Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Annie
Well… it’s been weeks now.
Weeks since me and Duke… blew off some steam, and since he clearly isn’t mentioning it, neither will I.
It’s probably for the best. He’s my boss, after all.
So when he appears in my office doorway on Sunday morning looking unfairly good in a dark henley, worn jeans, and the kind of easy grin that should come with a warning, I try to ignore the way my pulse pounds.
“Hey, accountant,” he says, leaning one shoulder against the frame. “You busy?”
“Yes,” I say, because lying seems easier than meeting his eyes.
He glances at my desk.
I glance at my desk too, just to check whether it also wants to betray me.
There is, in fairness, actual work on it. Ledger printouts, vendor notes, a yellow legal pad covered in the kind of shorthand that would look deranged to anyone who doesn’t enjoy finding financial inconsistencies for fun.
My laptop is open to a spreadsheet. My highlighter is uncapped. I’m radiating productivity.
Duke folds his arms. “You’ve been staring at the same page for five minutes.”
I blink. “That feels made up.”
“It isn’t.” His mouth twitches. “You coming?”
My stomach does a weird, unpleasant little swoop that I refuse to examine too closely. “Coming where?”
He looks offended. “The monthly Sunday potluck. Church hall. Town gossip with side dishes. I told you about it.”
He did, technically.
A few days ago, while passing me a plate at breakfast like we were two perfectly normal people who hadn’t nearly combusted against each other in his room, he’d mentioned the potluck in the same tone someone might use to mention weather.
Casual, harmless, entirely free of the fact that his thumb had brushed mine when he handed over the toast and I’d nearly dropped the plate like a Victorian heroine with a weak constitution.
I made some noncommittal noise at the time and gone back to my iced coffee.
“I don’t know,” I say now, too carefully. “That sounds like a lot of… community.”
“That,” Duke says, “is the most suspicious way anyone’s ever said the word ‘community.’”
“I’m never in one place too long, so community always feels like a lot.”
He pushes off the doorway and comes into the room, all warm energy, broad shoulders, and complete refusal to let a person maintain emotional distance in peace.
“Annie.”
I do not like the way my name sounds in his mouth.
That’s a lie.
I like it too much, which is obviously the problem.
“What?”
“You’ve been here a few weeks,” he says. “You know the ranch. You know the office. You know which coffee mugs are secretly Cody’s and which ones Sherry only says are communal because she’s choosing violence. You should know the town too.”
“That feels less like an invitation and more like a threat.”
“It can be both.”
I lean back in my chair and study him, because the alternative is agreeing too quickly and letting him think he can just show up with that grin and get what he wants.
Which, to be fair, he probably can.
Annoying.
“We’re ignoring the fact that you didn’t give me more notice,” I say.
His brows lift. “Annie, it happens every month.”
“Yes, but not every Sunday involves me being paraded in front of strangers holding casseroles and opinions.”
“Paraded is a strong word.”
“Escorted.”
“Still dramatic.”
“I’m an accountant with blue hair in a small town,” I say dryly. “Dramatic is what people are going to call me the second I walk in.”
Duke’s gaze softens. Enough to make my chest shift in a way I don’t appreciate.
“Come anyway,” he says. “I’ll stay with you.”
That’s definitely not romantic. We’re not doing romantic. We are barely doing eye contact for more than four consecutive seconds at breakfast.
But there’s a danger about the certainty in his voice. The way he says it like it’s simple. Like of course he’ll stay with me. Like that’s just a thing he can offer and I can trust.
I should say no.
I should absolutely say no.
Instead I hear myself ask, “Do I need to bring anything?”
His grin turns victorious, bright and immediate. “Your sparkling personality.”
“Oh, good…”
“And maybe a pie, if you want to avoid Betty Lou deciding you were raised by wolves.”
I sigh. “I hate that you know exactly how to manipulate me.”
“I know exactly how to motivate you,” he corrects.
“That’s the same thing, just in cleaner boots.”
He laughs, and because my life is a joke, I laugh too.
Which is how, an hour later, I find myself in the passenger seat of Duke’s truck with a peach pie balanced carefully in my lap and the slow, creeping realization that I may have made a tactical error.
Not because I’m going to a potluck.
Because I’m going to a potluck with Duke.
Alone.
In a truck cab that smells like worn leather, clean soap, and the faintest trace of warmth and spice, which should probably be illegal when paired with a sunset and a man who knows exactly how to use his smile as a controlled substance.
I shift the pie on my knees. “This is your fault.”
Duke glances over as he turns onto the main road toward town. “You haven’t even been judged by anyone yet.”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it.”
He grins, eyes on the road. “Maybe.”
I stare out the window before I say something stupid.
The valley opens up around us in long stretches of meadow and pine, late afternoon light turning everything softer than it has any right to be.
The mountains in the distance are all shadow and blue. Fence lines stripe the fields. Horses graze in scattered groups. It’s disgustingly picturesque.
Colter Creek really is beautiful. I can’t help but notice it every time I leave the ranch.
I shift again, hyperaware of every bump in the road, every brush of my sleeve against the center console, every time Duke’s big hand moves on the wheel.
This is ridiculous.
We’re being ridiculous.
Since that day, we’ve handled the situation with exactly the kind of maturity you’d expect from two adults living in close proximity under complicated circumstances, which is to say we haven’t handled it at all.
He still smiles at me like I’m his favorite problem.
I still feel like someone swapped out all my internal wiring for exposed live current whenever he gets too close.
And neither of us has mentioned it.
Healthy.
Very stable.
Ten out of ten.
“Relax,” Duke says.
I turn to glare at him. “That’s a hateful thing to say to an anxious person.”
“You’re not anxious.”
“No?”
“You’re braced.”
I blink. “That’s offensively perceptive.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Feed people long enough, you learn how they wear their feelings.”
“I don’t wear my feelings.”
He finally looks at me then, one quick sideways glance that says he knows exactly how false that is. “Sure you don’t.”
I open my mouth, then close it again.
Because he’s right, unfortunately.
I’m not some open book wandering around announcing my inner life to strangers. But Duke sees things. Small things.
The shift of my shoulders. The way I tap my thumb against whatever’s in my hand when I’m thinking too hard. The way my mouth tightens before I say I’m fine when I absolutely am not.
It’s rude.
“And before you ask,” he adds, “you look good.”
I freeze.
He keeps driving like he didn’t just drop that into the truck between us like a lit match.
I look down at myself, because apparently I’ve forgotten what clothes are. Black jeans. Boots. Thin black sweater tucked into the waistband. Silver hoops in my ears and a couple more up the cartilage.
Blue hair half up, half down because I’d tried twice to get it into a bun and hated both attempts on sight. Mascara. Lip balm. The usual armor, just with better lighting.
“That wasn’t a thing I was going to ask,” I say after a second.
“No?”
“No.”
“Huh.” His mouth curves. “Felt like you were thinking it.”
“I was thinking about whether potluck attendance counts as a form of public risk.”
“That too.”
Hopeless.
Absolutely hopeless.
The church hall sits just off Main Street, a white painted building with a pitched roof and a parking lot already half full of trucks, SUVs, and at least one battered sedan that looks like it has survived several decades and one minor war.
Warm light beams through the windows. Even from outside, I can see movement inside. People. Tables. A lot of people.
Oh no.
“Duke.”
“You’re fine.”
“Have you considered that you say that in exactly the tone people use before releasing a horse into a parade route?”
He comes around to my side before I can juggle the pie and my dignity at the same time. Opens the door. Holds out a hand.
I look at it.
Then at him.
Then back at the hand.
“You don’t have to,” he says hushed, like he knows exactly what accepting help costs me and is trying not to make a thing of it.
Which, naturally, makes it worse.
I pass him the pie instead.
He snorts but takes it. “Baby steps.”
“I’m going to key your truck.”
“Please. You’d cry halfway through and apologize to the paint.”
Rude.
Accurate, but rude.
The second we step inside, the room hits me all at once.
Heat, noise, laughter. The smell of baked cheese, roasted meat, fresh rolls, and approximately fourteen different casseroles competing for dominance.
Long folding tables are covered in crockpots, Pyrex dishes, sheet cakes, pies, deviled eggs, pasta salads, and enough food to sustain a mid-sized army through winter.
Kids dart between chair legs like sugared missiles. Adults cluster in knots, talking over each other. Somewhere near the far wall, someone’s setting up coffee.
Duke leans closer, not touching, just there. “Breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
“You’re doing it like you’re mad about it.”
I drag in another breath anyway.
Betty Lou spots Duke immediately from across the room.
“There you are!” she calls. “And you brought the pie like I asked. Bless you, boy.”
She barrels over, wiping her hands on a dish towel that looks decorative only until you notice the weaponized efficiency with which she uses it.
“Oh, and you brought Annie.” Her eyes flick over me, bright and assessing, then soften in a way that somehow feels more intimidating than scrutinizing. “Good. We’re not letting you hide up at Ironwood forever, sweetheart.”