Page 94 of My Cowboy Trouble
"I prefer 'strategically managed the information flow,'" I protest.
Gavin grins. "Princess, I think I love you."
The words hang in the air for a moment, and I see Gavin's face change as he realizes what he just said. Not the casual "love you" of friends but something heavier. Something that feels like a confession.
"I mean—" he starts.
"I know what you mean," I say softly. "And for the record? The feeling might be mutual."
We stare at each other for a moment, the weight of almost-admissions hanging between us. Then Asher clears his throat.
"Should we talk about this? Because I'm pretty sure we're all feeling the same way, and ignoring it isn't going to make it go away."
"Later," I say, because this feels too big, too important to hash out in the middle of the yard. "Tonight, maybe. When we can sit down and actually talk."
"All of us?" Asher asks.
"All of us," I confirm. "Whatever this is, we're in it together. No more competitions, no more keeping score. We figure it out together or not at all."
Gavin nods, something like relief flickering across his face. "Together sounds good."
"It does," Asher agrees.
"Good. Now, can someone help me stack these feed bags before Trent gets back? Because explaining why his feed is scattered all over the yard is going to be a lot harder than convincing Earl to unload it."
They both laugh, and the moment of heavy emotional weight passes. But it doesn't disappear entirely. It settles into something warm and comfortable, like a promise of conversations to come.
As we work together to organize the feed delivery, I catch myself smiling. Not because of what I accomplished with Earl—though I'm proud of that too—but because of this. The easy teamwork, the casual affection, the way we fit together like pieces of a puzzle.
Maybe Asher is right. Maybe I have been one of them for weeks, and I'm just now catching up to what everyone else already knew.
By the timeTrent returns from the vet, the feed is neatly stacked in the storage shed, and I'm helping Gavin repair a section of fence that's been on the perpetual "to-do" list. We're working in comfortable silence, passing tools back and forth with the kind of efficiency that comes from getting to know someone's rhythms.
"How'd the delivery go?" Trent asks, appearing beside us like he materialized out of thin air. For such a big man, he moves surprisingly quietly.
"Fine," I say, not looking up from the fence post I'm holding steady while Gavin drives in a new nail. "No problems."
"Bullshit," Billy pipes up from where he's been coiling rope nearby. "She totally saved the day. The driver was being a complete ass about prepayment, and she talked him into unloading anyway. It was like watching a magic show."
Trent's eyebrows rise. "Is that so?"
"It wasn't magic," I protest. "It was basic crisis management."
"She convinced him that payment had already been processed through some automated system," Billycontinues, clearly enjoying himself. "Made up a confirmation number and everything. Had him thinking it was his company's fault for not updating their records."
"You lied to a delivery driver?" There's something in Trent's voice I can't quite identify. Disapproval? Amusement?
"I strategically managed the situation to achieve a positive outcome for all parties involved," I say defensively. "And technically, payment will be processed when you pay the invoice, so it wasn't really lying. More like... temporal displacement of truth."
Gavin snorts. "Temporal displacement of truth. Jesus, princess, you should work for the government."
"The point is," Billy continues, "she handled it. Didn't panic, didn't call for help, just figured it out and got it done. Driver left happy, we got our feed, everybody wins."
I wait for Trent's response, holding my breath without quite knowing why. His opinion shouldn't matter this much. I solved the problem, got the job done, proved I can handle unexpected situations. That should be enough.
But somehow, it's not. Somehow, I need him to acknowledge that I didn't screw up. That I'm not the helpless city girl who can't function without constant supervision.
He's quiet for a long moment, studying my face like he's trying to read something there. Then he nods, justonce, but there's something in that simple gesture that makes my chest tight.
