Chapter 2
Scotty
Before sunrise, the world belongs to me and my mares.
The sky is still black-blue, a few stars still twinkling while the mountains crouch against the horizon. The only sounds are the horses shifting in their stalls, the crunch of my boots against the earth, and the quiet creak of the old gate hinge I keep meaning to fix.
I like it this way. It’s quiet and predictable.
Routine keeps a man steady. Feed the mares. Check the troughs. Walk the fence line with a thermos of coffee while the crisp air bites my lungs. It’s nothing fancy, nothing like the Slade Ranch, but it’s mine.
My dad used to say mornings made a man honest. “You can’t lie to yourself with frost in your beard and mud on your boots, Scotty. Ranch life will cut you loose quicker than you can say I quit.”
I still hear him sometimes, in the scrape of a shovel or the way the barn door sticks halfway. He’s been gone for years, but the ranch holds his memory.
My mind always drifts out here. I drag a hand down the warm flank of my favorite mare, Priscilla, and stupidly let myself think about Adrienne Slade.
She’s always been there. Hell, the whole town’s watched her grow up in heels too high for dirt roads and silk blouses that are somehow never wrinkled.
She’s always known damn well who she was, and so has everyone else.
Adrienne belongs in glass boardrooms with contracts and mergers.
She sure as shit doesn’t belong side by side with a mechanic.
And yet, she lingers in my mind like all the fucking time.
Don’t be a fool, Scotty. She’s not for you. Never was.
Still, walking the fence now, I picture her hair catching the porch light. The way her mouth parted when I brushed at her curls. That small catch in her breath, she tried to hide when my thumb brushed against the soft skin of her lips.
I shake it off, shove the memory down where it belongs—with all the other almosts between me and Adrienne Slade.
The sun finally cracks the ridge, streaking gold across the frost. The mares start to whimper, tails swishing, and I lean against the fence, coffee steaming in my hand as I take in the small life I’ve built for myself here.
This life is steady. The garage, the ranch, a couple of horses who don’t care if I shower or shave. That’s enough. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
The shop is already alive when the clock barely hits eight.
Air compressors hiss, wrenches clang, and the sharp bite of acetylene torches crackles at the far end. Radios hum two different country stations in competing corners of the garage, and somebody laughs too loudly at a joke.
Thirty guys depend on me to keep this circus moving, and I don’t let them down. Not if I can help it. I’m hunched over a Dodge with a transmission that doesn’t want to cooperate, torque wrench steady in my hands, when I hear the sweet pitch of her voice.
“Good morning, boys.”
The sound of her stilettos clicks against the concrete as she walks across the garage floor with a massive bakery box in her hand.
Fuck.
Suddenly, every guy in the shop remembers he’s a red-blooded man. Tools still, conversations cut. A socket wrench clatters to the floor.
And yet, she doesn’t hesitate. Adrienne Slade doesn’t hesitate for anyone. She heads straight for me, a cardboard coffee carrier balanced in one hand, the pastry box in the other as her designer bag sways against her hip.
“Morning,” she says, voice smooth like she knows damn well what she’s doing.
My pulse kicks, hard and fast. I wipe my hands on a rag. “Adrienne.”
“I brought you coffee.” She extends the cup toward me.
I take it, fingers brushing hers. Heat zips through me, too damn obvious. The coffee tastes too sweet, but I’d drink ten of them if it meant she kept looking at me like that.
Her perfume cuts through the usual mix of smells in this place. It’s floral and delicate and too damn tempting. She leans across the workbench to set down the pastry box, blouse dipping low enough that my eyes betray me. I catch myself staring before I can stop it.
The swell of her breast peeks over the bra, the lace detailing immediately sending a message to my cock that I’d like to tear it off of her with my teeth.
She notices. Of course, she notices.
“Eyes up here, Bescher,” she murmurs, her lips curling into a devious little grin.
Heat climbs the back of my neck, but I don’t look away. I can’t. “Maybe don’t bring distractions into my shop if you don’t want me looking.”
Her brows lift, daring. “That's supposed to be an excuse?”
“No.” My voice drops before I can reel it back. “That’s a warning.”
She cocks her hip, dropping her hand on it as she eyes me with that I fucking dare you grin. It’s the look that almost got me in trouble a time or two over the years.
“Oh yeah? And what kind of warning is that?”
Here’s the thing about Adrienne Slade. She’s everything and I mean everything you could want in a woman, and she fucking knows it. But one thing about me, I love getting a rise out of her, and I’m one of the very few who can. So I always push it.
“Keep testing me like that, Barbie, and I’ll forget we’re standing in front of thirty men.”
Her breath catches, just enough for me to hear it, and I wrench my gaze back to the Dodge in the corner like it’s a lifeline.
My pulse is wrecked, my jeans uncomfortably tight, and I know I’ve already fucked up.
But she doesn’t call me on it. She just lets that smile linger, wicked and satisfied, like she won this round.
“So, you show up to my shop with coffee, sweets, and a generous glimpse of your cleavage. What’s the catch?”
Her chin tips up. “I want to talk about my Mustang.”
I snort. “The one buried under dust in your dad’s barn?”
“That’s the one.” Her eyes sparkle.
“You want me to fix it.”
“No, I want you to teach me. I want to do it myself.”
I blink. “You?”
“Yes, me.” She sets her bag on the nearest workbench, careful not to let it touch anything greasy, then folds her arms, blouse straining just enough to test my self-control. “Don’t look so surprised. I grew up on a ranch, too. I can handle more than boardrooms, Scotty.”
I glance down at those stilettos, the delicate straps against her ankles. “Pretty sure those shoes can’t.”
She rolls her eyes. “I won’t be wearing these.”
“Why?” I ask finally.
Her arms tighten. “Because it’s mine. Because I’m sick of letting things sit broken. And maybe,” she adds softly, “I just want to work on something different besides contracts. I’m getting restless being too focused on work. I need…” she tilts her head slightly, “something to distract me.”
The last part has me interested, that’s for sure. “You’ll hate it. It’s dirty, frustrating, and takes patience.”
She lifts a brow. “So does law school. You think I can’t handle grease because I wear heels?”
Christ. She has an answer for everything.
“You certainly excel at being a lawyer.” I laugh.
I should tell her no. Send her back to her office with her coffee and her damn fuck me heels.
Tell her to write me a check, and I’ll have the Mustang purring in a month.
That’s smart. Safe. But I also know Adrienne well enough to know that once she has her mind set on something, there will be no talking her out of it.
I lean back against the workbench, crossing my arms. The only reason I don’t shut her down right here is because in my head, she’s still got that Rockies player entertaining her. It creates a safe enough barrier for a man trying not to get stupid.
She’s off-limits; hell, she’s spoken for. So yeah, maybe I can stand next to her for a few weekends without losing my damn mind.
“Fine,” I hear myself mutter, “Sundays. After hours. No distractions.”
Her smile is quick and triumphant. “Perfect.” She slides her bag back over her arm. “We’ll start this Sunday at 8am, don’t be late, Mr. Bescher.” Then she spins on her heel, offering a flick of her wrist as a wave and saunters out.
When the door shuts behind her, the shop exhales in unison. One of the younger guys whistles low. “Damn, boss. That woman’s… wow.”
I glare. “You want to keep your job, you keep your mouth shut.”
He laughs nervously and ducks back to work.
I sip her coffee again, the sugar sticking to my tongue. Too sweet. Too much. Exactly like her.
And still, I’m already picturing her hair pulled back, cheeks flushed, bent over the hood of that Mustang.
God fucking dammit, this was a mistake.
My garage will never be the same, and neither will I.
The smell of burgers hits me before I even get through Ranger’s screen door.
Dolly’s laugh carries from the kitchen, their daughter Amethyst talking to her toy, and the place feels like it always does: loud, warm, a little chaotic.
The kind of noise that usually keeps my brain from chewing itself alive.
Ranger is at the grill out back, spatula in hand, grinning like wolves. “There he is. Don’t think I heard about your day, Bescher.”
I arch a brow and step onto the porch. Of course, Dolly told him Adrienne stopped by.
“Pretty sure the only reason you ‘heard’ is because your wife’s turned my office into town gossip central.”
From the kitchen, Dolly calls, “Somebody’s got to keep everyone in the know. There’s some fresh fruit in here to enjoy before dinner.”
Ranger barks a laugh, flipping a patty. “She’s not wrong. Let’s grab a beer.”
I grunt, but follow him inside where the table’s already set.
Dolly hands me a plate of the fruit. Amethyst is already chatting at my side about her new favorite princess.
I let the kid distract me while I eat. Until Dolly says, too casually, “Ran into Adrienne earlier this week at that new café. She was with Milly and Brooklyn.”
My fork pauses midair. I force a shrug. “Is she and her Rockies boyfriend planning their million-dollar wedding yet?”
Ranger nudges me with his elbow, smirking. “Careful, man. You’ve been a Rockies die-hard since you could walk. Don’t go turning on your team now.”