13. Luke
LUKE
Ispend the rest of the day replaying Dean's words on a loop, turning them over like stones until they've worn smooth.
You're already invested.
He's right. I've been invested since the moment Mila walked into my office and made it impossible not to notice her. Since she reorganized my filing system and stole my flannel and looked at me like I was worth knowing instead of just useful.
I care about her. More than I should after two weeks, more than makes sense, more than I know how to articulate without sounding like I've lost my damn mind.
And I treated her like shit because I was scared.
The realization keeps me awake most of the night, staring at my ceiling and listening to wind rattle the windows. By the time morning comes, I've made a decision that feels equal parts terrifying and necessary.
I need to fix this. Need to show her I meant what happened between us. That she wasn't just some impulsive mistake I'm trying to forget.
That I want her.
The thought alone makes my pulse spike with anxiety, but I force myself through the morning routine anyway.
Shower. Coffee. Getting dressed while trying to figure out how exactly I'm supposed to ask someone on a date when I haven't done it in over five years and the last time it ended with her leaving for grad school and me staying exactly where I was.
My phone buzzes as I'm pulling on my boots.
Dean: Stop overthinking it. Just ask her.
I didn't even text him. Apparently my brother has developed psychic abilities specifically to harass me.
Luke: How did you?—
Dean: Dad said you were pacing around the barn at 6 AM like someone died. It's obvious. Go get your girl.
I pocket my phone before I can spiral further and head to the office, rehearsing different versions of the conversation in my head. Each one sounds worse than the last.
Luke: Hey, sorry I was an ass. Want to have dinner?
Too casual.
Luke: I know I fucked up yesterday, but I'd like to take you out properly.
Too formal.
Luke: I can't stop thinking about you and it's making me insane, so please let me buy you dinner before I completely lose it.
Definitely too much.
By the time I unlock the office door, I've convinced myself this is a terrible idea. That she's going to walk in, remember how I treated her yesterday, and tell me exactly where I can shove my invitation.
But then the door opens at eight-thirty, and Mila steps inside with that same careful expression from yesterday morning. Like she's bracing for impact.
"Hey." Her voice is soft. Almost tentative.
She gives me a shy smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes, and something in my chest cracks wide open.
I thought she'd be pissed. Expected anger or hurt or maybe just indifference after how I shut her out. Instead, she looks nervous. Uncertain in a way that makes me hate myself a little more for putting that expression on her face.
"Hey." I manage to smile back, trying to ignore the way my heart is suddenly hammering against my ribs. "How are you?"
It's a stupid question. I know exactly how she is because I'm the reason she's like this.
"I'm okay." She sets her bag down on her usual chair, movements careful. Like she's not sure if she's allowed to be here anymore. "Needed some air yesterday afternoon, but I'm good now."
The casual lie sits between us like something physical.
"Mila—" I start, then catch myself before I can apologize again. Because I already apologized yesterday and it didn't fix anything. Words won't fix this. Action will.
She looks up at me, waiting.
My palms are sweating. Actual sweating, like I'm sixteen instead of thirty-four and asking someone out for the first time.
"Do you have plans later?" The question comes out steadier than I feel. "Tonight?"
Her head tilts slightly, confusion flickering across her features before something sharper replaces it. "Plans? Like... work plans? Are we doing inventory or something equally thrilling?"
Despite the nerves currently eating me alive, I almost laugh. "No. Not work plans."
"Oh." She blinks, hazel eyes searching my face like she's trying to solve a puzzle. "Then what kind of plans?"
Christ, she's going to make me say it.
Fair enough. I deserve that.
"I wanted to spend time with you." The admission feels massive. Vulnerable in a way I'm not used to exposing. "Outside of here. Away from the ranch."
Mila's eyebrows climb toward her hairline. "You want to spend time with me."
"Yeah."
"Like..." She pauses, chewing on her bottom lip in that way that makes it impossible to think straight. "Like a date?"
There it is.
My throat feels tight, but I force myself to hold her gaze. To not deflect or retreat or make this into something smaller than it is. "Exactly like a date."
The silence that follows lasts maybe three seconds but feels like an eternity. I watch emotions flicker across her face too quickly to name—surprise, uncertainty, something that might be hope—before she finally nods.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Yeah." A real smile breaks through now, softening her features. "Okay. I'd like that."
The relief that floods through me is almost embarrassing in its intensity. "Good. That's—yeah. Good."
"Very articulate." She's teasing now, which means I haven't completely destroyed everything between us. "Real smooth, Luke."
"I'm working on it."
"I can tell." She settles into her chair, pulling her laptop out with movements that are less careful now. More natural. "So when is this mysterious date happening?"
"Tonight. I'll pick you up at seven?"
"Seven works." She glances up at me through those dark curls that never stay where she puts them. "Any dress code I should know about? Should I prepare for fancy dinner or are we talking casual burgers?"
"Somewhere in the middle."
"Cryptic. I love it." She opens her laptop but doesn't look away from me yet. "You're not going to give me any hints?"
"It's a surprise."
"I'm not great with surprises."
"You'll like this one."
"Confident." Her smile turns into something warmer. More genuine. "Okay, cowboy. Surprise me."
The nickname sends heat straight through my chest. I turn back to my own desk before she can see how much it affects me, trying to focus on actual work instead of the fact that I somehow just successfully asked Mila Torres on a date.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of half-finished tasks and mounting nerves. I can't focus on anything. Not the booking confirmations that need reviewing, not the supply orders waiting for approval, not even the straightforward email from a guest that should take thirty seconds to answer.
Instead, I keep glancing at Mila across the office. Watching her work with that focused intensity she brings to everything, occasionally catching her looking back at me with an expression I can't quite read.
Around three, my phone buzzes.
Luke: I asked her out. She said yes.
Dean: Told you it wasn't complicated. Where are you taking her?
Luke: Community center. It's swing night.
Dean: You're taking her dancing?
Luke: Line dancing, yeah.
Dean: Holy shit. You really like this girl.
Luke: Shut up.
Dean: I'm proud of you, man. Seriously. Don't fuck it up.
Luke: Helpful.
Dean: You'll be fine. Just be yourself. Unless yourself is the weird panicky version from yesterday. Then be literally anyone else.
I pocket my phone and try not to think about all the ways this could go wrong.
By the time six-thirty rolls around, I've changed shirts three times and convinced myself this is a disaster in the making.
The community center seemed like a good idea when I thought of it yesterday—casual, fun, not too serious but still clearly a date.
Now it feels ridiculous. Like I'm trying too hard or not hard enough or completely missing the mark on what she might actually want to do.
But it's too late to change plans now.
I pull up to Mila's apartment at exactly seven, truck idling while I try to calm the nervous energy thrumming through my veins. Her building sits above the old feed store, windows glowing warm against the early evening darkness.
She emerges before I can second-guess myself and text that I'm here, and the sight of her nearly stops my heart.
She's wearing jeans that fit like they were designed specifically to destroy me, paired with a dark green sweater that makes her eyes look more gold than brown.
Her hair is down, curls wild and loose around her shoulders in a way that makes my fingers itch to touch them.
She's added jewelry—silver hoops and layered necklaces—and just enough makeup to make her freckles stand out.
She looks beautiful. Devastating. Completely out of my league.
She spots me and grins, jogging down the stairs with that effortless energy she carries everywhere.
I meet her halfway, suddenly unsure what to do with my hands.
"Hey." She stops in front of me, slightly breathless. "You clean up nice, Blackwood."
"So do you." The words come out rougher than intended. "You look—really beautiful."
Pink colors her cheeks. "Thanks. You gonna tell me where we're going now?"
Instead of answering, I lean in and press a kiss to her cheek, letting myself breathe in the scent of her shampoo and something floral underneath. "Still a surprise."
She blinks up at me when I pull back, eyes wide. "Okay. Now I'm really curious."
I open the truck door for her, earning another one of those smiles that makes my chest feel too tight. She climbs in without comment, settling into the passenger seat like she belongs there.
The drive takes about fifteen minutes through the quiet downtown streets. Mila fidgets with her necklace, stealing glances at me when she thinks I'm not looking.
"You're being very mysterious," she says finally. "It's kind of hot."
I nearly drive off the road.
"Eyes forward, cowboy." She's grinning now, clearly enjoying my reaction. "I'm just saying. The strong silent type works for you."
"I'm not being silent. I'm concentrating."
"On what? The road you've driven a thousand times?"
"On not ruining this."
The honesty slips out before I can stop it, and Mila's teasing expression softens into something gentler.
"You're not going to ruin anything." Her hand finds mine on the center console, fingers lacing through mine briefly before pulling away. "I'm just happy you asked me."
The simple statement does more to calm my nerves than anything else could.
We pull up to the community center a few minutes later, and I watch Mila's face as she takes in the building. It's nothing fancy—just a single-story structure with big windows and string lights hung across the front entrance. Music drifts out into the parking lot, upbeat and distinctly country.
"We're..." She turns to me, eyebrows raised. "Are we going dancing?"
"Line dancing, yeah." I kill the engine, suddenly worried I've completely misread what she might enjoy. "They do it every Thursday. Live band, bar, good crowd. But if you don't want to?—"
"Are you kidding?" She's already unbuckling her seatbelt, eyes bright with excitement. "This is perfect. I haven't been dancing in forever."
Relief floods through me. "You sure?"
"Absolutely." She hops out of the truck before I can open her door, practically bouncing on her toes. "Come on. I want to see if Montana line dancing lives up to the hype."
I follow her toward the entrance, catching her hand in mine without thinking about it. She glances down at our joined hands, then up at me with a smile that feels like sunshine.
Inside, the community center has been transformed.
Tables line the edges of the room, most already occupied by couples and groups nursing beers and plates of nachos.
A small stage holds a live band—fiddle, guitar, bass—playing something upbeat and infectious.
And in the center, at least thirty people move in synchronized steps, boots stomping in rhythm against the wooden floor.
"Oh my god." Mila grips my hand tighter, grinning. "This is amazing."
"You want a drink first or?—"
"Dance." She's already pulling me toward the floor. "We're dancing. Right now."
"Mila, I'm not—I'm terrible at this."
"I don't care." She spins to face me, walking backward toward the dancers. "You brought me here. You're dancing with me."
There's no arguing with that logic.
We join the edge of the group, and within seconds I remember exactly why I avoid this. My feet tangle over the steps everyone else seems to know instinctively. I'm half a beat behind, turning the wrong direction, definitely stepping on Mila's boot at least twice.
But she's laughing. Actually laughing, head thrown back with pure joy, and suddenly I don't care that I look ridiculous.
"You really are terrible," she shouts over the music, eyes dancing.
"Told you."
"I love it." She grabs both my hands, pulling me through a turn. "You look so serious. Like you're trying to solve a complex equation."
"I'm trying not to fall on my ass."
"Well, you're doing great. Very graceful." She's still grinning, moving with an ease I'll never have. "Just follow my lead."
So I do. I let her guide me through the steps, stopping caring about looking stupid or doing it right. The band transitions into something faster, and Mila pulls me closer, laughing when I nearly trip over my own feet again.
Her hair bounces with each movement. Her cheeks flush pink from exertion and happiness. And she looks so damn beautiful—so alive and present and completely herself—that everything else fades away.
The nerves. The fear. The constant worry about all the ways this could go wrong.
None of it matters. Not when she's looking at me like this. Not when her hand is warm in mine and her laughter cuts through every dark thought I've been carrying.
I pull her closer as the song shifts to something slower, letting myself enjoy this. Enjoy her.
"Having fun?" Mila asks, slightly breathless.
"Yeah." I realize I mean it. "Yeah, I am."
"Good." She rises on her toes, pressing a quick kiss to my jaw. "Because I'm not letting you sit down for at least three more songs."
"Three?"
"Maybe four." Her eyes sparkle with mischief. "Depends on how much you complain."
I don't complain. Not once.