Page 35 of Mud & Moxie
Dylan Carter – broad-shouldered, storm-soaked determination wrapped in a suit jacket that looks borrowed, stiff on him like armor. He stands just inside the entrance of the ballroom, gaze sweeping the glittering crowd with wary suspicion. His presence cuts through the gloss of the event like a plow through soft soil. People notice him immediately; not because he belongs, but because he absolutely doesn’t.
He looks out of place in every possible way. No polished shoes, no practiced smile, no PR entourage. Just Dylan, stubborn jaw and steady eyes fixed on me like I’m the only reason he stepped foot into this world he despises. My chest constricts so tightly I forget to breathe for a second.
A couple of guests whisper nearby, glancing at him like he’s a curiosity. I can already imagine the captions:Farmer crashes influencer gala.But Dylan doesn’t flinch under the scrutiny. He moves with the same grounded confidence he does in the fields—slow, sure, resolute—as if the city lights have nothing on a Carter who’s made up his mind.
And suddenly, I know exactly why he’s here. He didn’t come for cameras or contracts. He came for me.
***
The hum of conversation falters as Dylan takes another step forward, his boots sinking into the plush carpet like they don’t belong. A hush ripples through the ballroom, curious eyes turning. My breath stalls as he heads straight for the stage. The coordinator panics, trying to intercept him, but Dylan brushes past with the same stubborn calm he uses to herd cattle. Determination radiates off him.
He reaches the stage, pauses at the steps. For a moment he looks at me—not the audience, not the cameras—just me.And then he climbs up, shoulders squared, jaw set. The crowd murmurs louder, some raising their phones, recording.
Dylan takes the mic from its stand. His calloused hands look foreign against the sleek chrome. “I’m not supposed to be here,” he begins, voice low but carrying. The city-polished emcee fidgets, but Dylan ignores him. “But I couldn’t sit back one more day while the whole world thinks this woman is a brand and not a person. Madison Wilkes isn’t just filters and followers. She’s the girl who used to ride shotgun in my truck eating gas-station candy. She’s the one who fought me tooth and nail when I told her dreams didn’t count unless they were dirt and sweat. And she proved me wrong.”
Gasps ripple. My heart clenches. He keeps going, steadier now. “I’ve spent years hiding behind my family’s name, telling myself legacy mattered more than feeling. But when she left, I learned reputation doesn’t keep you warm at night. It doesn’t look you in the eye and dare you to live bigger. Madison does that. Always has.”
He glances at the slideshow still frozen on the image of the barn. “Her Uncle Ray trusted her because he knew she could turn nothing into something. I didn’t see it then, but I see it now. This farm, this legacy—it isn’t worth a damn without her in it. Without us in it together.”
The ballroom is utterly silent, every camera raised, every sponsor leaning forward as if scripted. But Dylan isn’t performing. He’s confessing. To me. To all of them.
***
The silence after his words is so heavy I swear I can hear my own heartbeat echoing in my ears. The lights blind me, the cameras flash, but all I can see is him—this gruff, impossible young man standing on a polished stage that was never built forhim, baring his soul in front of strangers and sponsors alike. My throat tightens, heat prickling my eyes. I press my palm against Ray’s cap inside my bag, desperate for an anchor. Instead of grounding me, it cracks me wide open.
I hear a collective inhale from the audience, as if they’re waiting for me to speak, to smile, to turn it into a scripted soundbite. But nothing about this is staged. Dylan’s eyes hold mine, steady and raw, and I know—he meant every word. My pulse pounds with the weight of it.
The emcee hovers uncertainly, the sponsors whisper, and in the corner of the ballroom I catch sight of Matthew. He must have slipped in quietly, keeping to the shadows. His face is unreadable, but I see the storm behind his eyes. Protective big brother, loyal best friend, torn between roles. And yet, as Dylan lowers the mic, I swear I see Matthew’s posture shift—his jaw unclench, his shoulders ease. Not full approval, but something softer. Something like reluctant acceptance.
I draw in a shaky breath and turn back toward the audience, the mic trembling in my hands. "Everyone, this is Dylan Carter," I say, my voice carrying clearer than I expect. "He’s the reason Mud & Moxie exists. His grit, his honesty, his belief in hard work—even when it clashed with mine—have pushed me to fight harder and dream bigger. If you’ve ever found inspiration in my story, it’s because of the roots he reminded me not to forget." The crowd stills, listening, and for the first time all night I feel like both halves of myself—city and country, mud and moxie, ambition and love—fit together on one stage.
The crowd begins to murmur again, some clapping tentatively, unsure if this is part of the program. But I can’t think about them, not right now. My chest aches with too much—grief for Ray, anger at Dylan, longing for what we lost, hope for what we could be. It’s all tangled, messy, terrifying. And for once, I don’t care who’s watching.
I take a step toward him. My voice, when it comes, is barely above a whisper, but the mic catches it anyway: “You always did know how to ruin my script.” A ripple of nervous laughter spreads through the crowd, but I can’t look away from Dylan. His lips twitch like he wants to smile, but he doesn’t dare. Neither of us does.
I’m overwhelmed, undone, and yet—for the first time in a long time—I believe. Believe that maybe he sees me. Believe that maybe I don’t have to choose between worlds. Believe that love could be strong enough to bridge the impossible.
***
The room is still humming, but for me, time narrows to the space between Dylan and me. Every flashbulb, every whispered comment, every sponsor’s raised eyebrow fades into a blur. All I see is the man who once made me furious, who made me feel small—and who now stands here risking his pride, his reputation, maybe even his future, just to say he was wrong. Just to say he chooses me.
My chest aches, torn between relief and fear. If I step toward him, there’s no going back. If I lean in now, the story I’ve spent years writing for myself—the one where I only need ambition, only need the city, only need independence—changes forever.
But Dylan’s gaze holds me steady, raw and unflinching. And something inside me shifts. I don’t feel trapped between two worlds anymore. I feel like maybe I can belong to both. Like maybe Ray knew exactly what he was doing when he forced us together.
In the corner, Matthew’s eyes meet mine. For once, there’s no fire in his stare, no protective barrier between us. He looks tired, resigned, but there’s the faintest nod—the kind that says,I see ittoo. Maybe he’s good for you after all.My throat tightens at the sight.
I step closer to Dylan, so close I can feel the heat radiating off him, smell the faint trace of rain clinging to his clothes. My fingers twitch at my sides, wanting to reach for him. The crowd leans in, holding their breath, waiting for the final act.
Slowly, I tilt my chin up, lean just a fraction closer, my voice trembling but certain: “Maybe it’s time to stop fighting what’s been here all along.”
Gasps ripple through the room. The cameras click like gunfire. My pulse thrums in my ears. I don’t kiss him—not yet. But I’m close enough that everyone knows what comes next. The choice is no longer a question. It’s a promise.
And as the ballroom erupts into a frenzy of whispers and cheers, I realize I’m ready to choose him. Ready to choose us. Ready to choose the farm.
***
The emcee scrambles to regain control, thanking sponsors and urging people toward the refreshment tables, but the spotlight refuses to shift. Every gaze lingers on us, and the noise in the room is a jumble of speculation. I lower the mic, but Dylan’s hand brushes mine as he steadies it back onto the stand. The touch is fleeting, accidental, but it crackles through me like lightning.
