long gravel drive with a wraparound porch and enough square footage to raise several children who would theoretically leave toys everywhere and complain about chores.
Instead, it looks almost unnaturally neat.
I pull up after my shift and park beside Ty’s truck.
He’s waiting on the porch. Of course he is.
He comes down the steps as I get out of the car. “Hey.”
“Hi.”
I look past him toward the house. “You weren’t exaggerating about having space.”
“No.”
“There are smaller hotels.”
He glances at the house like he’s never considered its size before.
“It’s not that big.”
“It has a porch with two separate seating areas.”
“One is in the shade.”
“That does not make your argument stronger.”
His mouth shifts slightly. There it is again. That almost-smile I’m starting to recognize.
He opens the front door. “Come in.”
The first thing I notice is how clean everything is. Not sterile. Not exactly. Just… untouched.
The hardwood floors are swept. The counters are clear except for a coffee maker, a toaster, and a glass jar with cooking utensils. There’s a couch and two chairs in the living room, all good quality, all positioned exactly where someone probably placed them years ago.
No photographs. No stacks of mail. No shoes kicked beneath the coffee table. No blanket tossed over the back of the couch. Nothing that says a person came home tired last night and left evidence behind.
“This is very clean,” I say.
“I cleaned.”
“You cleaned because I was coming?”
“Yes.”
The answer is so immediate that I look at him. He looks back like he doesn’t see anything unusual about admitting that. Interesting.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
He gestures toward the kitchen. “Kitchen.”
“I figured.”
“Living room.”
“I’m starting to understand the layout.”
Another tiny movement at his mouth. He leads me down the hallway.
“My room is at the end. Guest room is second door on the left. Bathroom’s across from it.”
The guest room is bigger than my entire current bedroom. Queen bed. Dresser. Nightstand. Lamp. Window facing the pasture. Clean white sheets.
The closet doors are open. I walk over and look inside. Completely empty.
“You cleaned this out too.”
“There wasn’t much in it.”
“There was something.”
“Couple coats. Box of paperwork.”
“And you moved them.”
“Yes.”
I turn around. Ty is standing in the doorway. He doesn’t seem to understand why I’m looking at him.
“You did all this before I agreed to anything.”
“You said you were coming to look.”
“That is not the same thing as moving in.”
“No.”
“But you emptied the closet.”
He pauses. “Seemed easier.”
I smile despite myself. “Sure.”
The bathroom is across the hall. Fresh towels. Soap. Empty medicine cabinet. More counter space than I’ve had in fourteen months.
I open the cabinet under the sink. Nothing.
I glance back at him. “Did you clean this out too?”
“It was already empty.”
“That’s worse.”
“Why?”
“You live alone in a four-bedroom house and apparently own no belongings.”
“I own things.”
“Where are they?”
“The barn.”
I laugh. He looks mildly pleased with himself.
We head back toward the kitchen. On the way, I slow at one of the open doors. Another bedroom. Empty except for a bed and dresser.
The door across from it opens onto what looks like a fourth bedroom being used as an office. Desk, filing cabinet, ranch maps, a shelf of binders.
That room at least looks occupied. Barely.
I stop in the kitchen. “You really live here by yourself.”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Eleven years.”
Something about that answer catches me. Eleven years in this much house.
“Did you build it?”
“Mostly. Original farmhouse was here. Foundation was good, so I rebuilt around it.”
“You built four bedrooms for yourself?”
He leans against the counter. “I was twenty-seven.”
That explains nothing. Apparently my face says so.
“I figured I’d need them eventually.”
Oh.
I look toward the hallway again. Four bedrooms. Empty closets. A house built for a future that never showed up.
I suddenly feel like I’ve walked farther into his life than I intended.
So naturally, I say the first stupid thing that comes to mind. “How many forks do you own?”
Ty blinks. “What?”
“Forks.”
“I know what forks are.”
“I’m checking the kitchen situation.”
“Why?”
“If I’m considering temporary residence, I need to know what I’m dealing with.”
He opens a drawer.
I count. “Seven.”
He looks down. Then back at me. “That enough?”
“You own hundreds of acres and seven forks.”
“I live alone.”
“You built four bedrooms.”
“I didn’t build four kitchens.”
I laugh. Really laugh.
His smile appears again. Small, but not quite as small as usual. It looks good on him. That is information I don’t need.
I close the drawer. “I’ll take it.”
His smile disappears. “You will?”
I realize how fast I said it.
“The room,” I clarify. “Temporarily.”
“Right.”
“While I look for something permanent.”
“Okay.”
“And we need rules.”
“Of course we do.”
“You say that like you expected me to have rules.”
“You carry a clipboard recreationally.”
“I do not carry a clipboard recreationally.”
“You had one at the Roundup.”
“I was working.”
“You seem like a woman with rules.”
“I’m choosing to take that as a compliment.”
“It was.” That shuts me up for half a second.
I recover. “Separate bedrooms.”
“Yes.”
“Separate bathrooms.”
“Yes.”
“I buy my own groceries.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
“All right.”
“I come and go on my own schedule.”
“I assumed you would.”
“You do not rearrange your life around me.”
Ty studies me for a moment. “That one might be hard to define.”
I narrow my eyes. “What does that mean?”
“If I’m making dinner and there’s enough for two, I’m not going to throw half of it away to prove a point.”
“That is not what I meant.”
“I know.”
“And I’m not cooking for you.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“Men sometimes assume.”
“I’ve been feeding myself for twenty years.”
I look around his aggressively clean kitchen. “Have you?” He almost smiles again.
“I can cook.”
“Prove it.” His eyebrows lift.
I realize what I said. “That was not an invitation.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
A beat passes between us.
I clear my throat. “And the fake relationship ends when Caldwell makes his decision.”
“Yes.”
“After that, we go back to normal.”
“Normal being?”
“Not pretending to date.”
He nods. “Fine.”
I don’t know why that answer bothers me slightly. Probably because I’m tired.
“When can I move in?”
“Whenever you want.”
“Saturday?”
“I’ll be here.”
“Obviously. You live here.”
“Yes.”
I pick up my purse. Ty walks me to the door.
At the porch, I turn back. “If this gets weird, I’m leaving.”
“It’s already weird.”
“Indeed.”
“And Kayla?”
“Yeah?”
“If you decide you’re uncomfortable at any point, you don’t owe me the fake girlfriend part.”
I look at him.
“I mean it,” he says. “You can still stay until you find somewhere else.”
That surprises me. “This arrangement is supposed to help you too.”
“It will.”
“How?”
He holds my gaze. “You’ll be here.”
For half a second, I don’t know what to say.
Then he adds, “Caldwell will see that.”
Right. Of course. That’s what he meant.
I tell myself that all the way to my car.
I move in Saturday morning.
I own less than I thought I did. Two suitcases. Three boxes. A bag of books. My laptop. Bedding. Toiletries. A laundry basket full of things that didn’t fit anywhere else.
And my plant.
I bought it from the hardware store when I first moved to Wylde Mountain and have somehow kept it alive for fourteen months despite having no idea what kind of plant it is.
Ty looks at it when I carry it through the front door. “What is that?”
“A plant.”
“I can see that.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“What kind?”
“No idea.”
He looks at me.
“I’ve had it over a year.”
“And you don’t know what it is?”
“It hasn’t complained.”
He takes the heaviest box from my arms before I can object.
“I can carry that.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you carrying it?”
“Because it’s heavy.”
“I’m capable of carrying heavy things.”
“I know that too.”
“You say ‘I know’ a lot.”
“You tell me things I already know.”
I follow him down the hall. The box is full of books and weighs approximately forty pounds. He carries it like it contains pillows.
Fine. I can accept help. Being independent and being ridiculous are not the same thing.
It takes less than an hour to unpack. Clothes in the dresser. Shoes in the closet. Books stacked on the nightstand because Ty apparently owns no bookshelves outside his office. Toiletries in the bathroom.
I carry my blue coffee mug into the kitchen last. It’s bright cobalt with a small chip in the handle. I’ve had it for years. Ty’s mug is beside the coffee maker. Plain white. I set mine next to it. The two look absurd together.
Ty comes in through the back door, rubbing his hands on a rag. He stops. His eyes go to the counter. To the mugs.
For some reason, he doesn’t say anything.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring at my mug.”
“I’m looking at it.”
“That’s what staring is.”
“It’s blue.”
“Excellent observation.”
He hangs the rag over the sink. “Hard to miss.”
“You hate it.”
“No.”
“Good, because I’m emotionally attached.”
“I figured.” He pours himself water.
I look around the kitchen.
My mug on the counter. My purse on one of the chairs. My plant on the windowsill because I decided it needed more light.
The room already looks slightly different. Messier. Better, maybe.
I push that thought away.
Temporary. That’s the point.
That evening, I come out of my room after unpacking the last box and smell something cooking. Ty is at the stove.
He has changed out of his work clothes and into jeans and a dark T-shirt. No jacket. No hat. I’ve seen him in regular clothes before. Apparently regular clothes inside his house are different. More dangerous.
“What are you doing?”
He glances over. “Cooking.”
“I thought we discussed this.”
“We discussed you not cooking for me.”
I walk toward the stove. “You are using technicalities against me.”
“I’m making steak.”