Page 17 of Chaos

I do. I know I do. Last night, when I eventually dragged myself off the porch and upstairs, I found all of my old shit already neatly packed away. Jeans, boots, hats, the fucking obnoxious belt buckles I used to obsessively collect—the perfect cowgirl wardrobe.

Briefly, I considered ignoring it all in favor of rocking up to my first day of work in a mini skirt and platforms, just for kicks. But really, as fun as the look on my siblings’ face would be, I’d be the one to suffer for my inappropriate choice.

Besides, I couldn’t resist my old boots; red and hand-embroidered and still perfectly molded to my calves, a flawless match to the tight, low-waisted jeans and tank top that perfectly mold to the rest of me.

Something the ranch hand who offered me thatwonderfulunsolicited advice yesterday seems to briefly, almost compulsively, appreciate.

I might’ve imagined it; the quick sweep of near-black eyes, the clenching of a finely-shaped jaw. I blink and his gaze is elsewhere. I blink again and Finn is in the kitchen, skirting around me to snag a mug from the dishwasher without a word of greeting. Once more, and that girl is in my line of sight instead.

“Sorry.” Standing on the other side of the island counter, she leans across it with her hand outstretched. “We’re kinda used to it being just us. I’m Yasmin. You’re Lottie, right?”

I nod and diligently shake her hand.

“That’s Theo.” She points at the blond before jerking a thumb towards the guy rooting through the fridge. “And that’s Adam. And you know Finn already, I guess.”

Sliding onto the barstool beside Yasmin, the man in question deigns to toss me a greeting nod. “We met.”

There’s something really interesting about how he says that with a smile, but I don’t feel any warmth—about how I’m apparently the only one who catches the snark hidden behind a sunny tone.

On second thought, maybe Yasmin does. Maybe I don’t imagine her throwing her friend a little side eye before returning her attention to me. “So, where’re you from?”

My stomach clenches. “Around.”

“Is that local?”

Internally, I smirk. “Uh-huh.”

Though I can tell my answers—or lack thereof—disappoint her, Yasmin persists. “Must’ve been nice, growing up around here. We were city kids, right, Tee?”

Theo,Tee, hums. A slice of toast hanging out of his mouth, he hands another piece to Yasmin, gracing her with a kiss on the cheek that coaxes out a warm smile. Spinning so she’s sideways, she tugs him between her spread thighs, resting her head against his chest while he snakes an arm around her shoulders, and while no one else bats an eye, I frown at the casual intimacy.

“Cityadults, really,” Yasmin continues, lips grazing what must be her partner’s neck. “Until we ended up here, obviously.”

I watch long, pale fingers as they wind themselves through dark, sleek hair. Stroking. Tugging. Tangling. “Obviously.”

“Adam’s been here a little longer than us, but don’t let him fool you. He’s from New York. Even more city than us.”

He’s rubbing her back now. Slow, soothing circles that practically make her purr, that I can’t stop watching. “Consider me warned.”

“But Finn’s a real country boy.”

Nowthatgrabs my attention. Tearing my gaze from the never-ending public display of affection, I crook a brow at thereal country boyin question. “That right?”

Raising his mug in acknowledgement, he doesn’t satisfy me nearly enough with his, “Uh-huh.”

Luckily, Yasmin is a lot more helpful. “His family owns a ranch.”

Despite my best efforts to keep them at bay, a million questions itch the back of my mind. Which ranch? Where? Is he fromaroundtoo? Not from Haven Ridge, I’d know if he was, but nearby, maybe? No, I still feel like I’d know him. There are a lot of ranches around here, but I can count on one hand the number of which have owners who aren’t white. On onefinger. Serenity—that’s it.

So not local, then. Still Californian, though? Or is he from out-of-state? But why is he here,howdid he end up here? It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask, but I don’t. It’s not like I care, I don’thaveto know. I’m just curious.

I’m not disappointed at all when, instead of graciously providing the answers unprompted, Finn polishes off his coffee and slaps a palm against the counter. “We’re gonna be late.”

I swear he looks a little smug while he does it. I swear he crooks a brow like he’s daring me to open my mouth. Like he knows how badly I want to ask, like he knows I won’t.

And I swear he makes a snarky, smug little noise in the back of his throat when my lips stay firmly sealed.

I skip breakfast.

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