Cedar Falls Regional Airport was barely larger than my penthouse bathroom, all scuffed linoleum and flickering fluorescent lights.
Texas heat hit me the second I dragged my luggage through wheezing automatic doors. Dry, relentless, like someone had pointed a hairdryer at the entire state and walked away.
But Jake Sullivan? This man looked like he'd walked straight out of a cologne ad titled ‘Rugged Masculinity: The Texas Edition.’
He leaned against a beat-up pickup, all broad shoulders and weathered leather jacket, cowboy hat shadowing his face in a way that should've been cliché but somehow wasn't.
Middle-aged, probably—but age on him didn't read like decline. It read like experience, like years that had carved him into something solid and uncompromising.
I dragged my luggage toward him, taking inventory because that's what you do when confronted with unexpected hotness: strong big body that suggested actual physical labor instead of gym posing. The kind of build that came from lifting fence posts instead of dumbbells.
Chestnut hair curling at his collar, light stubble covering a jaw that could cut glass, skin tanned from UV exposure that dermatologists would cry about.
Objectively: the man was incredibly hot.
For about fifteen seconds, I thought maybe Texas wouldn't be complete torture.
Then he got close enough for me to see his expression, and that fantasy died fast.
His jaw was set like he'd just bitten into something bitter and decided to keep chewing anyway. Those working hands grabbed my luggage like my Tumi suitcase was a moral failing he'd been forced to acknowledge.
He didn't speak. Didn't smile. Just gave me this curt nod that somehow communicated: ‘You're trouble I didn't ask for.’
"Nice to see you too," I said, injecting enough acid into my tone to strip paint. "Really feeling that warm Texas hospitality everyone raves about."
He grunted—actually grunted like a Neanderthal discovering fire—and hauled my luggage into the truck bed with more force than strictly necessary. When one bag tipped over, he didn't bother righting it. Just watched it fall like it deserved its fate.
Cool. Super normal way to greet someone.
The pickup's interior smelled like motor oil and worn leather and something indefinably masculine that my brain unhelpfully registered as appealing. I buckled in while he started the engine with aggressive precision, and we rattled onto a highway that stretched toward nothing.
Just flat land and enormous sky and the kind of space that made Manhattan feel like a shoebox.
The silence lasted approximately four minutes before he spoke.
"Ground rules," he said finally, his voice a low rumble. "You're here to work, not vacation. That means early mornings—five a.m. You'll earn your keep doing honest labor, same as anyone else on this ranch. No special treatment, no exceptions, no running to your daddy when things get hard. Clear?"
I turned to look at him fully, noting the white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel.
The muscle jumping in his jaw, the way he kept his eyes locked on the road like looking at me might cause him physical pain.
He expected me to fold. To complain. To prove every assumption he'd already made about spoiled rich girls who couldn't handle reality.
The laugh came out sharp, almost involuntary.
"You think just because you put on some cool shades and a cowboy hat, I'm gonna fall at your feet, buddy? Newsflash: I'm not here because I want to be. I'm here because my father decided manual labor builds character. So yeah, five a.m. is fine. Honest work is fine. We done with the tough-guy speech, or is there more?"
"Your father asked me for a favor," he said, each word controlled like he was physically restraining himself from saying something else. "I'm doing it because I owe him. But make no mistake, princess—you're not special here. You're just another hand who needs to learn the world doesn't revolve around her credit card limit."
"How original," I shot back, even though the word 'princess' hit exactly where he'd aimed it. "Did you workshop that line, or does it just come naturally when you've decided someone's worthlessness before meeting them?"
Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe irritation—but he didn't respond. Just drove faster, jaw locked, radiating disapproval like it was his job.
Silence as response felt like losing, but I wasn't about to beg for conversation.
The ranch opened around us—a middle-sized house with a wide porch, a long barn with faded red paint, fencing stretching toward cattle-dotted pastures, a creaking windmill catching sunlight.
Everything looked functional, built for purpose rather than comfort.
Jake parked near the house. "You'll have a bedroom inside. Don't use all the hot water. Meals are at six, noon, and seven—you miss them, you go hungry. Tommy'll show you around tomorrow."
He grabbed my luggage and started toward the house without checking if I followed.
Before I could process the implications, a massive golden retriever materialized from behind the barn and charged straight at me with zero hesitation.
"Oh my god, hi~" I said, immediately dropping to my knees as the dog crashed into me with enough enthusiasm to knock over a small child.
He was huge, beautiful, and completely uninterested in my scandal or my reputation or anything except the fact that I was a human with hands perfect for ear scratches.
"Bear!" Jake's voice cut across the yard. “Get back here.”
But the dog ignored him completely, too busy pressing his enormous head into my palms and groaning with pleasure.
"He likes you," someone said, and I looked up to find a young guy watching with an easy grin.
Mid-twenties, lean and tan, with black hair that needed cutting and an energy that felt fundamentally different from Jake's hostility.
"Bear usually hates newcomers. I'm Tommy. You must be the infamous Adison."
"Yeah… That's one word for it."
His grin widened. "Boss mentioned something about Richard's daughter needing perspective. Didn't say you'd be…" He caught himself. "Uh, welcome to Sullivan Ranch. It's not as bad as Jake makes it look."
"Tommy." Jake's voice had that edge again. "South fence."
Tommy gave me a mock salute and disappeared toward the barn, leaving me alone with Bear and approximately eight thousand questions about what I'd just signed up for.
Inside, the house felt faceless, indifferent to beauty. The interior concerned itself only with basic necessities—functional furniture, bare walls, nothing that suggested comfort or welcome.
Jake led me down a narrow corridor and stopped at a door. "This is yours."
He pushed it open to reveal a small bedroom. The interior was aggressively utilitarian. No decorations, no personality, nothing that suggested human warmth had ever touched this space.
Just a bed with clean sheets, a dresser that had seen better decades, a single chair, and a lamp that looked like it had survived multiple generations.
It was a place to sleep, not a place to live.
He gestured to the door directly across the hall. "That's mine. Bathroom's at the end. Try not to be loud."
Something about that landed differently than it should have. The idea that he'd be sleeping close enough to see my lights, to potentially hear me moving around—it should've felt invasive. Uncomfortable.
Instead, something twisted in my stomach that I immediately shut down.
"Got it," I said, forcing my voice cheerful. "Anything else?"
He studied me for a second, those dark eyes searching for something I wasn't about to let him find. "Don't make me regret this more than I already do."
Then he left, boots heavy on the wooden steps, leaving me alone. I stood there for exactly thirty seconds before unpacking and filing the room with militant precision.
Two months. Sixty days.
I could survive anything for sixty days. I would not break here. Not for Jake Sullivan's cold shoulder or my father's punishment or society's gleeful schadenfreude.
Even if I had to lie to myself every single day to believe it.