Morning brought us back to the harsh language of labor, but the air between us felt charged. Jake said nothing about the bar, nothing about my attempted seduction in the truck.
He simply handed me a pitchfork and pointed toward the stalls.
If he really thought I was some immature girl playing games I didn't understand, fine. I'd show him mature. Responsible. The kind of woman who took criticism and grew from it instead of plotting revenge.
I became impossibly sweet. Exaggeratingly compliant. Every chore performed with cheerful enthusiasm and an innocent smile.
"Of course, Jake! Happy to help, Jake!"
I practically radiated sunshine, batting my eyelashes, adding an extra sway to my hips when I carried feed bags.
He saw right through it in approximately thirty seconds.
His response was austere functionality and complete indifference. No reaction to my smiles, no acknowledgment of my charm attempts.
When I tried to engage him, he answered in monosyllables. When I laughed at something Tommy said, Jake didn't even glance up.
By mid-morning, I realized cheap flirtation wasn't going to work.
"Come here," he said after lunch, gesturing toward the barn office.
Inside, he spread papers across a desk—feed schedules, rotation charts, calculations that looked like advanced mathematics.
"If you want to be useful, learn this. Feed ratios based on cattle weight. Water consumption relative to temperature. Show me you can think, not just smile."
The message was clear: he valued competence over charm. And despite my irritation, something in my chest warmed at the challenge.
This was what I'd craved—to be valued for my mind instead of my appearance.
I studied the charts, asked real questions, actually engaged with the complexity. And for the first time, I saw something in his expression that wasn't cold judgment.
Respect, maybe.
"You pick this up fast," he said, almost grudging.
"I wanted to study astronomy," I said without thinking. "This is just math. And I'm good at math."
He looked at me then, really looked, and I saw a question forming before he shut it down. But the moment hung between us—fragile, real.
Tommy found us in the barn aisle an hour later, his easy grin in place.
"Hey, Adison. You should come see the windmills tonight. Stars out here are insane—way better than anything you get in Manhattan."
Something clicked, an idea crystallized.
Sharp. Immediate. Potentially catastrophic.
Tommy was offering innocent stargazing, but Jake didn't know that. After last night's possessive display, I wanted to see if that control would crack again.
"That sounds amazing," I said, turning up the warmth in my voice to eleven. "Like, actually romantic. What time?"
Tommy blinked, caught off guard. "Uh... romantic? I just meant—"
"Eight?" I leaned closer, playing it up. "Should I bring anything? Wine? A blanket for stargazing?"
From across the barn, Jake's head snapped up.
Bingo.
"Tommy's got work," Jake cut in, his voice sharp enough to draw blood. "And so do you. No time for windmills."
"But the work will be done by then," I pointed out, all innocent confusion. "Right, Tommy?"
Tommy, bless him, looked between us like he'd accidentally wandered into a minefield. "I mean... yeah, technically—"
"You have too much work to look at windmills." Jake's grip on the pitchfork he was holding tightened visibly. "End of discussion."
I stood, clipboard still in hand, and walked toward him with deliberate slowness. The barn aisle felt like a stage, and I was done with the wholesome act.
"What's wrong, daddy?" The word came out provocative, mocking. "Jealous much?"
The jab hit home. I watched it land in his clenched jaw, his flexing hand.
He closed the distance in two strides and grabbed my elbow—firm enough to make his point. Then he steered me toward the empty tack room while Tommy made himself scarce with impressive speed.
"Don't," Jake said, voice low and dangerous, "call me that."
"Why not? You act like you own me. Might as well lean into it."
"It's not safe tonight." He released my elbow but didn't step back. "There's a storm coming. Flash flood warning for the creek area. That's all."
"What’s so scary about a storm?" I asked, not quite believing that was the real reason.
"The creek through the east pasture floods fast. When I was fourteen, there was a summer storm. I got caught out there when the water rose. Flash flood. I would have drowned if Richard hadn't found me, pulled me out, kept me breathing until help came."
His voice went quiet, and I watched his face, the way old fear flickered behind his eyes.
"He saved my life. That debt—that's what this is. Why you're here. Why I can't let anything happen to you."
The confession hit differently than expected. The vulnerability in that admission hit differently than any of his anger had.
"I didn't know," I said finally. "He never told me."
"Richard doesn't talk about it. But I remember." Jake's expression hardened, walls rebuilding. "So when I say it's not safe, I'm not being controlling. I'm being responsible."
He left before I could form a response, and I stood there feeling like an asshole for the first time in this entire situation.
Evening found me restless. I wandered into the kitchen for water and stopped short. Jake sat at the table, a book open, wearing wire-rimmed glasses I'd never seen before.
The glasses transformed him—less hard rancher, more intellectual.
"Cormac McCarthy," I said, reading the spine. "Blood Meridian."
He glanced up, something unguarded in his expression before he masked it. "You've read it?"
"At Columbia. It's brutal. Beautiful and brutal." I moved closer. "I didn't take you for a reader."
"There's a lot you don't know about me." He removed the glasses, folded them. "And a lot I don't know about you. Astronomy, for instance."
I leaned against the counter, tired of games. "My father said it wasn't suitable for a future wife. That I should get an art degree, something elegant and useless. So I did. And I've been performing suitable ever since."
"That why you're still a virgin?" The question was quiet, direct, unexpected. When I stared at him, he shrugged. "Tommy mentioned you turned down almost every guy at the bar before Brent. I can read between lines."
"Because I don't trust men's motives," I said, the honesty surprising me. "Because vulnerability gets weaponized. Because someone proved that when you let someone close, they destroy you."
Jake studied me for a long moment. "Regret's a strange thing. You make one choice—take the safe path. Refuse what you actually want and it defines everything after. Pride keeps you there even when you realize you chose wrong."
He wasn't talking about me anymore. Maybe himself.
For a second, something shifted in his expression. Something that looked almost like—
The radio on the counter crackled to life, emergency broadcast cutting through the moment.
"...flash flood warning in effect for Cedar County through midnight. Residents near creek areas should seek higher ground immediately..."
Jake's eyes darkened with old fear and new responsibility. He stood, moving to the window where distant lightning flickered. Thunder rumbled, close enough to feel in my chest, and when he looked back at me, his expression was complicated.
Protective and frustrated and something else.
"Get some sleep," he said quietly. "And stay away from the windows if the storm gets bad."
I nodded but didn't move. We stood there with Cormac McCarthy and storm warnings between us, and I realized everything I thought I knew about Jake Sullivan was just the surface.
Beneath was someone who read brutal poetry, who carried life debts like anchors, who understood regret better than anyone I'd met.
Thunder answered again, closer now, and the first drops of rain began to fall.