Page 6 of Bolt To Me
He shrugged. “I’ve been called worse.”
Everything in her upbringing warned her to say no. To be cautious. To protect her reputation. But that voice had led her straight to the altar she never wanted. The other voice, the one that sounded suspiciously like herself, was leaning forward with interest. She took another sip of coffee. “Fine. But only for a few days. If I get spotted at your place, I’ll be the Jezebel of Jasper County.”
Cory’s grin was slow and devastating. “Welcome to the Hayes Ranch, darlin’.”
Later that afternoon, after hastily stuffing an overnight bag with sweatpants, T-shirts, and the bare minimum of emotional baggage, Carli stepped through the threshold of the Hayes guesthouse and nearly stopped breathing. It was beautiful.
Vaulted ceilings stretched overhead, framed by exposed beams of rich oak and driftwood-gray walls that softened the sunlight pouring in from wide-paneled windows. The open floor plan gave the space an airy elegance, with coollinens, iron fixtures, and rugged details. Cowhide rugs lay over polished concrete floors, a stone fireplace that belonged in a magazine took up one wall, and throw pillows that somehow managed to look casual and expensive at the same time graced the overstuffed leather couch and chair. The view from the back windows stole her breath completely: acres of rolling pastureland, golden and wide and swaying beneath the afternoon breeze.
“This is your guesthouse?” she asked, dazed.
Cory grunted as he set her bag down by the couch. “Technically, it’s my family’s. I stay in the main house when I’m here. This place is for guests, holiday overflow, and now, runaway brides seeking asylum.”
She turned in a slow circle, drinking it all in. “This is nicer than half the honeymoon suites I toured.”
“Just wait until you see the clawfoot tub,” he said. “It practically forgives sins.”
“Wait. There’s a claw-foot tub? I’ve got sins that need forgiving.” Carli laughed, turning to him with genuine warmth. “Thank you. Really. For this. For everything.”
He leaned against the doorway, his arms crossed loosely, his posture easy but alert. “You gonna be okay here?”
She nodded, exhaling for what felt like the first time all day. “Better than being stalked by my mom’s Bible study group and a thousand Facebook comments.”
“I mean, we all need Jesus,” Cory said, his tone teasing, “but yeah. Maybe some space first.”
Their eyes met. The pull between them, so electric in the truck the night before, hadn’t weakened. It had settled into something steadier now, more dangerous because it was real. Familiar. A warmth she hadn’t expected to find in the wreckage.
“You know,” Carli said slowly, “this arrangement is going to drive this town absolutely insane.”
Cory stepped closer, his voice a shade deeper. “Let ’em talk.”
A shiver climbed her spine, lighting up nerves she hadn’t known were still capable of thrill. She cleared her throat and turned away. “I should unpack.”
He lingered a second longer, gaze tracing her face. “I’ll leave you to it then.” He stepped out, the scent of cedar and aftershave trailing in his wake like a memory she wasn’t ready to let go of.
That evening, after a long soak in the claw-foot tub in water so hot it steamed up the entire bathroom, and a moment of private unraveling in a soft bathrobe, Carli stepped barefoot onto the porch. The sun had slipped beneath the horizon, and the stars were bursting across the night sky in full Texas glory, bright and wild and infinite. They spilled across the dark like a thousand secrets, blinking as if amused by her life choices. The breeze was cool on her skin. Peaceful. She felt untethered in a way that was terrifying and oddly freeing.
Boots crunched on the gravel.
She turned and saw Cory walking up the path from the barn, backlit by moonlight. He wore a charcoal Henley rolled at the sleeves and carried two longneck beers in one hand like an offering to the gods of comfort and poor decisions. “You looked like you needed something stronger than coffee,” he said, handing her a bottle.
“You’re not wrong.”
They sat side by side on the porch swing, the chains creaking with each gentle sway. Crickets sang in the brush. Somewhere, a windmill turned with a low groan, its rhythm syncing with the soft hush of distant cattle and the occasional snort of a horse settling for the night.
Carli stared out at the darkness and murmured, “I’m not used to this.”
“To what?” he asked.
“Being… taken care of.”
He tilted his beer thoughtfully, watching her without pressure. “You’re not being taken care of. You’re being respected. Big difference.”
The words landed like a weight in her chest. Gentle. True. Unfamiliar. She looked at him, caught between awe and warning. “You’re dangerous, Hayes.”
He smiled, slow and knowing. “Only in the right ways.”
And God help her, Carli Santana was starting to believe that.
