Chapter 3
Bridlepath Farm Cottage — Later
By the time Burke carried her suitcase onto the little front porch and Grant unlocked the cottage door, dusk had begun to settle across the farm in soft blue layers.
“It’s cute,” Izzy said, stepping inside.
Behind her, Grant made a low sound, more resigned than disapproving.
The cottage smelled faintly of old wood and dust, with a heavier, shut-in note underneath.
Izzy wrinkled her nose. “That’s… atmospheric.”
Burke stepped in behind her and sniffed once. “I don’t know, Iz. He might be right. Smells like it’s been closed up a long time.”
“Because it has,” Grant said from the doorway.
The main room was small but charming. Wide plank floors ran beneath a faded rug in muted reds and cream.
A deep stone fireplace took up most of one wall.
Two old wicker chairs faced it with a small table between them.
A narrow galley kitchen opened off one side, and beyond the main room, a short hallway led to a tiny bathroom and what she assumed was the bedroom.
The last of the evening light filtered through the wavy old windowpanes, stretching unevenly across the floor.
Izzy turned slowly in place.
“This is a woman-goes-to-the-mountains-and-rebuilds-her-life cottage.”
Burke laughed under his breath.
Grant didn’t, exactly—but something in his shoulders loosened, his gaze sweeping the small space before settling back on her.
He stood inside the doorway, hat still on, arms folded across his chest like a man bracing for a project he didn’t want.
“The plumbing works,” he said. “Mostly.”
Izzy looked over her shoulder. “That is not reassuring.”
“The heat’s on,” he added. “And it holds it.”
“Still not reassuring,” she said, but her mouth curved.
“There are extra blankets in the chest at the end of the bed.”
She arched a brow. “Are you always this warm with guests?”
“I don’t usually have guests,” he said. “Especially not ones Burke volunteers me for.”
Burke sighed. “Grant.”
Grant lifted a shoulder. “What? I’m being honest.”
Izzy smiled sweetly. “You do that with everyone, or am I special?”
For the first time, something flickered in his expression. Not quite a smile.
“You seem high maintenance,” he said, but there was a thread of dry humor under it.
Izzy bristled. It was a familiar jab—one she usually laughed off in Denver over expensive appetizers.
But here, with her heels sinking into a rug that probably hadn’t been beaten since the Nixon administration, it felt like an indictment.
He didn’t see the woman who managed million-dollar acquisitions; he saw a girl who couldn’t handle a little grit.
Good, she thought. Let him think I’m fragile. Safer that way.
“And why is that?”
“Because you rented a convertible to come to a horse farm.”
“That was a cry for help,” she said. “Try to keep up, cowboy.”
Burke laughed and set her suitcase inside the bedroom door. “I’ll come get you tomorrow before Caitlin gets off work. We’ll keep you tucked out of sight till the party.”
Izzy nodded. “Perfect.”
Burke glanced once between her and Grant, clearly deciding there was no version of this evening that would improve with more discussion. “You good?”
“I’m good.”
Grant made a low, skeptical sound.
Izzy looked at him. “You could leave and let me commune with my adorable cottage in peace.”
His jaw shifted once.
Then he pushed off the wall and held out a small ring of keys. “Front door. Back door. Don’t use the back after dark unless you want the dog to bark the whole county awake.”
She took the keys from his hand and felt, annoyingly, the brief heat of his fingers against hers. His hand stilled for a fraction of a second, like he’d felt it too, before he let go.
“Goodnight, sunshine,” she said.
He gave her a look that belonged on a much more sinful man than one standing in a weathered cottage doorway.
Then he stepped back onto the porch.
“I meant what I said,” he told her. “This place isn’t ready. If anything acts up, you call me. Don’t mess with it yourself.”
There was more caretaking than crankiness in it now, and she heard it.
Before she could answer, he turned and went down the steps.
Izzy watched him cross the yard toward the barn, broad shoulders easy, hat low, moving like every inch of this land answered to him. The jeans did criminal things for the view, which felt personally offensive after the day she’d had.
A grumpy cowboy, she decided, was still better than a smug investor who talked about “rebranding” like it was a sacrament. But, as she watched him go, she thought, I don’t do cowboys.
Burke grinned. “Get some sleep, Iz.”
Then he followed his brother into the deepening evening, and the cottage door closed behind them.
The quiet that settled afterward was immediate and complete.
For the first time all day, Izzy stood still.
No gallery music. No traffic. No performative laughter. No, Marcus Halpern explaining the market value of soul.
It should’ve felt lonely.
Instead, it felt like peace.
The bedroom was every bit as charming as the front room.
A brass bed sat against the far wall beneath a faded quilt in soft cream and pale blue.
A pine dresser with chipped paint stood under the window.
A cedar chest rested at the foot of the bed.
The bedside lamp had a pleated shade that softened everything.
Someone had set a little vase of dried lavender on the nightstand.
She ran a hand over the quilt.
“This is ridiculous,” she said softly.
She unpacked enough to survive the night—makeup bag, charger, her skin care, a tiny charcoal sleep set that always seemed to find its way into her suitcase.
She carried the last of it into the bathroom, flipped on the light, and smiled despite herself.
Claw-foot tub. White beadboard. Tiny hex tile floor.
The shower took a minute to warm, but once it did, the hot water washed away the airport, the gallery, the long drive, and a stubborn layer of Denver she hadn’t realized she was still carrying.
By the time she stepped out, her hair damp and skin flushed pink from the hot water, she felt halfway human again.
She dried off, worked lotion into her legs and arms, brushed out her hair, and stood staring at the small pile of clothes she’d tossed onto the chair.
Then she pulled on a soft charcoal camisole and a pair of tiny sleep shorts she’d packed without thinking—thin cotton, worn soft from too many washes, the kind of thing meant for sleeping alone.
Grant’s face flashed across her mind anyway.
The way he’d filled the cottage doorway. Broad shoulders. Scowl. Dust and denim and those impossible blue eyes looking at her like she was both a problem and a distraction.
Izzy rolled her eyes at herself.
Absolutely not.
This was not about Grant Scott.
She tugged the camisole down and glanced toward the mirror.
Bare legs. Damp dark hair. Flushed skin from the shower.
Human again.
“Well,” she muttered to her reflection, “if I’m going to have a breakdown in the mountains, at least I’m comfortable.”
Something in her loosened at the sight of herself looking less polished. Less staged. More real than she’d felt in weeks.
She switched off the overhead light and padded back into the bedroom barefoot, leaving only the bedside lamp glowing warm and low.
Her phone lay on the nightstand, dark screen reflecting the room back at her. She pictured Caitlin’s name lighting it up—some late-night meme, a weather report from Sylva, a sleepy selfie from the courthouse steps.
God, she missed her.
Texts and calls weren’t the same as having Caitlin in the room—laughing, rolling her eyes, stealing her fries, telling her when she was being dramatic and when she wasn’t being nearly dramatic enough.
Denver hadn’t felt right since she left; the gallery had given Izzy something to pour herself into, so she didn’t have to look directly at the empty spaces.
In a couple of days, Caitlin would walk into a room and see her standing there.
For once, the surprise waiting for her best friend would be a good one.
The thought eased something tight and unseen inside her.
Outside the windows, the farm had gone dark in layers.
Not city dark.
Real dark.
It should’ve felt lonely.
Instead, with Caitlin down the mountain and the ugly parts of Denver finally out of sight, it felt like exhaling.
She slid beneath the quilt and let the quiet settle around her.
For the first time in a long time, Izzy Moreno felt almost—almost off duty.