4. Luke
LUKE
Ididn't expect Mila to actually show up the next day.
But she does. Mid-morning, just like she said, carrying a travel mug that smells like vanilla and cinnamon.
She's wearing an oversized gray sweater that falls off one shoulder and jeans with mud on the hem, hair piled into one of those messy buns that looks accidental but probably took fifteen minutes.
She drops into the spare chair across from my desk without asking, kicks off her boots, and tucks her feet underneath her like she's settling in for the long haul.
"Alright, Blackwood. Show me what you've got."
That was seven days ago.
Seven days of Mila Torres taking over half my office, reorganizing my filing system, color-coding spreadsheets I didn't ask her to color-code, and somehow making the entire admin workload feel less suffocating.
She shows up every morning around ten. Stays until two or three in the afternoon.
Works through emails while asking me a hundred questions about bookings and trail schedules and which cabins need maintenance before the summer rush.
She's sharp—picks things up fast, remembers details I forget, catches mistakes I would've missed until they became problems.
And she's funny.
Not in the way people try to be funny. Just naturally. She'll mutter something sarcastic under her breath while sorting invoices, or make some ridiculous observation about a guest's booking request, and I'll find myself smiling before I realize I'm doing it.
It's disarming.
And inconvenient.
Because Mila is also distractingly beautiful in a way that makes it hard to focus on anything else when she's in the room.
I noticed it before, obviously. I'm not blind.
But noticing someone's attractive in passing is different from having them sit three feet away from you for hours every day.
Different from watching the way afternoon sunlight catches in her hair, or the way she chews on her bottom lip when she's concentrating on something.
Different from memorizing details you have absolutely no business memorizing.
Like the freckles.
There are freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks, faint but visible when she's close enough.
I don't know when I started counting them.
Probably somewhere around day three. There are more on the left side than the right.
A small cluster near her temple. One just above her upper lip that shows up when she smiles.
I shouldn't know that.
I definitely shouldn't be thinking about it while she's sitting across from me, typing away on her laptop with her legs curled underneath her in the chair.
She always sits like that—feet tucked up, knees drawn to her chest, like she's trying to take up as little space as possible even though she's constantly talking and gesturing and filling the entire room with her presence.
"Luke."
I blink, realizing she's staring at me. Waiting for an answer to a question I didn't hear.
"Sorry. What?"
Her eyebrows lift, amused. "I asked if you wanted me to confirm the Peterson booking or push it back a week. They requested late June but that overlaps with the Hayes family reunion group."
Right. The Petersons.
I force myself to focus, pulling up the calendar on my laptop. "Push it back. Hayes booked first and they've got eight cabins reserved. We can't shuffle that many people around."
"Got it." She turns back to her screen, fingers flying across the keyboard. "I'll send them alternate dates and a discount code to soften the blow."
"You don't have to offer a discount."
"I know. But it makes people feel special. Good customer service." She glances up, grinning. "You're welcome."
I shake my head, biting back a smile. "You're going to cost me money."
"I'm going to make you money. Repeat bookings are worth way more than a ten percent discount."
She's not wrong.
Which is also annoying.
Mila goes back to typing, humming something under her breath that I don't recognize. Some pop song, probably. She has terrible taste in music—plays it sometimes from her phone while she works, upbeat stuff that's too loud and too cheerful for nine in the morning.
I should tell her to use headphones.
I don't.
The office feels less empty when she's here. Less suffocating. Like I can actually breathe for the first time in months.
Which is a problem.
Because Mila isn't staying.
She's made that clear in a hundred small ways over the past week. Talks about Helena like it's home. Makes jokes about "real coffee" and "civilization" and how she's "basically a pioneer" for surviving this long in rural Montana.
Every time she says something like that, I feel this uncomfortable tightness in my chest. A reminder that this is temporary. That she's temporary. That getting used to having her around is the worst possible thing I could do.
So I don't let myself.
At least, I try not to.
"Hey, Luke?"
I glance up again. Mila's watching me with this thoughtful expression, head tilted slightly. "Yeah?"
"Where do you keep the extra office supplies? I need more sticky notes."
"Filing cabinet. Second drawer."
She unfolds herself from the chair and pads across the room in bare feet, sweater sleeves falling over her hands. She's always cold. Complains about it constantly, like Montana's personally offending her by not being seventy degrees year-round.
Two days ago, she stole one of my flannels off the coat rack and wore it the rest of the afternoon.
Yesterday, she took the hoodie I left on the back of my chair.
She's wearing it now.
I notice because it's too big on her—sleeves hanging past her fingertips, hem falling almost to her knees. It's an old ranch hoodie, faded and soft from years of wear, with the Blackwood Ranch logo cracked and peeling across the front.
She didn't ask if she could borrow it.
Just put it on like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And I didn't say anything.
Because telling her to take it off would require admitting I noticed. And admitting I noticed would mean acknowledging the fact that I like seeing her in my clothes more than I should.
So I let it go.
Mila rummages through the drawer, pulling out a stack of neon sticky notes and holding them up triumphantly. "Found them."
"Great."
She closes the drawer with her hip and crosses back to her chair, dropping into it with zero grace. The hoodie rides up slightly when she moves, revealing a strip of skin at her waist before she tugs it back down.
I look away.
Focus on my laptop.
Try to remember what I was doing before I got distracted.
"You okay?" Mila's voice cuts through the silence, casual but curious.
"Fine. Why?"
"You seem tense." She leans back in the chair, studying me. "More than usual, I mean. Which is saying something."
"I'm not tense."
"You're definitely tense. You've been staring at that email for like ten minutes without typing anything."
I glance down at my laptop. She's right. I've been staring at a half-finished response to a guest inquiry without actually reading it.
"Just thinking," I mutter.
"About?"
"Work."
"Liar." She grins, popping a sticky note onto the edge of my desk. "You're stressed. Admit it. This is your stressed face."
"I don't have a stressed face."
"You absolutely have a stressed face. It's the same face you make when Dean calls and asks for money."
That startles a laugh out of me before I can stop it. "Dean doesn't ask for money."
"He asks for favors. Same thing." Mila spins in her chair, legs tucked up again. "Come on. What's bothering you? Guest drama? Cabin maintenance? Existential dread about the inherent meaninglessness of modern life?"
"The last one."
She laughs, bright and unfiltered. "See? I knew it. You need a break."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're running yourself into the ground." She tilts her head, expression softening. "When's the last time you took a day off?"
I don't answer.
Because I don't remember.
Mila sighs, like she expected that response. "That's what I thought. You know you're allowed to rest, right? Like, legally. It's not a crime."
"Someone has to keep things running."
"Yeah. But not twenty-four seven." She leans forward, elbows on her knees. "You've got people who can help. Dean. Caleb. Harper. Me, apparently. You don't have to do everything yourself."
"I'm not doing everything myself. You're here."
"For a few hours a day. That's not the same thing." Her eyes narrow slightly. "You're dodging."
"I'm not dodging."
"You are. You're doing that thing where you deflect instead of actually talking about what's bothering you." She pauses, watching me. "Is it me? Am I making things harder? Because if this isn't working?—"
"It's working." The words come out faster than I intended. More forceful. "You're... you're really good at this, Mila. Seriously. I don't know how I was managing before."
That's not an exaggeration.
The past week has been the smoothest admin work has run in months.
Maybe years. Mila handles things I didn't even realize needed handling.
Follows up on emails I would've forgotten about.
Catches scheduling conflicts before they become disasters.
She's organized and efficient and somehow makes the whole thing feel less like drowning and more like treading water.
Which should be a relief.
And it is.
Except it also means I'm getting used to having her here. Used to her sitting across from me, asking questions, making jokes, stealing my coffee when she thinks I'm not looking.
Used to the way the office feels less lonely when she's in it.
That's the problem.
Because Mila's going to leave.
Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not next week. But eventually. She'll finish helping out, go back to Helena, pick up some big freelance contract in a city that actually has decent coffee and reliable Wi-Fi. She'll move on.
And I'll still be here.
Running the ranch. Managing bookings. Sitting in this office alone.
I can't let myself forget that.
Mila's still watching me, brow furrowed slightly. "You sure? Because you've got that face again."
"What face?"
"The one where you're thinking too hard about something you won't talk about."
"I don't have a face for that."
"You have a face for everything. You're like... emotionally constipated in this very specific way." She grins, teasing. "It's kind of endearing, actually."
I shake my head, biting back another smile. "You're ridiculous."
"And you're deflecting again." She stands, stretching her arms overhead. The hoodie rides up again and I force myself to look at my laptop instead. "I'm getting lunch. You want anything?"
"I'm good."
"That's not what I asked." She crosses her arms, raising an eyebrow. "Food, Luke. Actual food. Not just coffee."
"I'll grab something later."
"Liar." She sighs dramatically. "Fine. I'll bring you a sandwich. You're going to eat it. No arguments."
"Mila—"
"No arguments," she repeats, already heading for the door. "I'll be back in twenty."
And then she's gone.
Leaving me sitting in the suddenly too-quiet office, surrounded by color-coded spreadsheets and sticky notes and the faint scent of vanilla and cinnamon from her travel mug still sitting on the corner of the desk.
I scrub a hand over my face, exhaling slowly.
This is a bad idea.
Having Mila here. Getting used to her presence. Looking forward to her showing up every morning with that ridiculous coffee and her terrible music and her endless questions.
Looking forward to lunch, apparently.
And the way she curls up in that chair.
And the freckles.
And the fact that she's wearing my hoodie right now and doesn't seem to have any intention of giving it back.
I should set boundaries. Keep things professional. Remind myself—and her—that this is temporary.
But when Mila comes back twenty minutes later with sandwiches from the diner and drops into her chair like she belongs there, I don't say any of that.
I just take the sandwich she offers and let her ramble about something the waitress said, watching the way she gestures with her hands and laughs at her own jokes.
And I let myself enjoy it.
Just for now.