Chapter Twelve
Maeve
Watching the hues of orange and yellow blanket the Wildbrook Hollow mountains, I sit on the little porch swing and savour the warmth of the coffee cupped close to my chest, taking a quiet moment to breathe it all in before I return to my usual morning activity. Reading.
I still cannot believe this is my life. This level of peace every morning, before the workday comes flooding in.
I get up extra early just to protect it—to savour at least one hour of reading in the quiet.
Something I could have never experienced in London, no matter what ungodly hour I dragged myself out of bed at.
Every day, I wait for the inevitable. Something that brings back the feeling I know all too well on my trips.
The slow realisation that wherever I've landed isn't quite right.
That I don't belong there any more than I belonged in the previous place.
It's followed me my entire life. Shown up eventually everywhere I've tried.
But it hasn't come yet. Not here.
And I pray to God, Buddha, a Leprechaun, and every other lucky icon in between that it doesn’t. Because this place, this life, is starting to feel like it could actually be it.
Today’s book of choice—just like every day for the past two months—is a very steamy cowboy romance.
I am fully aware that reading these kinds of books while surrounded by more than a dozen off-limit cowboys is a poor decision on my part.
But apparently, I am a masochist. One who can't help but dream of a strong, rough cowboy doing things that would have Satan himself reaching for a fan.
The scene I’m currently devouring has me fidgeting, the porch swing rocking back and forth with more enthusiasm than intended.
I take in every single word, getting lost in how it must feel to be the female main character.
And just as the cowboy’s rough, calloused hands reach around her neck to pin her up against the wall, a fresh cup of coffee appears in front of my face. The steam fogs my glasses immediately.
If it weren't for the cup of coffee blocking the view of my e-reader, I would be a very mardy girl, ready to jump down the throat of whoever is attached to the hand holding it.
But as the steam clears from my lenses, I clock the rose tattoo curling up toward the wrist, ink slightly faded at the edges from age.
A hand I have looked at more times than I'd like to admit over the past few weeks, while we work side by side, while he leans over paperwork at the kitchen counter, while he absently turns his flask between his palms during lunch. A hand that I won’t ever get to experience, because it is attached to my boss, who is a big no-no. Off limits. Must not go there.
But God, it’s hard not to imagine. Even more so now he is around more often, making me feel like I am constantly being edged just by looking at him.
Maybe it is time I start reading something different… Maybe a thriller? Nothing about a thriller is sexy, right?
I take the cup, grazing his fingers with the motion—definitely not on purpose—and pass him my empty one in return.
Wade disappears back into the house without a word, returning moments later with his flask.
He places himself in his usual spot at the far end of the railing, one boot crossed over the other, both hands wrapped around the flask, eyes fixed on the sunrise This has become our routine.
Since our trip to town, Wade has become a regular participant in my morning routine.
At first, I found it strange. He would just stand away from what I have claimed as my spot, leaning over the weathered porch rail smouldering into the sunrise.
Then, gradually, the coffee started appearing, served with what I assumed is his attempt of a smile, a slight softening around the jaw, and barely a full rise of the corners of his mouth.
Still no words. If I was lucky, I got his signature grunt or a hum in response to my thanks, but nothing to provide me an insight of what this 100kg—give or take—ball of confusion’s goal is.
For weeks, we have just coexisted in the quiet morning that Meadow Bell Ranch offers before the main house turns into a mad house. Letting him bring me fresh coffee without even needing to ask. He just does it. Every morning, without fail.
I lift my e-reader back to my face, ready to savour the last moments of quiet, when Wade turns his body to face me. I glance up, expecting him to say something, but nothing comes, just seconds of silence. The longest seconds of my life.
“Everything ok?” I drag out the ok, emphasising my confusion.
He shifts his weight slightly; one hand still curled around his flask. “Yes, I wanted to ask you something, but I know better than to come between you and those books. Unless I'm carrying coffee. So, I was working out if it was safe to approach.”
I lower the e-reader slowly. “Someone's been paying attention, it seems.”
“I like my balls attached to my body. Small details are key to survival,” he quips back.
My brow raises, “Says who?”
“Bear Grylls, of course,” his stupid handsome face lights up, clearly proud of his joke. “You gotta approach danger with caution.”
“So, you think I am dangerous?” I shift my expression into what I hope reads as pure innocence. “Little old me?”
“More than you realise, angel.” His voice is rough and soft all at the same time, and I feel it somewhere thoroughly inconvenient.
What the hell is that supposed to mean? A question that I don’t think I want to know the answer to for the safety of the tiny sliver of self-control I am trying to keep.
I clear my throat—which comes out gruffer than intended, fantastic—and shift back into something resembling professionalism. “What did you want to ask?”
Wade's expression settles back into that unreadable face I've spent weeks trying to decode, and he asks how I'm getting on with the ranch, whether the additional responsibilities he handed me after our stand-off a few weeks back are working out.
I catch him up with how I am getting along, which, to be fair, is really well. The business side of the ranch isn't that different from managing stock in a coffee shop, and somewhere along the way, I stopped just doing the job I was given and started looking at the whole picture.
“I've actually been looking at the supply orders,” I say, keeping my tone casual even though my pulse quickens, fearing that I might be overstepping. “I think I found a way to save quite a bit of money.”
Wade's brow arches. He's still standing, which means I'm looking up at him. To be fair, this is no different than when I’m standing. “Is that so?”
“That’s so,” I confirm, holding his gaze.
“Looking at your historic order sheets and invoices, you've been paying well over market price for a lot of supplies just out of convenience.
And I mean no disrespect to your father, but he used big distributors because it was easy, and nothing's changed since you took over.”
Wade's expression doesn't change. Using my recently acquired skills as a cowboy behaviour analyst, I assess that it is safe to press on.
“I've done some research and talked to a few people in town.
There's a small feed operation in a neighbouring town that'll beat your current prices by fifteen percent and can deliver twice a week, if needed. I also remembered walking past a store with tack supplies, so I got Bryan to drive me there to talk to the owner, Jimmerson—”
“Yes, I know who he is.” His sharp tone nearly throws me off this little confident streak I got going on, but I ain’t going to let him. I want to show my worth around here, show that I could be useful… potentially long term. A girl can dream.
“Then you'll know he could supply whatever the ranch needs with enough notice. I know his store is small and this place is massive, so you've probably never considered using him at scale—but your business could make a real difference to his. And in a town this size, supporting locals matters.”
He says nothing. The space between us is so silent that I am sure I can hear the cows in the neighbouring town.
“Look, I know I am overstepping, but I am only partially sorry.”
“Only partially?” Wade questions, his right brow raised, and a slight twitch of the corner of his mouth. I know he is more amused than annoyed. Thank fucking God.
“I did stock management back in London. I know what I'm talking about. You gave me a job, I saw potential, and I thought I could make myself useful.” I pause, then say, because I absolutely cannot help myself, "Boss.”
Wade let’s out a breathy hum, “Most people would’ve just done the job I asked and called it a day. You went looking for problems to solve.”
“Maybe I like a challenge.” I was aiming for sassy, but it came out flirtatious. I know it immediately, and from the way Wade takes one slow step closer to the swing—close enough that I can take in his warm scent—he knows it too. That alone sends goosebumps along my body.
“Is that right?” His voice drops. His eyes hold mine steadily, unhurried, the way he does everything. “Because I'm starting to think you might be more trouble than I anticipated.”
My breath catches, and it takes every bit of self-respect and control to not melt into a puddle at his feet. I tip my chin up. “So, I’m dangerous and trouble now?”
“Seems that way.” His eyes don't move from mine. “Luckily, I don't mind taking risks when the reward is worth it.”
The air between us has a suffocating weight to it. His thumb taps against his flask. A habit I'd started noticing whenever he was thinking too hard about something.
I decide to break eye contact first, the only sensible move, looking for something else to move my attention to.
“Put in those orders, Maeve.” His voice returns to its usual register, gruff and even, like the last thirty seconds hadn’t happened. “And you're right about supporting the community. It's a good idea.”
I blink. Really wasn’t expecting zero pushbacks. He’s just trusting me. Handing me the reins and letting me run with it. No questions, no conditions.
That has genuinely caught me off guard.
I knew I was right. I’d checked the numbers a million times before I even dared to bring it to his attention.
But there’s something different between knowing you’re right and having someone like Wade Carter believing in you.
Someone who doesn't hand out trust or control easily.
Someone who did not even want me here at first.
Well. How’s that for city-girl work!
I think it loudly enough that when Wade's body shifts slightly, I freeze for a second, genuinely concerned I'd said it out loud. Wouldn't be the first time my internal monologue made an unsolicited public appearance.
But he's just turning back to face the sunrise, both hands around his flask, shoulders easy. And then, without looking at me, he says, “More work like this, and it'll be hard to let you go back home.”
I keep my face neutral and look back at my e-reader like the words didn't just land somewhere deep in my chest.
But they did.
I push down the hope that rises up, the dangerous and irrational kind that I’ve had to teach myself not to trust. Whenever I have had hope in the past, whether it was about a new venture in my life, or my mum promising me things would be different, it all gets snuffed out one way or another. Hope and I are not the best of friends.
I try not to interpret Wade’s words as a promise to staying here for longer. They’re just words out of a man’s mouth, ones that are not guaranteed, nor should they be taken seriously.
I will just have to keep showing up. Keep proving that I'm more than someone passing through on a temporary visa and a return ticket. Keep showing everyone, and myself, that this place and I make sense.