Page 3 of The Rancher's Runaway Bride
A smile tugs at my lips. “It’s so nice to meet you Carson Lane Walker.”
“Layla is gonna stay with us a while, maybe help us do some cooking and cleaning.”
“Oh,” the boy looks between his dad and me, like a thousand questions are burning behind his eyelids.
You and me both, buddy. You and me both.
After a quiet dinner, I clean up the kitchen and Carson helps me put dishes in the dishwasher, and then I turn in early. I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying the day’s events in my mind. Cal is… complicated. Gruff and guarded, sure, but there’s something else beneath the surface. Something that makes me want to push past his walls, even as he does everything he can to keep me at arm’s length. He also has a jawline set in marble and eyes so smoldering that looking too long feels like looking directly at the sun. And his son…I never expected to see the softer side of this rugged cowboy.
Carson. Sweet, curious Carson.
I’ve only been here a few hours, but already, this place feels more real than anything I left behind. The ranch, the quiet, even the mud—it’s messy and imperfect and so far removed from the gilded cage I escaped from in San Francisco.
But it’s not mine. Not yet.
With a sigh, I roll over and close my eyes, determined to prove that I’m more than just a runaway bride in a fancy dress.
Because if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that I didn’t come all this way to fail.
Chapter Two
Cal
The smell of burning batter hits me before I step into the kitchen, and I already know this isn’t going to end well. Sure enough, when I walk in, Layla is flipping pancakes with all the grace of a new foal on ice. Batter splatters across the stove and counter, and one pancake lands half off the pan, curling sadly on itself.
Carson, seated at the table with his legs swinging under the chair, looks absolutely delighted. He leans over to Duke, who’s lying at his feet, and whispers, “She’s funny.”
Duke wags his tail in agreement.
“Morning,” I grumble, stepping past the chaos to pour myself a cup of coffee. The mug is hot in my hand, grounding me against the whirlwind of energy Layla has unleashed in my usually orderly kitchen.
“Good morning, sunshine,” she chirps, overly bright. Her hair’s pulled up into a messy bun, and she’s wearing one of my old flannels over her leggings. She must’ve found it in the laundry room. It’s too big on her, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and for a split second, I hate how good she looks in my clothes.
“You’re making a mess,” I say flatly, sipping my coffee.
“I’m making breakfast,” she corrects, waving the spatula at me like it’s a sword. “You’re welcome.” She turns, winking at me once. “Hope you don’t mind I stole one of your shirts, I didn’t really bring anything practical to wear…I just had sundresses and bikinis packed for my honeymoon. I should be in Costa Rica right now. Instead I’m…here.” She smiles sweetly, then turns back to the pan.
Another pancake hits the skillet with a loudsplat, batter oozing unevenly to the edges. Carson claps his hands. “She’s so good at this!”
“Sure, kid,” I mutter. “If you like your pancakes half-burnt, half-raw.”
Layla glares back at me, her cheeks flushing. “It’s a work in progress, Cowboy.”
“Looks like a demolition project,” I deadpan.
Just then the smoke detector rings through the kitchen. Carson covers his ears and I smirk as smoke plumes from the stove. I snag a towel and wave it in front of the alarm until the shrill beeping stops.
“Way to start the morning,” I huff.
Carson giggles, and Layla smirks, flipping the misshapen pancake with exaggerated flair. “At least I’m trying. What have you done this morning, Mr. Grump?”
“Put out your fires, for starters,” I grunt in response and lean against the counter, watching her flounder with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. She’s clearly out of her depth, but I’ll admit—quietly, to myself—that there’s something endearing about the way she’s determined to make this work, even if the kitchen ends up looking like a war zone.
Carson, ever the curious one, picks up his fork and points it at me. “Is she my new mommy?”
The words hit like a brick to the chest. I choke on my coffee, coughing and sputtering as the scalding liquid burns its way down my throat. “No,” I rasp, too quick, too forceful. “No, buddy, she’s not.”
Layla freezes mid-flip, her eyes going wide. Then she laughs, awkward but kind, the sound softer than I expected. “No, sweetie,” she says gently, turning to Carson with a smile. “I’m just here to help out.”
