8. One Grump and Two Hunks
Ron
I grab the rough twine wrapped around the hay bale, bend my knees, and with one fluid motion, heft the golden bale and chuck it into the bed of Levi's pickup. A drop of sweat slides down my temple, disappearing under the collar of my gray t-shirt, which is already darkened with sweat.
"Keeping in shape?" Levi teases, leaning against the tailgate. The sleeves of his flannel are rolled up, showing off his toned arms.
I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand, grinning. "Hey, I just became a cowboy. I can't afford to lose my edge already."
Levi bursts out laughing.
A few feet away from us, Grant lets out one of his trademark, deeply disapproving grunts as he shifts a bale to line it up with the others.
We are quite the group.
Since I've been temporarily evicted from my own ranch, I came over to give Levi a hand with the hay.
I turn to Grant, planting my hands on my hips. "Hey, grumpy, just so you know, we didn't actually ask you to come help us," I poke at him.
Grant straightens up and grunts again, shooting me a withering glare.
"Maybe he wants a hat, too," Levi jokes.
I laugh. I've honestly tried everything to explain to Grant that this hat isn’t just for decoration—it actually keeps the sun off your face. But it's a lost cause.
"I highly doubt that, buddy." I shrug, easily hoisting another bale of hay.
"Knock it off, you two, and be productive," Grant grumbles, dusting off his jeans. "I promised to take Rae to lunch, and I have no intention of keeping her waiting."
I toss the bale into the truck. "I repeat: the two of us are cowboys. Or at least we're trying to be. What's your excuse for being here?"
He doesn't answer, just turns his back on me to grab another bale.
But I know exactly what his excuse is. His excuse is that he worries about me.
Always. Even though he’d never admit it.
That’s our bond: rough on the outside but made of steel underneath.
Grant didn't even want to move to Elm Hollow because he didn't want to leave me alone in the city...
until I pulled a fast one on him and showed up here for Christmas last year.
As I'm enjoying that thought, I feel something bump against my shin. I look down and find Ollie, tongue lolling out, his tail sweeping up dust behind him, and a ridiculously large wooden stick clamped in his jaws.
"Message received, buddy," I smile, crouching down to give him a vigorous scratch right behind the ears. I pull the branch from his mouth and launch it across the field. Ollie takes off, happy as a clam.
I straighten up and notice Levi running a hand through his hair, looking weirdly hesitant. He clears his throat, catching my attention, then flashes me a lopsided grin.
"I haven't told you guys something."
I lean against the bed of the truck, looking at him curiously. Grant stops, listening in silence. Levi milks the moment, dragging out the suspense for a few extra seconds, and then drops the bomb.
"I'm going to be on Haunted Spurs, too."
"NO WAY!" I bust out laughing, giving him a hard clap on the shoulder. "Why the hell did you wait so long to drop news like that?! Man, that's going to be epic!"
"Yeah..." Levi scratches the back of his neck.
"Emma was looking for someone to do the show with.
Mrs. Lacey ambushed her and nominated her as the official candidate for her dance studio at the town meeting, and I...
well, I pointed out that we worked great together on Summer Lovin' and that we make a solid team."
I try not to smile too openly. Levi has been drooling over Emma ever since he met her on the reality show last summer.
The problem is, Emma thinks they're just really great, platonic friends.
And he, being the stubborn guy he is, won't admit he's crazy about her.
But the facts speak for themselves: the fire chief even signed up for a country dance class just to be near her.
You should see him two-step... it's hilarious.
Though, honestly, the local women seem to have a different opinion.
I still have the headline Francis wrote for the Gazette after the first public lesson memorized: "Fire Chief Sets Elm Hollow Ablaze... Women on Fire, Dance Studio Sees Massive Spike in Enrollment."
I chuckle to myself just thinking about it. This town is wonderful.
I turn to Grant and give him a light nudge in the ribs. "Hey, man..." I tease him, wiggling my eyebrows. "You should sign up, too. You and Rae. It would be hilarious."
Grant shoots me a look so icy it could drop the temperature of the entire planet. "Not a chance in hell."
I answer with a perfect fake grunt from deep in my throat, mimicking him flawlessly.
Yeah, I freaking love annoying him.
Later that afternoon, Ollie, Levi, and I head into town, walking toward the Pumpkin Spice Café. The air’s started to cool down, carrying that crisp, distinct scent of dry leaves that I absolutely love.
Levi’s using the excuse that he desperately needs caffeine to make it through the rest of the day. I, on the other hand, declared that I absolutely had to swing by to hash out the details with Ivy for Grant's upcoming book signing, which is being held right there at the café.
Both of those are obviously colossal loads of bullshit, and we both know it perfectly well.
We're both heading there for one real reason: to sit in on the book club meeting dedicated to Selene Dusk's novels.
Levi is doing it because Emma is one of the club’s most dedicated members.
I’m doing it because... well, I still haven’t entirely figured out why yet.
Last night, I couldn't sleep, so I did the one thing you should never do when someone gets under your skin: I searched her name.
I already knew Selene had a massive following.
Her fans show her unconditional love on social media.
The comments about the new book she's writing are exploding with enthusiasm, and they're all losing their minds over the official announcement that we're doing Haunted Spurs.
The idea of her going on the show to "seek dark inspiration" has them all hyped up.
But we all know how the internet works. For every person ready to support you and cheer you on, there's always some asshole hiding behind a keyboard ready to spew unprovoked bullshit.
As I scrolled, I inevitably stumbled across them.
"She lost her touch, her latest endings are weak"; "She's a classic washed-up author who just wants fame now, which is why she's doing a reality show"; "She's such a failure she moved back to her tiny hometown," and one recurring comment that made my blood boil: "Jim was right about her,
she's a bitter bitch."
And speaking of which, who the fuck is this Jim? An ex-boyfriend? An old manager? I have no idea, but I do know that I wish he were standing in front of me right now so I could explain a few things to him with my fists.
I’m pissed off on her behalf.
I have no idea if Selene is the kind of person who reads every single review, or if she obsessively Googles her own name to see what people are saying online.
But I know what it feels like to be judged by people who don't know the first thing about you, and I know that beneath that armor of sarcasm and grumpiness, she's hiding an entire world.
I'm a fucking fan of hers. And one way or another, I want to be there to show her my support.
Even if it just means standing in the back of a coffee shop.
The atmosphere is cozy and intimate.
The couches and chairs are arranged in a horseshoe. In the center, Sebastian Devereaux is reading a passage from Selene's novel out loud. There's an almost religious silence among the girls in the club.
And then her eyes lock onto mine. She’s just realized I’m here.
Selene is sitting in a leather armchair. Her back is stiff and straight against the cushions. The expression on her gorgeous face is completely unreadable—a wax mask. I can't tell if she's tense, anxious, annoyed, or happy right now.
But I do know one thing. The exact second she sees me, when our eyes meet over the crowd, her expression shifts. It's an imperceptible change, but it's there. The tension in her shoulders eases by a fraction of an inch. The hard line of her jaw suddenly seems... softer.
And so I do the only thing I’m good at in situations like this. Play the jackass.
I raise a hand, tip my Stetson for a second in an exaggerated, theatrical gesture, and grin at her—a huge, bright, beaming smile that clearly says: I’m here, and I’m cheering for you.
For one eternal second, Selene fights herself. And then she loses.
A smile—less microscopic, less imperceptible, and less restrained than her usual hints—unmistakably lifts the corners of her lips, and I instantly become the happiest “new cowboy” on the entire planet.
I swear, I could pop a bottle of champagne right here. I could jump onto the nearest table and start tap dancing. I feel an almost uncontrollable urge to hang a giant banner right across Main Street that says, in massive, glow-in-the-dark letters: I MADE SELENE DUSK SMILE.
I might even get a commemorative pin made to stick on the brim of my Stetson, just so I can proudly carry this monumental achievement around Elm Hollow.
But if I did that, I know for a fact that Selene would murder me, and then use my bloody corpse as gruesome inspiration for the main kill in her next gothic novel.
So I try to keep my enthusiasm in check.
No, that's a lie.
I'm gloating on the inside.