Chapter 10
Saturday Afternoon — Bridlepath Farm
The old red barn was all faded paint and worn boards, a hundred years of use etched into every beam.
Grant eased the skid steer forward another foot, eyes up, one hand steady on the controls while Burke balanced in the lifted bucket above him, threading a strand of lights through the rafters.
“Hold it,” Burke called.
Grant stopped. “Been holding it.”
“You moved.”
“I adjusted.”
Burke didn’t dignify that.
He looped the strand once more, secured it, then leaned back slightly to check the line. The lights weren’t on yet, but even unlit, they changed the feel of the place—softened it somehow.
Grant glanced up again.
Burke didn’t look like a man finishing a job.
He looked… settled.
Grant leaned back in the seat, resting one arm along the side of the cab.
“You’ve got that look,” he said.
Burke glanced down. “What look?”
“Like nothing’s riding you for once.”
Burke didn’t answer right away. Just reached for the next section of lights, working them through the beam.
“Maybe,” he said finally.
That was it.
Grant nodded once to himself and bumped the lever, lifting him a few inches higher.
They worked another twenty minutes in steady rhythm—lift, hook, move—until the last strand ran clean across the far side of the barn.
“Alright,” Burke said, stepping back carefully in the bucket. “Try it.”
Grant killed the engine, hopped down, and crossed to the breaker mounted along the wall.
He flipped the switch.
For a half-second, nothing happened.
Then—
The barn came alive.
Warm light spilled through the rafters, catching on old wood and worn beams, stretching across the open space in a soft golden glow.
Dust lit up like it had been waiting for it.
Grant stood there, one hand still on the switch.
“Well,” Burke said quietly, climbing down, “that’ll do.”
Grant didn’t answer right away.
He looked around.
The place didn’t feel empty anymore.
“Think she’ll like it?” Burke asked.
Grant nodded once. “She’ll love it.”
The side door creaked open.
“Okay…” Izzy’s voice floated in. “That’s kind of amazing.”
Grant turned.
She stood just inside the doorway, hair pulled back, sleeves pushed up, a faint flush still in her skin from a morning in the kitchen.
She took a few steps in, looking up at the lights.
“You two have been busy.”
“Burke’s idea,” Grant said.
“Of course it was,” she murmured, smiling faintly.
Behind her, boots and effort broke through the quiet.
“Where you want this, boss?”
Jose and Ben came through carrying the long farmhouse table between them.
Grant jerked his chin. “Center. Under the middle run.”
They set it down with a solid thud.
Izzy stepped in without asking, nudging one end.
“Just a touch more… there.”
Jose glanced at Grant.
Grant gave a small nod.
“Looks good,” Jose said.
Grant’s gaze moved past them.
Coolers. Covered dishes. More food than he expected.
He looked back at her.
“Smells like you didn’t take it easy.”
Izzy didn’t even look up.
“I hope you know,” she said calmly, “if the food isn’t good, that is entirely on you.”
Grant folded his arms. “On me.”
“You’re the one who decided I was handling it.”
A corner of his mouth moved. “You’re doing alright so far.”
She paused just long enough to hear it.
Then kept moving. “We’ll see.”
“Leigh from Cotton Leigh Bakery’s bringing the cake later,” Burke said, stepping in. “Said she’s got something special.”
Izzy glanced over. “Define special.”
“Cotton Leigh special.”
Grant nodded once. “That’ll be good.”
Burke’s mouth twitched. “She said—and I quote—a ‘humdinger of a cake.’”
Izzy laughed. “Well, now I feel like I’m in competition.”
“You are,” Grant said.
She pointed at him. “Don’t start.”
The screen door opened again.
Maggie Scott stepped inside, a basket hooked over her arm, already taking everything in.
“Well now,” she said warmly. “Would you look at this.”
Behind her came Aunt Emma, slower but steady, her eyes soft as they moved over the lights.
“Oh, Burke,” she said. “This is just beautiful.”
Burke smiled, a little sheepish. “Still getting it there.”
“It’s already there,” she said.
Then she saw Izzy.
“Oh my goodness—“
Izzy turned, smiling. “Emma.”
Emma crossed the space and pulled her into a warm hug.
“Look at you,” she said. “I was just saying I hoped we’d see you again.”
Izzy softened. “It’s good to see you.”
“You too, sweetheart.”
Maggie stepped beside them. “Welcome back to Sylva.”
“Thank you.”
Maggie’s gaze flicked briefly to Grant, then back to Izzy.
“Well,” she said lightly, “looks like you’ve been busy.”
Izzy gave a small shrug. “He volunteered me.”
Maggie’s brows lifted. “Did he now.”
Grant didn’t take the bait.
They moved easily after that.
Maggie adding to the table. Emma adjusting details. Jose and Ben hauling in chairs.
Burke stepping out to check timing.
The barn filling—not with noise, but with purpose.
Grant stood off to one side.
Watched it.
The lights. The table. His mother. Emma.
Izzy—right in the middle of it.
Like she’d always been part of this place.
He exhaled slowly.
This hadn’t just been Burke’s idea anymore.
Somewhere along the way, it had turned into something else.
The barn settled behind them in a low hum.
Grant stepped out into the cooling air.
“That should hold,” he said.
Izzy followed, towel in hand.
“For now,” she said. “Until something inevitably goes wrong.”
“Optimistic.”
“I’m realistic.”
They crossed the yard.
The barn glowed behind them now.
Izzy slowed, glancing back.
“It’s going to be good.”
Grant followed her gaze.
“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”
* * *
Bridlepath Farm — Getting Ready
Grant stood in the kitchen, the silence of the house amplified by the distant thrum of the music already starting in the barn.
He’d spent twenty minutes fighting with the collar of a starched white button-down—the kind of heavy, pressed cotton that felt like a cage after a week in work coats. He checked his reflection, adjusted the brim of his best Stetson, and shoved his feet into his dress boots.
He was ready.
He just wasn’t sure he was ready for her.
He heard the click of heels against the hallway floor—a sharp, rhythmic sound that didn’t belong in a farmhouse.
Grant leaned against the counter, mug of black coffee in hand, and waited.
Then she stepped into the kitchen.
Grant’s heart didn’t just skip; it stalled.
Izzy wasn’t wearing a dress. She was in a dark teal silk jumpsuit that was, quite frankly, a liability to his concentration.
The strapless top hugged her curves with lethal precision, the silk straining just enough to highlight the honeyed skin of her shoulders and a deep, confident swell of cleavage that made Grant’s mouth go dry.
The legs were wide and flowy, but every time she took a step, the high splits in the fabric flashed a long, toned stretch of leg that seemed to go on forever.
She was Italian royalty. Tall, leggy, and carrying herself with the kind of effortless confidence that usually made Grant want to head for the hills.
Man, he thought, a sudden, sharp desire blooming in his gut. I’d like to get my hands on that.
The thought was visceral. Raw.
He took a slow, deliberate sip of his coffee, forcing his expression to remain as flat as a high-plains horizon. He put himself in check before the thought could even settle.
She was Caitlin’s best friend.
She was an art dealer from Denver who probably thought a “busy day” involved a long lunch and a gallery opening.
And most importantly, she was a temporary fixture. A week, maybe two, and she’d fly right back to Denver.
Grant didn’t do the one-night-stand thing. Not anymore. Women in this town got clingy; they got attached to the idea of being the one to “tame” the Scott brother who stayed behind.
He wasn’t ready for attachment.
He wasn’t sure he’d ever be again.
He shifted his weight, his starched shirt crinkling.
“You look…” He paused, searching for a word that wasn’t spectacular. “You look like you’re lost, Moreno. The gala is a few states over.”
Izzy’s lips tipped into that dangerous curve, her dark eyes flashing.
“And you look like you’re headed to a hearing at the courthouse. Does that shirt actually let you move, or is it just for show?”
Grant’s mouth twitched, a rough sound, almost a laugh. He pushed off the counter, closing the distance just enough that the clean line of jasmine and silk slipped under his skin, crowding out the smell of coffee.
“It’s for show,” he said. “And it’s the only thing keeping me civil.”
He set his mug down, his gaze traveling one more time over the way the silk moved against her legs, memorizing the picture before the rest of the world got to see her.
“Come on,” he said, reaching for his keys. “Let’s go give Caitlin a heart attack. Just try not to break any hearts while you’re at it. I don’t want to have to clean up the mess.”
Izzy brushed past him, the scent of something floral and expensive catching in his lungs, the split in her jumpsuit flashing a glimpse of thigh that made him grip his keys until his knuckles went white.
“I’ll try to contain myself, Cowboy. But I make no promises.”
Grant followed her out, watching the sway of that silk and the dangerous little confidence in her stride, and silently reminded himself that a week or two was a very, very long time to keep his hands in his pockets.
Just before they stepped off the porch, Izzy’s hand found his forearm—a brief, grounding touch that had nothing to do with silk or attraction.
“Are we still doing it?” she asked softly. “Asking your dad about Clara?”
Grant looked down at her, the playful tension of the kitchen replaced by the cold weight of the mystery. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll find a moment with my father.”