Page 56 of Riding the Storm
He grins. “You’ve been staring at the house all morning, superstar.”
I toss him a glare. “Let’s get back to work.”
He laughs and heads for the feed shed.
I stay where I am, arms resting on the fence rail, the wind carrying the faint sound of Charli’s voice.
“Got it out of our system,” I mutter. I shake my head, smirking to myself. “Not even close.”
The rest of the day passes in a blur of chores and preparation for Matty’s shindig. I help Cabe set up the corral lights, haul bales of hay for seating,and stack a huge burn pile with dry brush and chopped wood for tonight’s bonfire before stringing up a few of the banners for Evelyn.
Come late afternoon, the ranch hums with activity—music, laughter, the clatter of dishes from the kitchen.
But even when I’m surrounded by all of it, it’s damn near impossible to focus.
Every time I see her out of the corner of my eye, I feel a pull. Like gravity.
And I realize something I probably shouldn’t admit, even to myself.
I’ve had plenty of women chase me and plenty I’ve chased. But Charli Storm? She’s the first one who’s ever made me want to earn her.
Even if she swears she doesn’t want to be caught.
I finish up with Evelyn and head back to my cabin to get ready for the evening’s festivities, the lights of the main house glowing in the distance.
I stop on the porch, lean against the railing, glance toward the path she walked this morning, and shake my head.
Then I go get ready to face her again and I can’t fucking wait.
The ranch is thrumming like something out of a country music video. Twinkle lights hang from the wraparound porch, loop through the railings, and are strung across the fence posts that border the corrals and pens. They flicker against the soft orange haze of the setting sun, glinting off mason jars filled with wildflowers Shelby and I picked up in town yesterday.
Grandma Evelyn and Imma Jean have been cooking since sunrise, their laughter drifting out the kitchen windows, along with the smell of cornbread and apple pie. Daddy and Grandpa have been manning the smoker all day, their voices rumbling low and satisfied every time one of them opens the lid to check the ribs or turn the fat pig that’s been roasting since mid-morning.
The whole ranch smells like heaven—smoke, sugar, and spice, all tangled in the air with the faint sweetness of cut grass.
Everyone is pitching in and doing their part without complaint. Including Bryce. And even though I practically ordered him to work with Cabe before rushing out on him in the wee hours, he really isn’t under any obligation to help prepare the ranch for today’s festivities.
He’s technically a guest here, and he’s paying a lot of money for the privilege. I’ve got him shoveling shit and hauling hay bales as if he were the hired help. I’ll admit, at first, I had him doing chores to humble him—not out of malice, but because it was the only way to get him out of his head and out of our way, giving me a fighting chance to prepare him to leave this ranch and saddle up.
But helping put a party together? That falls outside of his obligation to us—to me.
But the truth is, I like having him here. I like him at our table. Ilook forward to sparring with him every day. It’s exciting, a breath of fresh air, because life on a ranch can feel pretty mundane at times.
I swear, I can feel his eyes on me, even when he’s across the yard, helping Cabe set up the bonfire pit. Maybe it’s my imagination. Maybe it’s because I can still feel him inside me with every move I make today. It’d been a long time since I had been with a man. I didn’t go off to college like Shelby and Harleigh, and there are few options in Wildhaven. My experience is limited, and I’d never been that consumed by someone so rough and hungry. It was intoxicating. And it scared the shit out of me. So, when I woke up, wrapped in his arms, I got out of there as quickly as possible.
God help me, I can’t think about it without my pulse tripping.
I’ve spent the whole day pretending it didn’t happen, pretending he’s just another ranch hand around here for work, but every time he looks at me, it’s like he knows the effect he has on me—like he can see right through me.
I tighten the last knot on a ribbon wrapped around a table centerpiece and step back to admire the rows of folding tables we set up this morning. Each one is covered in a pale blue tablecloth, the kind that flutters in the breeze. Wildflowers spill from mason jars down the center—sunflowers, asters, daisies. Bright and mismatched, rustic—exactly what Matty would like.
Everything’s almost set up, and guests are starting to trickle in—neighbors, ranch staff, and family friends. I spot Marcia Galloway, Caison’s mother, walking up from the gravel drive, wearing a flowy floral dress and a big smile. She’s got a gift bag in one hand and a pan of something in the other. She’s accompanied by Holland Ludlow and his wife, Priscilla. They own Ironhorse, the ranch Caison manages, and he considers them family.
“Charli, honey,” Grandma Evelyn calls from the porch, her hands on her hips. “You’ve done enough out here. Go on and get yourself cleaned up before Caison gets here with your sister.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, brushing my hands on my jeans.
As I head for the front door, I glance to the bonfire pit—just once—toward Bryce. He’s standing with his hands braced on his hips, talking to Cabe. His hair’s tucked into a ball cap today, a few dark strands brushing his neck. The sight of that neck—of his mouth—brings back flashes ofhow he kissed me, how he groaned when I screamed his name, how he whispered, “You’re so beautiful,” against my throat.
