Chapter 1 #2
Milly counts on her fingers. “Let’s see.
There was the Fourth of July bonfire when he oh so gently put his hands on your waist to get by, and you short-circuited.
The barn dance at Ranger’s, where you two took over the dance floor for like, four songs and then pretended nothing happened.
Then last winter, Juniper said you brought donuts to the garage for no reason and left wearing his hoodie. ”
“It was cold,” I say primly, reaching for my water again.
“Uh-huh,” Milly says. “And in 2020, when the whole town had nothing to do but drive around and wave at each other from six feet away, you somehow ended up in his driveway a lot.”
I stare at the menu like it might offer a trap door. “He lives on a road between places I frequent.”
Brooklyn finally breaks. “You and Scotty do this every couple of years, babe. You flirt like you invented it, you escalate to emotionally charged jabs at each other and eye fuck each other like the damn Titanic is going down, you almost kiss, you pull back. Then you spend six months pretending he’s just a fun detour while you try to find Mr. Perfect and ignore what you really want. ”
Sadie shows up with our order just in time to provide me a few minutes of reprieve from Brooklyn’s knowing gaze.
But the second she steps away, Milly leans in, eyes sparkling. “You like the chase. That’s the thing. It’s your kink.” My mouth falls open at her comment. “If you ever actually got caught, the fun would be gone.”
My laugh sticks in my throat. I like the chase, sure, but God, sometimes I like the idea of arriving.
“It is not a kink. It’s just—I dunno, maybe it’s the thrill of it since we know it could never be anything more. Scotty isn’t happily ever after material.”
“Which is code for kink,” Brooklyn says, completely unbothered. “Look, I’m not judging. We’ve all been distracted by the bright lights of rippling muscles and a wicked tongue. The problem is the reputation.”
I pick a nonexistent piece of lint from my skirt. “Whose reputation?”
“His,” they say, and then both pause long enough while staring at me until I’m uncomfortable.
The reality of his reputation hovers between us like a neon sign. Scotty, head mechanic and shop manager, boss of thirty guys, hero to every person who just wants their truck to start when it’s negative ten. Scotty, quiet and steady and always at the fringes, looking like sin in a cowboy hat.
“That is not fair,” I say, and I hate how quickly it comes out.
Milly lifts her brows. “It’s not like he’s a villain, Adrienne. He isn’t even a dick. He’s just... not anyone’s last stop. He does casual. He does it simply. He does—”
“Everyone,” Brooklyn adds.
“Wow,” I say, pressing the heels of my hands against my forehead.
Brooklyn taps her nail on the table. “Babe, we aren’t telling you anything you don’t already know.
He flirts with everyone. Janice is at the feed store.
Kenzie at the DMV. Your Aunt Autumn, for God’s sake, when he fixed her trailer hitch and she told him he was a gentleman. The man was born flirting.”
He flirts with me differently. The thought is intrusive, unreasonable. It slides under my ribs and makes itself at home. Is that true, or is that just what I need to believe to keep playing?
I raise my cup. “So your advice is… stop enjoying the harmless flirtation. Mary, my work. Ignore men with sexy forearms and a tongue that would probably make me see God?”
Milly’s voice softens, the way hers always does when she sees through me. “My advice is to be honest with yourself. If you like the game, own the game. Play the game as many times as you want, but if you want to win something, at some point you have to stop playing.”
“Wait,” Brooklyn scrunches her brow, “shouldn’t she have to keep playing to win?”
Milly rolls her eyes, “You know what I mean.”
“While I get the analogy, all the sports talk is a little unnecessary now that Keegan and I are history.”
“Sorry.” Milly shakes her head, “Kent always has Sports Radio on in the car.”
Brooklyn smiles, gentler now. “Look, all we’re saying is we know you. We also know this town and every rumor that’s swirled around about Scotty over the years. Most of which, he has confirmed, are true.”
I look out the window to where Main Street hums, a barrage of memories wanting to flood my brain, all of which involve Scotty.
“Also,” Milly adds, because she is incapable of leaving good enough alone, “we have to acknowledge the very real possibility that if you ever actually let him catch you, you would freak out. Because then it isn’t theoretical. Then you have to decide what you actually want.”
I want… I want to be wanted, desired, and cared for. I want someone to see me, really see me. But beyond that, I don’t really know what I want when it comes to happily ever after. I thought I knew.
I take a giant bite of my chicken salad sandwich to give myself a task besides spiraling.
Brooklyn sips her latte. “How long has it been now since you and Keegan ended things?”
I swallow. “You mean how long has it been since he dumped me? Six months. And no, I don’t want to talk about that anymore. It was a mismatch.”
Brooklyn’s mouth tips. “It was a pattern, too. Shiny on paper. Not enough in person.”
“Wow,” I say, smiling without humor. “Lunch is fantastic.”
She reaches across and squeezes my hand, quick and warm. “We love you, we just want you happy, not just entertained.”
“I can multitask,” I say lightly, but my chest aches because she isn’t wrong. I have spent years choosing safe, choosing impressive, choosing things that photograph well for the family thread and make Dad’s smile grow just a little wider.
We eat, and Brooklyn pivots into a recap of her morning at Slade.
Production schedules, a distributor trying to bully them on social media campaign deliverables, Trent needing a tasting note sheet rewritten because an intern insisted “campfire energy” was a tasting note, to which Trent replied, “unemployment energy” is what the intern was going to be tasting.
“Campfire energy is a vibe,” Milly argues, talking around a bite of grilled cheese. “Put it in. That’s how the younger generations are talking nowadays anyway. That’s why we hired Gen Z interns.”
Brooklyn grins. “Speaking of vibes, the twins decided five a.m. is their new wake-up time. There is not enough caffeine in Colorado to make me look awake these days. Tyler helps me as much as he can, but he’s usually halfway out the door to manage the ranch by then.”
“You are still one of the hottest women in a ten-mile radius,” I smile.
She blushes and laughs. “Tell that to my under-eye circles.”
Milly leans back and tells us how Kent texts her baby name ideas, and she replies with suggestions from surrogate agencies. Brooklyn offers me the latest toddler-ism.
The bell over the door rings again, and Dolly breezes in, ponytail high, lips curved into her signature smile as she waves at Sadie behind the counter. She heads straight for the pickup counter, then spots us and detours with a grin.
“Look at the Slade board of directors,” she says, hugging Brooklyn, then Milly, then me. Her eyes skim my face with the kind of cousin curiosity that registers too much. “Are we gossiping or strategizing?”
“Both,” Milly says. “Trying to figure out how to get Scotty to become the man he needs to be so Adrienne can fall in love with him and finally get that dick.”
Dolly laughs. “You are attempting the impossible.” She holds up a paper bag.
“I’d stay, but I’m running late. Speaking of Scotty, he’s coming over tonight, and he and Ranger are grilling out if you want to stop by.
I promised to bring the “fancy buns” because I introduced Ranger to brioche once, and he hasn’t stopped talking about it. ”
“That sounds like fun.” I smile. “But I have another late night of work.”
“Yeah, I think Scotty is in need of a beer on the back porch with Ranger kind of night. Apparently, he and his most recent situationship are done. Want me to let him know you’re interested?” She bumps her hip against my shoulder with a wink.
“God, please don’t.” I can feel my cheeks starting to turn bright red.
“Fine, but someday, you two just need to get it out of your systems already. I’ll see if I can drop him a few hints tonight for you. Bye, ladies,” she says as she walks toward the door, turning around to wave to Sadie on her way out.
Silence lingers for a beat. Brooklyn and Milly share one look, then slowly swivel to grin at me. I stab a tomato. “Don’t say a word.”
The second I’m back at my desk, before my ass even has time to hit my leather seat, I have a Slack notification from Trent.
Trent: Need to see you now about Midas.
I should go straight home. I even tell myself that as I leave the office, the steering wheel is cool beneath my palms. But when I hit the turnoff that leads toward Scotty’s place, my hands ignore my brain and flick the blinker.
Just a detour. Just curious.
The road curls past fields glowing gold in the late evening sun, the mountains looming steady in the distance. My heart beats louder the closer I get to the weathered fence line I know all too well.
And just as I suspected… There he is.
Bent over the hood of an old Chevy, cap pulled low, shoulders flexing under a thin T-shirt that’s seen better days. Grease streaks his arm, his jaw. The whole picture sums up Scotty in its simplicity: a man, his truck, his ranch. My chest squeezes tight at the sight of him.
Damn it, Adrienne.
I slow down without thinking. Gravel crunches under my tires, and he looks up like he felt me before he saw me. Our eyes lock. That slow smile pulls at his mouth, making my stomach flip over itself.
Just say it, just say you want to…
He tosses his wrench onto the fender and strolls over, rag dangling from his back pocket. Each step is unhurried, confident in a way that doesn’t come from arrogance but from knowing exactly who he is.
I roll the window down, the warm air rushing in.
“Afternoon, Barbie.” His voice scrapes low. “Cruising by just to stare at me working, or did you finally come to admit you can’t resist me?”
I snort, fighting the blush creeping up my neck. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was on my way home.”
“Uh-huh.” His smirk says he doesn’t buy it. He nods toward the porch, where a cooler sits in the shade. “You want a beer? Cold ones waiting.”
My pulse skitters. This is how it always starts… banter that feels harmless until it doesn’t.
His gaze drifts down to my lips. A curl slips against my cheek, and before I can tuck it back, he reaches in and brushes it away with his fingers. The touch is casual but soft. Still, my breath catches.
“You’ve got a little something—” his hand drops to my jaw, turning my head slightly before he drags his thumb across the edge of my lips. “Lipstick was a little smudged.”
A pickup turns onto the lane. The sound snaps through the quiet moment building between us. I glance toward it, recognizing Nelson Myers, everyone’s favorite plumber.
Heat curls low in my stomach, but so does awareness. A reminder that in this town, someone’s always watching. One more pair of eyes. One more rumor waiting to bloom.
I clear my throat, forcing a small smile. “You could’ve told me.”
“Could’ve,” he agrees, but his eyes linger a second longer than they should.
My throat goes dry. This is exactly what Brooklyn and Milly meant. The game. The chase. If we ever crossed the invisible line, maybe it would all collapse.
He tips his chin toward the porch. “So, beer?”
The cooler sits there, lid cracked, a couple of bottles catching the light. Horses graze in the pasture, tails swishing. The porch looked awfully tempting.
It would be so easy to park, climb those steps, sit with him while the sun drops behind the ridge. So easy to let the world drift away as we fall into a casual ebb and flow or flirting and jabs.
So dangerous.
I hear Brooklyn’s voice in my head: "If you ever actually got caught, the fun would be gone.”
“I can’t.” I smile, aiming for casual. “Early morning.”
He tilts his head, not pushing, but the corner of his mouth says he doesn’t buy it. “Tomorrow’s Saturday.”
“I’m important.” I shrug like it’s a joke. “Places to be.”
His grin softens. “Yeah. You are.”
The way he says it, like it’s a fact, like it isn’t even up for debate, makes my chest ache. Because it’s what I want from the right man: to be non-negotiably important.
I lean back against the seat, trying for bravado. “So tell me. You actually fixing that Chevy or just pretending for show?”
“Belongs to Mrs. Ortega. She’s had me keeping it going since I was sixteen. Promised her I would make it last.”
The quiet stretches, thick and charged. I should look away. Instead, I drink him in. Grease on his skin, sweat darkening his collar, the steadiness in his gaze that makes me feel like he’s trying to get me to fold.
I swallow hard. “Well. Don’t let me distract you.”
“You always distract me.” He says it so quickly, I almost expect him to laugh, say he’s joking, but he doesn’t.
My heart flips. I mask it with a smirk and a joke. “Careful. People will start talking.”
“They already do.”
I grip the wheel tighter. “Then I'd better keep driving.”
He shrugs, his fingers dragging once across the edge of my window. “Suit yourself. Offer stands.”
I force myself to put the car in gear. “Goodnight, Scotty.”
“Night, Barbie.”
By the time I hit the end of his driveway, a stupid idea starts to take shape. The Mustang in Dad’s barn, my first car, the one Scotty helped me pick out when I was sixteen, still sits under a tarp collecting dust.
What if I asked him to help me fix it? It’s practical, harmless. Productive, even.
He likes projects, and I… well, I like reasons to be near him that don’t look like a confession. Maybe if we’re under the hood, I can keep whatever this thing between us is contained.