Page 26 of Mud & Moxie
Dylan shifts slightly, his shoulder brushing mine in a touch that’s both casual and intimate. “You know,” he begins, his tone teasing yet earnest, “I’m pretty sure you still owe me a dance from that high school dance.”
I chuckle softly at the memory, shaking my head. “I think you’re the one who bailed, remember?”
“Maybe, but I’m here now to make it up to you,” he murmurs, his eyes holding mine, promise and mischief mingling in their depths.
The silence that follows is thick, the kind that holds possibilities of its own. For a moment, in the moonlit kitchen, everything seems simple—like the world outside doesn’t matter, just this stolen moment between us.
But before I can respond, the creak of the floorboard upstairs signals Matthew’s still here, a reminder of reality that snaps us back into the roles we’re meant to play.
“I told him he didn’t have to drive home.” Dylan whispers. “We’re working on the fence line at dawn.”
“Boundaries,” I whisper back, a mix of regret and relief threading through the word.
He nods, but the look in his eyes speaks of unfinished business, of possibilities yet explored.
As I turn to leave, the warmth of his presence lingers, a silent promise that maybe, just maybe, some lines are meant to be crossed.
***
Back in my room I sit on the edge of my bed with my laptop—not to blog, just to type. Words spill out, half-diary, half-confession, about the storm, about Dylan, and how one kiss can unravel years of carefully built armor.
When I finally quietly close my laptop, the silence feels heavier. I crawl under the quilt, whispering boundaries to myself like a promise. But even in the dark, my lips remember.
Just as I’m drifting off, I hear it—a soft creak in the hallway, Dylan’s silhouette passing by my door. He pauses, his shadow lingering, a silent testament to the tension between us.
The door knob turns slightly, but he doesn’t enter. Instead, the door quietly clicks shut again. My heart races, the tether pulls tighter, the storm from last night echoing in the stillness.
In the silence, a promise hangs—unspoken, yet undeniable.
I know tomorrow will bring its own challenges, and the fragile boundaries we’ve set will be tested, perhaps shattered.
And as I close my eyes, I can't help but wonder what secrets and scandals the coming days will reveal.
***
12
The Secret & The Scandal
DYLAN
It starts as a murmur at the feed store, a few too-long stares and muttered words when Madison and I walk past. At first, I think it’s just the usual small-town chatter. But when I catch sight of Carrie Dalton in the corner booth of the café, notebook open, eyes sharp as a hawk, I know better. Carrie’s a reporter for theCounty Chronicle, but she thrives on trouble more than truth. And right now, we’re her headline.
I overhear her whispering to a friend: “It’s fake. All of it. They’re pretending to keep the farm afloat.” My jaw tightens. I want to shut her down, but storming over would only feed her. So I do the worst thing—nothing. And in doing nothing, I let her hunt.
On the way out, I notice her eyes following Madison more than me. Carrie sees the glossy hair, the bright smile, the phone always near. She’ll twist those into vanity and scheming because that’s the kind of story people lap up. She doesn’t care about truth; she cares about selling copies.
Later that night, I spot Carrie’s car parked outside Ray’s old property line, her headlights off. She’s watching, waiting, digging. And I know—this isn’t going away quietly.
***
By Monday morning, the damage is done. My phone buzzes with messages from friends and business partners. TheChronicleheadline sprawls across the front page:“Farmhouse Fling: Carter Heir and City Blogger Fake Romance to Secure Inheritance.”
Below it is a photo of me and Madison at the farmer’s market—her smile bright, my hand at her back. Innocent in reality, damning on the page. The article spins our every move into manipulation: a fake relationship, staged affection, all orchestrated to satisfy the WILL. Carrie twists Madison into the villain, branding her as a social-climbing influencer exploiting the Carters.
The piece quotes “anonymous locals” who apparently saw us rehearsing our lines behind the bakery. Lies, all of it. But lies travel faster than the truth, especially when they confirm what people already half-suspect.
Worse, Carrie drags Matthew into it, painting him as the betrayed brother, torn between loyalty to his family and loyalty to his best friend. My fists clench when I read it. She’s not just targeting Madison anymore—she’s coming for all of us.
