Jake insisted on grilling the meat despite literally being on medical orders to rest. Stood there on his walking cast, spatula in hand, looking like an advertisement for stubborn masculinity.
"Let me do that," I said. "You're supposed to be sitting."
"That's what men do on this ranch." Dead serious. "Grill meat. It's a rule."
"Is it written down somewhere? The Sacred Man Laws of Ranch Grilling?"
"Doesn't need to be written. It's understood." He flipped a steak with unnecessary force. "I can stand for ten minutes. Won't kill me."
"Your doctor would disagree."
"My doctor isn't here." Grinned at me. "You going to tattle?"
Watching him be absurdly territorial about meat cooking was somehow endearing and irritating in equal measure. Classic Jake Sullivan energy—take orders from no one, especially when injured and objectively wrong.
"Fine. Grill your meat. Assert your dominance over fire and protein. I'll prep everything else."
"That's all I ask."
We worked in comfortable silence. Him at the grill being unnecessarily proud of his caveman skills. Me chopping vegetables and trying not to think about how domestic this felt. How right.
Six weeks ago I'd been in Manhattan attending charity galas and planning a wedding I didn't want. Now I was making campfire dinners with a man who'd probably have an aneurysm if anyone suggested he wasn't the grill master.
Life was fucking weird.
"Done," he announced. Presented the steaks like he'd personally hunted and killed the cow. "Perfect medium-rare."
"Your masculinity is intact. Congratulations."
"Thank you." Completely missing my sarcasm. Or ignoring it. "Let's eat."
We settled by the firepit. Stars coming out overhead in that way they did in Texas—sudden, overwhelming, like someone flipped a switch on the universe. The fire crackled. Food was actually good. Everything felt almost normal.
Except for the conversation we were about to have. The one that would explain why Jake Sullivan had spent weeks running from me while simultaneously being unable to stay away.
"So," I said when we'd finished eating. "Story time?"
He set down his plate. Stared at the fire for a long moment. Building courage or organizing thoughts or both.
"Your mom and I met the summer I was twenty-three." Started without preamble. Ripping off the band-aid. "Richard and I had been best friends since we were kids. Grew up on neighboring properties. He saved my life when I was fourteen—pulled me out of a flash flood. I owed him everything."
Paused. Breathed. Continued.
"That summer, Elena showed up. Richard's college friend from university, visiting for a few weeks. She was—" He stopped. "She was brilliant. Funny. Had this way of seeing beauty in things other people overlooked. Spent hours photographing wildflowers. Asked questions about cattle ranching like she actually cared about the answers. And I fell. Hard. Immediately. Like getting hit by a truck."
My chest did something complicated. Hearing him talk about my mother with that tone—part nostalgia, part old pain—made this simultaneously more real and more uncomfortable.
"Richard was in New York building his empire. Barely called that summer. So it was just—us. Elena and me." His voice went softer. "We'd ride out to the creek at sunset. She'd bring her camera, I'd bring terrible sandwiches. We'd talk for hours about everything. Her dreams of teaching astronomy. My plans to buy this place from my father someday. How we both felt trapped by other people's expectations."
He stared into the fire like he could see her there.
"She used to say I saw her. Not the pretty girl from the city, not Richard's friend, just—Elena. The real one." He exhaled slowly. "And for three months, I thought that was enough. Thought love could outweigh everything else."
"Richard was twenty-five by then. Had money, education, future prospects. I had dirt under my nails and my father's old pickup. But Elena chose me at first. Or I thought she did." His voice got quieter. "We had three months. Best three months of my life. I was planning to propose. Had the ring and everything. My grandmother's ring—only valuable thing I owned."
Oh. Oh fuck.
"Then Richard came back. End of summer. Saw us together one night—I had my arm around her, she was laughing at something stupid I'd said—and I watched him realize." Jake's jaw clenched. "He realized he wanted her too. And Richard Ward doesn't lose things he wants."
The bitterness was old. Faded but not gone.
"He didn't fight dirty. That would've been easier somehow. He just—offered her everything I couldn't. Penthouse in Manhattan. Security. A life where she wouldn't have to worry about droughts or failed crops or whether we could afford to fix the truck. The kind of life I'd never be able to provide on a ranch hand's salary."
Jake's hands tightened around his beer bottle.
"I remember the day she told me. She was crying. Said she loved me but she couldn't do this—couldn't live with the uncertainty. Her parents had struggled their whole lives, barely scraped by. She couldn't do that again." His voice went flat. "Said Richard could give her stability. A real future. All the things I couldn't guarantee."
"What did you say?"
"I begged." Simple. Honest. "Told her we'd figure it out. That love mattered more than money. That I'd work harder, build something real, give her everything she deserved." He paused. "She kissed me goodbye and left with Richard the next morning. Married him six months later."
The irony wasn't lost. Richard trusted his best friend with his daughter. The same best friend he'd stolen a woman from decades ago.
"And now you're sleeping with his daughter." I said it flat. "Full circle in the most fucked up way possible."
"Yeah." He didn't flinch from it. "Yeah, that's about right."
The fire popped. Sparks drifted up toward the endless stars. I sat with the weight of what he'd told me, turning it over in my mind like something sharp I was trying to understand without cutting myself on.
"When I first saw you—" Jake's voice pulled me back. Rougher now. More vulnerable. "That day at the terminal. You looked so much like her. Same eyes. Same way of holding yourself like you were bracing for disappointment. It fucked with my head."
My stomach dropped. "So when you looked at me, you saw—"
"Her. At first." He met my eyes. "I won't lie about that. The resemblance was—it was a lot. And I thought this was some cosmic joke. Richard sending me Elena's daughter to punish me, maybe. Or test me. I don't know."
Something cold settled in my chest. At first. Every kiss, every touch, every whispered word in the dark—had any of it been real? Or had I just been a ghost he was trying to fuck out of his system? I'd given him my virginity, my trust, my goddamn heart, and the whole time he'd been seeing her face instead of mine.
The woman he'd loved first. The woman he'd begged to stay. The woman who'd chosen my father and left him broken. And I was supposed to sit here and be grateful he eventually decided I was worth seeing as myself? The betrayal tasted like ash.