Jake’s POV
I felt her before I saw her. That shift in the bar's energy when something dangerous walks in.
Didn't turn around. Partly because the blonde—Kelly? Kylie?—was mid-sentence about something I wasn't hearing. Mostly because some masochistic part of me wanted to see what Adison would do.
My spine went rigid when her voice cut through the noise. "Tequila. Four shots."
Mike the bartender raised an eyebrow. "You sure about that?"
"Positive." Cash hitting wood. "Keep 'em coming."
Kelly/Kylie made herself scarce. Smart.
I kept my eyes forward. Watched the mirror. Adison looked like she'd run here—hair wild, cheeks flushed, tank top clinging in ways that made every man notice.
Four shots lined up. She downed them fast, mechanical, barely flinching.
Fuck.
"Another round," she told Mike. Voice already loosened by alcohol. "Make it a double."
This was going to be a disaster.
She didn't approach me. Turned to the cowboy on her left—Dale's younger brother, dumb as rocks—and smiled. That smile that got men in trouble.
"Hey there." Hand on his arm. Laughing. "You're sweet. Not like some cowboys who run away the second things get interesting."
Pointed. Loud enough to carry.
She got louder. Unladylike. Touching shoulders, leaning into personal space, laughing too hard. Everything a Manhattan socialite was trained not to be.
The men noticed. Young, beautiful, drunk, apparently available. But the Brent situation had made rounds. Everyone knew Adison Ward was off-limits. Jake Sullivan's... something.
Didn't stop them from looking.
"You know what's funny?" Her voice carried. "Some men prefer easy over complicated. Makes perfect sense. Why deal with actual feelings when you can find whatever's convenient?"
Direct hit. But I stayed still. Jaw tight. Hands white-knuckled.
She wasn't done. "Basic math, right? Experienced beats inexperienced. Simple beats complicated. Running beats staying. Real courageous stuff."
A few guys chuckled. Mike caught my eye—‘handle this.’
Then came the kill shot.
"Actually…" she'd found center stage now, holding court. "I heard the owner of Sullivan Ranch can't even handle his own business. Needs a girl half his age to do the real work. Pathetic, really. Wonder what else he can't handle."
Dead fucking silence.
Every man here knew what she was really saying. That I couldn't handle her. That she'd gotten under my skin and I'd let her. That whatever control I'd walked in here pretending to have was complete bullshit.
The fury that hit was cold. Controlled. Dangerous in ways loud anger never achieved.
This was the kind of rage that came from being stripped down in public. From having your weaknesses exposed. From being made to look like exactly what you feared most.
I stood slowly. Set my drink down. The crowd parted.
Adison watched me approach, chin up, defiant even drunk. Eyes flashing with hurt disguised as rage.
She wanted this fight. Wanted me to react, to prove something, to stop being the coward who kept pushing her away while pulling her closer.
Fine. I'd give her exactly what she was asking for.
Leaned in close enough that only she could hear. Voice dropping to that register that made smart people nervous. "You've disgraced my name and yours. You're coming home with me. Now."
"Fuck off, Jake." She pushed my chest weakly. "I'm having fun. Remember fun? That thing you do with people you actually want?"
"Adison—"
"Don't Adison me." Louder now, playing to the audience. Getting her money's worth out of this public execution. "You don't get to order me around. You're not my father, you're not my—"
Made an executive decision she could hate me for tomorrow. Or for the rest of her life. Didn't particularly care at this point.
Grabbed her, threw her over my shoulder in one fluid motion. She weighed nothing—all that riding and ranch work had built muscle but she was still small enough to manhandle. The alcohol made her coordination shit and her resistance ineffective.
"Put me down!" Fists pounding my back hard enough to bruise. "Jake, I swear to God—"
"You can hate me outside." Started walking toward the exit while she fought like a wildcat. "Right now you're drunk, making a scene, putting yourself at risk. We're leaving. End of discussion."
The bar erupted. Hoots, hollers, catcalls that would fuel gossip for weeks. Someone yelled "Get her, Sullivan!" Someone else made a comment I chose to ignore because responding meant putting her down.
And that wasn't happening. Not now. Not when she was this drunk and this reckless.
She fought the whole way. Cursing, hitting, making slurred threats that would be creative if they weren't so uncoordinated. Every eye in the place watched us leave, and I knew this story would spread faster than the last three scandals combined.
Didn't care. Let them talk.
Let them speculate about Jake Sullivan and Richard Ward's daughter. Let them think whatever they wanted about what was happening between us.
She could humiliate me publicly all she wanted. Could strip me down and question my manhood and make me look like exactly the pathetic bastard she'd described.
But I'd be damned—absolutely fucking damned—if I let her endanger herself to prove a point about my cowardice.
Outside, cold air hit us both like a slap. She couldn't stop fighting. Wouldn't stop. That Manhattan stubbornness mixing with tequila mixing with hurt until she was pure rage in motion.
I don't know what drove me, but I didn't take her to the truck. Instead, I dragged her to a nearby empty barn, throws open the door, and tossed her onto a haystack.