Chapter 4
Bridlepath Farm Cottage — Later That Night
Izzy crossed to the window and peeked through the curtain.
Below the hill, the barn lights glowed amber against the night. Two young horses were being brought in from the field. A man walked with them, steady and unhurried, one hand on a lead rope, his body angled enough to guide without force.
Grant.
Even in near-darkness, she knew it was him.
One of the yearlings tossed its head. He said something she couldn’t hear.
The colt settled.
Izzy leaned her shoulder against the window frame.
She let the curtain fall and turned away before she could stand there any longer watching him.
She moved through the cottage, checking locks, straightening her toiletry bag, setting her phone on the nightstand.
That was when she heard it.
A faint scratching sound.
She stilled.
It came again.
Above her.
Izzy looked slowly toward the ceiling.
Nothing.
She exhaled, annoyed with herself.
Old house. Branch on the roof. Squirrel. Totally normal.
She turned down the bed.
Scratch.
Sharper this time. A quick drag, then something skittering across the ceiling.
Her head lifted.
“No,” she said out loud. “Absolutely not.”
The cottage offered no reassurance.
She grabbed her phone, turned on the flashlight, and stepped into the hallway.
The beam cut across beadboard walls and framed mountain prints, then into the front room.
Quiet.
The sound had stopped.
Izzy swallowed and stepped forward anyway.
The floor creaked beneath her bare feet. The fireplace loomed ahead, all stone and shadow. The kitchen doorway sat open to her left. The windows reflected her back at herself in pale fragments.
She stood still, listening.
“See?” she whispered. “You’re tired. That’s all.”
A soft flutter sounded above her.
Izzy looked up—
—and something dropped from the beam and shot across the room.
She screamed.
It hit the stone above the hearth, clung there for one impossible second—
—and then another shape moved.
Then another.
The ceiling erupted.
Wings tore through the room, circling, diving, filling the air.
Izzy screamed again, louder, hands flying to her face as she stumbled backward into the table.
“Oh my God—oh my God—”
Something crashed to the floor behind her. Wings rushed past her head.
She ducked, half-blind, heart slamming.
The front door slammed open.
Boots hit the floor.
“Izzy—”
She screamed at him, too.
“Hey. Hey.”
Hands caught her arms, steadying her. His grip was firm. Unshakeable.
Heat cut through the cold rush of panic in her veins.
“Take your hands down.”
“No!”
Mortification hit almost as hard as the panic. She was barefoot in sleep shorts, screaming over airborne rodents while Grant Scott watched.
“Izzy.”
His voice cut through the panic—low, steady, close.
“Take. Your hands. Down.”
She shook her head, fingers welded to her face.
He blew out a breath, shifted closer, and gently wrapped his hands around her wrists.
“Hey,” he said, softer now, the word more anchor than sound. “Look at me.”
Slowly, he eased her hands down.
Her breath came in sharp, uneven pulls. She stood there flushed and breathless in tiny sleep shorts and a camisole that suddenly felt far too revealing, damp, dark hair messy around her shoulders.
For half a heartbeat, he forgot about the wings.
Good Lord. Damn you, Burke.
This was exactly what he’d been trying to avoid.
He dragged his gaze back up to her face, jaw tightening like it cost him.
“You’re okay,” he said, voice a rough scrape. “I’ve got you.”
For one irrational second, she believed nothing bad could reach her standing there.
Only then did he look up again, eyes tracking the frantic movement above them.
“Bats,” she choked. “Oh my God—there are bats—”
“Yeah,” he said. “I see ’em.”
Another one dove low. She flinched hard.
He shifted, moving her behind him without thinking, one hand still anchoring her in place.
He reached back, grabbed the throw blanket from the chair.
The next pass came fast.
He snapped the blanket up, catching the bat against the stone with a soft thud.
It shrieked and clawed at the fabric. He pressed it tighter, bracing his shoulder against it until it stilled.
The room went quiet.
Izzy’s breathing filled the space.
She stared at him.
He glanced at her once—quick, controlled—and then back to the ceiling.
“Looks like the attic’s got a colony,” he said.
“The attic,” she repeated. “Has a colony.”
“Looks that way.”
She pressed a hand to her heart. “You’re standing there like this is normal.”
“It’s a bat, not a chainsaw.”
He sounded like they were discussing rain instead of a flying nightmare that had dive-bombed her.
She blinked at him. “ A bat?”
He didn’t answer.
Because… fair.
“I told you this place wasn’t ready,” he said.
“You did not say it had bats.”
“I said it wasn’t ready.”
“You implied plumbing. Maybe a broken cabinet. Not—” she gestured upward “—this.”
His mouth twitched.
“Do not,” she said sharply, pointing at him, “find this funny.”
“I’m not.”
“You absolutely are.”
Behind him, the bat rustled under the blanket.
He glanced up again, listening.
Then back to her.
“Get your things.”
She blinked. “What?”
“You’re not staying here tonight.”
Her shoulders dropped, relief flashing across her face.
“Good.”
He nodded toward the bedroom. “Pack what you need. I’ll deal with this one and come back tomorrow.”
“You’re leaving them up there?”
He gave her a look. “You want me to handle all of them right now?”
She exhaled. “Two minutes.”
She turned—
—and he caught her wrist.
Not hard.
Enough to stop her.
Her pulse jumped under his fingers.
Neither of them moved.
Her skin was warm. His hand rough, steady, certain.
She looked down at where he held her.
Then up at him.
Something passed between them.
His grip loosened slightly.
“You okay?” he asked.
“No.”
The corner of his mouth shifted.
“Go get your things.”
He let her go.
Izzy came back two minutes later with her overnight case, shoes in one hand, and no dignity left. This was not how women in tiny sleep shorts were supposed to be escorted into handsome men’s houses.
The blanket was gone from the wall. The bat was gone too.
Grant stood near the door, shoulders filling the frame like he’d planted himself there on purpose—a solid line between her and the rest of the room.
She hesitated at the edge of the hallway anyway, pulse still tripping as her gaze flicked up to the beams.
“It’s clear,” he said quietly. “You’re good.”
He didn’t reach for her, but he didn’t look away either. For a second, it felt like the only safe way across the room was straight toward him.
So she did.
He took her suitcase without comment when she reached him.
She let him.
Outside, the air hit cool against her skin.
“You could have told me,” she muttered.
“I tried.”
“You absolutely did not.”
“I said it wasn’t ready.”
“That is not enough information where Dracula’s cousins are concerned.”
He glanced at her. “You always this dramatic?”
She stopped.
“Grant Scott,” she said evenly, “something flew out of your ceiling at my face.”
His mouth moved—almost a smile.
She pointed at it. “There. That. Stop that.”
He looked away.
“Come on,” he said.
She followed, muttering under her breath.
That earned a low laugh.
It changed his whole face. Softening the hard, stoic lines of his jaw.
* * *
The ranch house was even more beautiful inside than it had looked from the outside.
Grant opened the door and stepped aside.
Izzy paused inside.
Wide-plank floors. Layered rugs in worn reds and tobacco tones.
A massive stone fireplace anchored the room, flanked by shelves lined with books, framed photographs, and bronze horse figures.
Leather chairs. A broad sofa. A long ranch table beneath an iron chandelier. A kitchen built for actual cooking.
Everything fit.
Her eyes moved across the room once more. “Okay.”
Grant shut the door. “Okay what?”
“This is… annoyingly nice.”
“It’s a house.”
“It is not just a house.”
He set her suitcase by the stairs. “You done?”
“Not even a little.”
She took a few steps farther in, noticing the small details—the softened edges, the quiet touches that didn’t belong to him alone.
She glanced at him.
“Your mother helped.”
A pause.
“Some.”
“I knew it.”
His eyes narrowed. “How?”
“Because you did not pick out that lamp.”
He looked toward it like it had personally offended him.
“She likes things finished,” he said.
Izzy smiled.
He picked up her case again and nodded toward the hallway.
“You can take the guest room.”
“And there are no bats?”
“No bats.”
“Can you promise that with confidence?”
“Yes.”
She studied him. “That sounds sincere. I hate how much I needed that.”
He led her down the hall and opened the door.
Soft cream walls. Iron bedframe. Wood dresser. A window looking out over the pasture.
Grant set her bag down. For a moment, neither of them moved.
She stood there in a tiny charcoal camisole that hugged every curve and matching sleep shorts riding low on her hips, a clean strip of bare skin between them, and long, bare legs below.
Damp dark hair spilled over her shoulders, catching the lamplight along the line of her throat and collarbones.
She looked like some late-night temptation dropped right into the middle of his sensible, ordered house.
This, he thought grimly, was exactly why he hadn’t wanted her here.
His eyes dropped once—not a glance, but a slow, traitorous drag—from the edge of the cami down to that narrow band of skin and the tiny shorts sitting too damn low on her hips, then down the long line of her legs before he forced his gaze back up where it belonged.
Good Lord. How the hell was he supposed to get any work done with that walking around his place? Heat settled low in his stomach, sharp and intrusive.
Izzy saw the way his gaze dragged over her—slow, assessing, entirely too aware. Ridiculous. She’d been terrorized by Dracula’s cousins, and yet all she could think about was the way his eyes had lingered on her—and the way he’d said her name.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice a notch lower than intended.
“You’re welcome,” he said, the words sounding like they cost him. He still didn’t look happy she was there—if anything, he looked like a man mentally reworking his entire week around a problem he hadn’t budgeted for.
He stepped back into the hall, but the ghost of his presence stayed in the room, clashing with the scent of her expensive jasmine lotion.
“Get some sleep, Izzy.”
The way he said her name settled somewhere deep and dangerously soft.