Chapter 5
Bridlepath Farm — The Next Morning
Izzy woke slowly, disoriented.
The room was quiet. Soft light filtered through the curtains. Cedar and something warmer—coffee—drifted in from somewhere down the hall.
Not her condo. Not the gallery. Izzy blinked at the ceiling.
The cottage. The bats. Grant.
Her mouth curved.
“Well,” she murmured, voice still soft with sleep, “that escalated.”
She pushed herself up against the pillows and took in the room again in daylight. Less shadow, more detail. The iron bedframe. The worn wood of the dresser. The soft stretch of sunlight across the floor.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. Izzy reached for it, squinting at the screen.
Caitlin
Her smile came instantly.
She opened the message.
Caitlin: How’s everything at the gallery? Has Marcus figured out you are the gallery yet?
Izzy pressed her lips together, a quiet laugh building in her.
“Oh, this is terrible,” she whispered.
Terrible. And perfect.
She typed back:
Izzy: I think he’s hanging on by a thread. You may need to prepare for a full emotional collapse.
The reply came fast.
Caitlin: I knew it. The second I’m not there with you, everything goes to hell.
Izzy shook her head, smiling, a familiar ache tightening in her.
If you only knew.
She looked toward the window, like she might somehow see Caitlin from here.
Right here. Same town. Same morning. No idea—and Caitlin loved surprises.
Izzy: I’ve got it handled. You enjoy your peaceful mountain life.
She hit send and set the phone down, a quiet, bubbling excitement settling in her.
This was going to be worth it.
A floorboard creaked faintly somewhere down the hall.
Izzy went still.
Cabinet doors, unhurried. The soft clink of something set on a counter.
Coffee.
She pushed the covers back and slid out of bed, the cool floor grounding her as she crossed to her bag.
She pulled out the obscenely expensive jeans she’d sworn she wouldn’t need and a soft dove-gray sweater that looked casual and tailored at the same time.
Even dressed down, she refused to do it cheaply.
She dressed quickly, running her fingers through her hair enough to make it presentable—by her standards, that still meant movie-poster hair.
Then she paused at the door.
Listened.
The house wasn’t quiet anymore.
It felt… lived in.
She opened the door and stepped into the hallway.
The scent of coffee was stronger here, rich and warm. Sunlight stretched across the floor in long bands of gold.
Izzy followed it.
Grant stood at the kitchen counter, back to her.
Sleeves pushed up. One hand braced on the counter, the other wrapped around a mug.
He didn’t turn right away.
“Morning,” he said.
Like he already knew she was there.
Izzy leaned her shoulder lightly against the doorway.
“Do you always know when people are moving around in your house, or is that a special skill?”
He looked back over his shoulder.
“Depends on the person.”
Her mouth tipped.
“That’s not reassuring.”
He turned then, setting the mug down.
Daylight did strange things to him. The line of his jaw, the faint roughness of stubble, the stretch of his forearms under rolled sleeves, the steady look that landed on her and didn’t rush away.
His gaze dropped once, taking her in—dove-gray sweater, denim that fit like they’d been made for her, bare feet on his kitchen floor. For half a second, his expression said exactly what he thought: even in jeans, she looked like she was about to step onto a stage somewhere, not into a barn.
“Coffee?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said immediately. “Very much yes.”
He reached for another mug, poured, and slid it across the counter.
Izzy stepped in to take it.
Their fingers brushed.
Brief.
Heat flickered up her arm. His skin was like a fever against hers, a rough-palmed reminder that he wasn’t only a host—he was a man who worked with his hands, and right now, those hands were the only thing she was thinking about.
She pulled away before it turned into something neither of them could explain.
She wrapped her hand around the mug and took a sip.
Better than any gallery catering coffee she’d had in months.
She let her eyes move around the kitchen, then brought them back to him.
“So,” she said, “to confirm—no bats in here?”
“No bats.”
“Anywhere?”
“Anywhere you’ll see.”
She narrowed her eyes over the rim of her mug.
“That is not the same thing.”
Something moved at the corner of his mouth.
“There’s none in the house,” he said.
“Thank you. That is the answer I was looking for.”
A quiet beat settled between them.
She set the mug down, then picked it back up again.
“So what’s the plan?” she asked. “Do I pretend last night didn’t happen and… integrate into farm life?”
He leaned back against the counter, arms folding loosely.
“You’re here for Caitlin,” he said. “So stay out of her way until it’s time.”
Her smile softened.
“She has no idea I’m here.”
“I figured that.”
“She texted me asking how things are at the gallery.”
That got a small reaction.
“Yeah?”
“I’m standing in her town, drinking your coffee, lying to her about being at the gallery.”
Grant let out a quiet huff.
“Sounds about right.”
Izzy smiled down at her mug.
“I can’t wait to see her face.”
Something in his expression shifted.
Subtle.
Warmer.
“Yeah,” he said. “She’ll like that.”
Izzy took another sip, then looked toward the window.
“So,” she said lightly, “what’s first? Do I get a farm orientation, or do I try not to embarrass myself in front of your horses?”
He pushed off the counter.
“We’ll start with not embarrassing yourself.”
She smiled. “Bold of you to assume that’s an option.”
He held her gaze a second longer.
“Come on,” he said. “Go put on your shoes.”
And like that, the day began.
* * *
The morning was already busy by the time they stepped outside.
The air was cool and clean, sunlight stretching across the pastures. Fencing ran in neat sections down the hill, horses already moving in the fields—heads down, tails flicking, easy and contained.
Izzy paused on the porch for half a second.
Grant didn’t slow.
“Stay with me,” he said, already heading down the steps.
She followed.
They crossed toward the main barn, the ground uneven beneath their feet. The closer they got, the more the place came alive—voices, movement, the steady rhythm of work already in motion.
A man led a gelding out of the aisle. Another hauled a bale of hay across the yard. Somewhere behind the barn, metal clanged lightly against metal.
No one stopped, but eyes followed them across the yard.
Izzy felt it—the quick looks, the second glances. New. Out of place. An outsider.
“Don’t mind them,” Grant said, not looking at her.
“I don’t,” she said.
She did.
A little.
They stepped into the barn.
The temperature dropped immediately, the air cooler, edged with hay and leather. Sunlight filtered through the high slats, cutting across dust motes and the long aisle of stalls.
Izzy’s gaze snagged on a woman’s hands for a beat—the sure way she checked the girth, the calm pressure on the bay’s neck—little details her own muscles remembered far better than she wanted to admit.
At the center of the activity, the woman straightened.
Dark hair pulled into a low ponytail, baseball cap pulled down against the light. Fitted tee, worn jeans, boots that had seen actual work. She stood near the cross-ties, one hand steady on a restless bay, the other adjusting a strap with quick, efficient movements.
She didn’t look up right away.
“Morning,” Grant said.
“Mm,” she answered, finishing what she was doing before she straightened.
Then her eyes landed on Izzy.
One clean sweep.
Head to toe.
“This her?” the woman asked.
Grant didn’t miss a beat. “This is Izzy.”
The woman’s gaze came back to her face.
A beat passed.
Izzy offered a small, polite smile. “Hi.”
“Naomi,” she said. “Barn manager.”
Izzy had spent years handling gallery donors, difficult artists, and wealthy men with egos the size of small countries. Somehow, this woman with a lead rope made her feel underdressed.
Izzy nodded. “Nice to meet you.”
Naomi didn’t respond to that.
Instead, she shifted her attention back to Grant. “We’ve got Hollis coming in this morning. Said he’d be here by nine.”
“Yeah,” Grant said. “I know.”
Naomi’s eyes flicked once more toward Izzy.
Then back to the horse.
Conversation over.
Izzy shot Grant a look.
“Well,” she said, “that went well.”
His mouth moved—barely.
“She’ll come around.”
“Comforting.”
A bark sounded behind them.
Izzy turned.
A dog trotted down the aisle toward them—medium-sized, quick, alert. One blue eye. One brown. Ears up, tail already wagging like it had somewhere important to be.
“Well hello,” Izzy said, crouching slightly.
The dog slowed, studying her.
Then, apparently satisfied, stepped forward and pressed his head into her hand.
“Oh, you are a good decision,” she murmured, scratching behind his ears.
The tail wagged harder.
“Steve,” Grant said.
“Of course, his name is Steve,” she said. “Does he have a mortgage and a favorite lawn mower, too? He looks like he’s about to tell me my tires are low.”
Steve leaned into her like they’d known each other for years.
Grant watched.
Then looked away.
The sound came from outside.
Low at first.
Then louder.
An engine.
Izzy straightened, watching the barn doors as the noise grew, gravel crunching under heavy tires.
A truck rolled into view.
Big.
Dual rear wheels.
Clean in a way that meant it was taken care of, not unused. The trailer behind it matched—sleek, polished, with a painted scene stretching across the side. Rolling pasture. Fencing. A line of horses in motion.
And a name.
Hollis Ridge Farm.
“Well,” Izzy said quietly, “that’s not subtle.”
Grant didn’t answer.
The truck idled, then cut off.
A moment later, the driver’s door opened.
Callum Hollis stepped down like he had nowhere else to be.
Tall. Easy confidence. Dark hair pushed back, sunglasses catching the light. Worn jeans, boots, a button-down rolled at the sleeves.
He moved around the front of the truck, already looking toward the barn—
—and then he saw her.
He stopped.