Adison’s POV
Morning hit and I was done playing games. Whole night spent replaying that bedroom scene—the way he didn’t confess, even though it was so obvious, that kiss, him kicking me out like I was some mistake he needed to erase.
Fine. Ice queen mode activated.
Except Jake avoiding me like I carried bubonic plague did something to my ego. Jaw clenching when I walked by. White-knuckle grip on every tool. That three-foot safety radius like proximity might kill him.
That tension radiating off him? Yeah, that wasn't nothing.
Mid-morning something shifted in my brain. Hurt evolved into strategy. If he wanted to pretend that kiss didn't wreck us both, I'd make pretending physically impossible.
Game fucking on.
Started subtle. Leaning over when passing tools, tank top doing its thing. Breathy sighs after hauling feed. Just existing in ways that made ignoring me require Olympic-level focus.
His tells were beautiful. Shoulders going rigid. Jaw working overtime. Eyes glued to literally anything except me.
So naturally I escalated. Fingers lingering during hand-offs. Looking through my lashes while biting my lip. Laughing at nothing just to watch his knuckles go white.
Watching Jake Sullivan's control disintegrate in real-time? Better than therapy.
By afternoon he was wound tighter than I'd ever seen him. Every interaction pushed him closer to some edge I couldn't define but desperately wanted to find.
Then he vanished. Barn empty. Paddock quiet. Truck gone.
Searched everywhere. North pasture, equipment shed, that weird chicken situation he pretended to care about. Growing frustration mixed with something uncomfortably close to panic.
Found Tommy near the house, wrist-deep in gate repairs.
"Where's Jake?"
"Out." Didn't even look up.
"Out where, Tommy?" Voice sharp enough to cut. "His truck's gone. He's ghosting my texts. So either tell me or I start making really creative assumptions about what 'out' means."
His face did that guilty thing where secrets fight self-preservation instincts. Set down tools with a sigh that screamed defeat. "The Honky-Tonk bar. But Adison, he specifically—"
"Give me your keys."
Tommy blinked. "What?"
"Your truck keys. Now." I held out my hand, palm up, absolutely done with negotiation.
"Adison, he's gonna murder me for telling you, and then murder me again for—"
"Keys. Tommy. Or I walk there and you explain to Jake why you let me hike into town alone at night."
The ultimatum worked. He dug keys from his pocket with obvious reluctance, dropped them in my palm. "You're officially my favorite person on this ranch for about thirty seconds, until Jake finds out and kills us both."
"I'll take full responsibility." Already heading for his truck. "Tell him I stole them. Held you at gunpoint. Whatever."
"With what gun?"
"Details!"
I climbed into Tommy's beat-up Ford, adjusted the seat, and peeled out with more aggression than the dirt road probably deserved. Pure adrenaline and rage made me push the accelerator harder.
That coward ran to a bar? After last night? After looking at me like he’s ready to devour me whole before rejecting?
Absolutely fucking not.
The drive took maybe ten minutes of white-knuckling the steering wheel and possibly breaking several traffic laws that nobody was around to enforce. My hands shook—fury or anticipation, unclear which.
The Honky-Tonk appeared in the distance, all neon signs and pickup trucks in the parking lot, looking exactly like every Texas cliché I'd ever seen.
I parked Tommy's truck with zero regard for the lines, killed the engine, and sat there for approximately five seconds.
Suddenly aware that walking into a cowboy bar alone might not be my brightest tactical decision. But then I remembered why I'd driven here—Jake hiding from me, probably drowning his feelings in cheap whiskey and cheaper company.
Yeah. Smart was overrated tonight.
Pushed through the door and chaos hit all at once. Smoke and whiskey smell. Bodies moving to country music that was all heartbreak and trucks.
The bar did that thing where noise doesn't stop but attention shifts. Conversations dipped. Eyes found the obvious outsider.
Manhattan princess in designer jeans and a tank top, standing in the doorway like I'd accidentally walked into the wrong movie. I felt every glance slide over my body.
Assessing. Interested. Hungry in ways that made my skin prickle.
Fuck it. Came this far.
Scanned the crowd, heart trying to punch through my ribs. Too many cowboy hats. Too many flannel shirts. Too many—
Found him. At the bar. Whiskey glass in hand.
And a woman.
Blonde. Tight jeans that were practically painted on. Crop top leaving nothing to imagination. Leaning into his space with her hand on his arm. Laughing at something he'd said.
Body language screaming ‘availability’ and ‘interest’.
My vision literally went red at the edges. Not metaphorically. Actual red tint coloring everything like rage had a filter.
Every doubt I'd been nursing crystallized instant and sharp.
He ran here to find someone else. Someone experienced. Someone who could satisfy his needs unlike the inexperienced virgin playing at seduction.
Every insecurity I'd buried under confidence and attitude came flooding back.
Too young. Too innocent. Not enough woman for whatever Jake Sullivan needed.
The jealousy hit so hard it felt physical. Chest tight. Hands shaking. That pure, distilled rage that comes when someone you want is touching someone else.
He kissed me like I was oxygen. Then fucking ran to a bar to pick up the first available blonde within arm's reach.
I stood there in the doorway, out of breath from running, watching him with her. Watched her lean closer. Watched his face—couldn't read his expression from this distance but his body language looked relaxed, receptive.
Nothing like the tension he carried around me.
Something broke in my chest. Not heartbreak exactly. More like the last thread of patience snapping clean.
He wanted to pretend I didn't exist? He wanted to act like that bedroom scene meant nothing? He wanted someone else?
Fine. Watch me make that impossible.
I started walking toward them, and the crowd parted like they sensed the murder radiating off me. Maybe Manhattan princess energy had some utility after all. Maybe pure rage just had that effect.
Each step felt like walking toward something I couldn't take back. Some line I'd cross that would change everything.
Didn't care. Done caring.
The blonde saw me first. Her smile faltered as she tracked my approach—younger, angrier, clearly on some kind of mission. She said something to Jake I couldn't hear over the music.
He turned.
Our eyes met across maybe fifteen feet of sawdust-covered floor.
And every emotion I'd been trying to control for weeks exploded into something I couldn't name but felt like fire.
This was happening. Right now. No matter what came after.