Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SADIE
June melts into July in a haze of heat, the days blurring into one long, hot stretch.
I barely have time to think, but I don’t mind—every sunrise, every late evening, it all feels brighter lately.
The hard work feels worth it because Lane has wormed his way into the quiet parts of my life—the mornings, the nights, and everything in between.
I don’t just like him. I’m drawn in, little by little. Every look feels like striking a match, every touch teaching me something new. I let myself wonder how far this could go, imagine what it might mean if this is real.
His birthday was two days ago, and I’d planned a little surprise in a way I knew would make him smile.
I pretended to be the perfect little damsel in distress and told him Iris had wandered off, and that I couldn’t find her anywhere. I even got a little teary. Mia would’ve been proud.
He didn’t even hesitate, immediately grabbing his keys and jogging to his truck.
Iris was perfectly fine, curled up like a little cinnamon roll napping in a patch of sunlight by the barn. He didn’t need to know that part, though.
We drove until the ranch disappeared behind the mountains, the sky wide and endless above us. The truck was warm, holding the faint mix of pine and his cologne, a scent I swear clings to my skin long after he’s gone.
He had one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on his thigh, tapping along to the low hum of the radio.
I kept stealing glances at him, the slope of his nose, the way the sunlight caught in the strands of his hair. He noticed—of course, he noticed—and a slow smile curved at the corner of his mouth.
“What?” he asked, eyes flicking from the road to me.
I unclicked my seatbelt, leaning in close enough that his focus wavered.
“Thought we were looking for Iris,” he said, voice lower.
“We are.”
My fingers brushed over the back of his hand gripping the wheel, tracing idle patterns over his skin before sliding to his thigh. I felt the muscle tighten beneath my palm.
“Sadie…”
I leaned in, my lips grazing his neck, catching the faint scrape of stubble before pressing my mouth to the warm skin below his ear. His exhale came out sharp, a warning dressed as a sigh.
Then I kissed him, soft and teasing, tasting the faint trace of sweet tea still on his lips. My hand drifted down, over the steady rise and fall of his chest, until I felt the thud of his heartbeat beneath my palm.
My fingers wandered lower, skimming the flat plane of his stomach. His abs tightened beneath my touch and his breathing shifted—shallower now, expectant. I hooked my finger under the edge of his belt, toying with it, dragging my fingertip slowly across the warm strip of skin I’d exposed.
“Sadie…” His voice was already rough, the warning in it half-hearted.
I didn’t stop, working the buckle loose. The soft metallic clink seemed to echo in the quiet cab.
When he finally pulled me up, breathing hard, his head stayed against the seat for a beat before he looked at me. His eyes were darker now, glassy and heavy with want.
He cupped my jaw, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth like he didn’t know whether to kiss me or ruin me right then and there.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he rasped.
I smiled, biting my lip. “Not today.”
The last two weeks have been a perfect, dangerous game of give and take—and lucky for me, Lane is a giver.
Everything feels lighter lately. The air, the nights, the way I move through my days. For the first time in a long time, I’m not worried about what comes next.
I let myself stay right here. I let myself want him.
The night buzzes with that soft, end-of-summer ache. The kind that feels beautiful and bittersweet.
Lydia and I walk toward the Sunday bonfire, the one they throw every year to close out Fourth of July weekend.
Tomorrow, half the cabins will be empty—families packing up their cars, kids dragging their feet. Tonight is a goodbye disguised as a celebration.
The field behind the dining lodge has been transformed—blankets spilling over the grass, paper plates stacked high with ribs and sweet corn, red plastic cups catching the last light of dusk.
Smoke curls through the air, thick with hickory and heat, and the sugary burn of roasted marshmallows sticks to everything.
The guitar twang from the porch carries across the field, soft and low, threading through the shrieks and laughter of kids running barefoot between the cornhole boards and horseshoe pits.
There’s a magic to it, the sun-warmed hay drifting on the breeze—one that already feels like a memory.
We’d asked the guys to come, but they’re beat after the rush of the holiday crowd. They’re keeping it low-key, having pizza and beer in the bunkhouse instead.
Lane had smiled, brushed his thumb over my jaw, and told me to come by whenever I was done. He’d wait up.
He always does.
I’ve been sleeping over almost every night.
Everyone teases us—calling us insatiable bunnies—but they don’t know the truth.
We haven’t gone that far yet. It’s not for a lack of trying on my part—Lane keeps saying there’s no rush.
That he doesn’t want our first time to feel like just a hookup in his truck or in the bunkhouse full of guys who can probably hear everything.
He’s been so sweet it’s almost annoying. So careful and considerate I can feel the restraint in his touch, even when I tell him that I’m ready. That I’m sure.
Sometimes I wish I’d never told him I was a virgin. Not because it matters so much, but because now it does—to him. Because it’s made him slow down when all I want is to move forward and take advantage of the little time we have left.
Summer is slipping through my fingers—hot and fast and fleeting—and we still haven’t talked about what comes after.
Would I fly in on breaks? Could he get time off to visit? Or is this it—just something that ends?
My mind keeps circling the same questions, one on top of another, impossible to ignore.
I tug the sleeves of my sweatshirt lower over my hands. Beneath it, a delicate pink lace set clings to my skin. Lane’s weakness. The thought of his eyes darkening when he sees it, that soft groan in his throat when he realizes what I’m asking for, makes my pulse skip.
Maybe it will all work out. Maybe it won’t. But tonight, I’m done waiting.
“I think it’s time to let go of my dreams of becoming a renowned s’more chef.” I huff, blowing out the flame on my third consecutive burnt marshmallow.
“Practice makes perfect. You just need to have a little more patience,” Lydia coos, squishing a perfectly golden, gooey marshmallow between squares of graham cracker and chocolate.
Patience. I can practically hear Lane saying it in that low, steady voice—Slow down, Sadie. I want to remember every second.
I poke at the fire, trying not to think about how much I want to be somewhere else—with him. But I don’t want Heath to think I don’t take this job seriously. This place is important to me. I love who I am here.
I love the ache in my muscles at the end of the day. The easy rhythm of the ranch—the sun climbing over the ridge, the wind in my hair, Monty’s soft snort when he sees me walking toward his stall. There is peace in the repetition. A comfort.
And sometimes, when Lane’s beside me—shirt clinging to his skin, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair a mess, eyes squinting into the sunshine—it almost feels perfect.
It almost feels like love.
But the thing about almost is that it never stays.
Warren hasn’t called. Not once.
Not that I expected him to, but I’ll always hold onto a tiny fragment of hope that maybe, one day, he’ll care.
Heath says he’s given my dad updates, so he knows I’m alive, at least. Apparently he’s been quite busy with the Gideon Cross case. But busy doesn’t stop the sting.
A phantom bitterness coats my tongue. The memory of the whiskey. That night. The catalyst of everything I now have.
I swallow it down and tell myself I’m fine. That I’m safe. That here, under this sky that smells like smoke and sugar and something close to peace, my father’s absence doesn’t matter.
The fire burns low, shrinking to a bed of glowing embers. Families drift away, a pair of honeymooners giggle as they peel off to their cabin, and the night folds in around us.
Iris is stretched out at my feet, her head heavy on her paws, the picture of contentment.
Looking up at the stars, my problems feel inconsequential. Nothing about my life before matters here. It won’t matter when I’m away at school. The only thing that matters to me is Lane. My Lane. Who’s probably shirtless, stretched out on his bed waiting for me.
“My brother told me the guys have a running bet on how long it takes for Lane to knock you up,” Lydia says, her grin wicked. “So you won’t leave when summer’s over.”
My charred marshmallow falls off the stick with a solid plop. “What?”
“I know, I know. I didn’t say I agreed with it—just that he told me about it.”
My laugh is dry, brittle. “Well, that’s not happening any time soon.”
“Aww. Glad to hear you’re practicing safe sex, but protection isn’t always 100%.”
“Trust me, it’s not possible.”
“Mmm, I wouldn’t be so sure. It can happen to anyone. This girl in my class—“
“We haven’t had sex,” I blurt. “So unless I’m the next vessel for immaculate conception, I don’t see how that could happen.”
The words hang in the air and Lydia stills. The remaining two guests leave, their voices fading into the dark as the last ember collapses into ash.
“I wish I’d waited,” she confesses. “I wish my first time was with someone I loved.”
“Why didn’t you?”
A sad smile ghosts her face. “I guess because the someone I loved didn’t love me back. And I was too stubborn to wait for him.”
“You? Stubborn? No way.”
She rolls her eyes, bumping my knee with hers, then brushes the dirt off her jeans as she stands.
“Come on. I know you wanna see your guy. Let’s go raid my brother’s liquor cabinet.”