Page 88 of Chaos

A wry smile curls his mouth. “Akello.”

Wait a damn minute.

“Akello,” I repeat slowly, “as in Akello Cattle?”

Like it’s no big deal, Finn nods. Oh-so-casually, he admits he’s part of one of—if notthe—biggest ranch families. You throw a rock around here, around anywhere with any kind of an agricultural industry, and you hit an Akello cow.

Here he is, calling me princess, and he’s a fuckingprince.

I whack him on the bicep with the back of my hand. “What the fuck, Finn? I didn’t know that.”

“It’s not like I was keeping it a secret.”

In other words, I suck for not asking.

“I thought you were just, like, some simple smalltown country boy.” I slump, huffing, shaking my head in disbelief. “You’re anAkello.”

“And you’re a Jackson.”

“You’re both rich and famous,” Adam interjects, sharp but playful. “Congratulations. Can we move on?”

Evidently, I can’t. My mind is well and truly blown, my thoughts caught on the pivotal differences between the Jackson brand of fame, and the Akellos’.

My family is known aroundhere. Serenity is vaguely recognizable across the country, but only amongst other horsepeople like us. Animal charities and rescue organizations and shit like that, that’s our specialty. That’s where our name might hold some weight. That’s where most of our clientele for the dude ranch comes from too, or that’s how they find us.

The Akello name, on the other hand, is a whole other story. It’s a household name. It’scelebrity. It’s not just cattle and their by-products, not just beef and leather and dairy, not just the charities they donate to or the non-profits they run—the non-profit Finn’s sister runs, he has a sister, he has two sisters, and fuck, I am so bad at this friend thing. It’s…

Well, it’s Namara Akello. Her knowledge in responsible agricultural practices, her respect for the land she works on, her fucking historic prominence as a Black woman thriving in a male-dominated sector, but also justher. “Your mom is so fucking cool.”

Unabashed pride brightens Finn’s entire face. “Can’t argue with you there.”

“What the hell are you doinghere?”

He taps me on the fucking nose. “Enjoying your lovely company.”

I swat him away. “I’m serious.”

I’mbaffled. I’ve seen pictures of his family’s ranch—their house was in fucking Architectural Digest—and the endless land surrounding it. I’ve read interviews, seen documentaries, heard everything there is to hear through the grapevine. They’ve got a good thing going, I’m sure of that. Shit, if I was there, I’d never leave.

I want to know why Finn did. I’m dying to know. The curiosity might actually be killing me, it’s clouding my judgement, it’s why I take too long to recognize the discomfort aiding Finn’s silence—to mark it as the avoidant kind that I am intimately familiar with.

Fuck, I really must be a terrible person because his reluctance to talk about his family only makes me more curious.

Curling my hands into fists, I press my lips together tightly, physically restraining the urge to pepper him with more questions.

Friendly, I chastise myself silently. Even I know making someone talk about something they clearly don’t want to talk about isn’t that.

Biting my tongue—both literally and figuratively—I settle down. I pick up my briefly forgotten knitting project, clearing my throat in an effort to erase the burgeoning inquisition. “Next time you call your mom,” I let myself say as I slowly unfold my legs and drape them across Finn’s lap since he seems to like them there, he likes physical contact. “Tell her I love her.”

Staring at the patch of tan skin between the cuff of my sock and the ridden-up leg of my sweats, Finn swallows. Ever-so-slowly, that pinched expression melts away, replaced by a soft, indecipherable smile. “Maybe you can tell her yourself one day.”

22

She smells like hay and sweetness and hard work.

He wants to bury his face in the crook of her neck, and never be anywhere else.

Ruin is tryingto kill me.

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