She arrived at dawn in a dusty pickup, looking effortlessly beautiful and with the kind of easy confidence that made me immediately hate her.
Tall, blonde, early thirties, with that effortlessly attractive thing going on where she probably rolled out of bed looking good. She walked straight to Jake, touched his shoulder and smiled in a way that suggested shared history I definitely didn't want to know about.
"Hey stranger," she said, her voice warm. "Heard you had some storm damage. Thought I'd check on the herd."
Jake's entire body language shifted. Relaxed. Open. The version of him I'd never seen directed at me.
"Appreciate it," Jake replied with a tone lacking the sharp edges he had around me.
They talked about veterinary stuff—pasture rotation, vaccination schedules, some horse with a limp—while I stood there feeling about as relevant as the barn cat. The way she touched him. Casual. Familiar. The way he let her…
Something hot and vicious twisted in my chest. Jealousy.
Fantastic. My favorite emotion.
But I clearly had no right to it. No claim on Jake Sullivan beyond being his unwanted houseguest and the daughter of his best friend. But watching her laugh at something he said, watching her hand linger on his arm…
I found Tommy by the feed shed, trying to look busy and failing. "Who's the vet?"
"Dr. Mitchell. Sarah." He didn't look up. "Comes by once a month. Sometimes more."
"She seems very… friendly with Jake." I tried to keep my tone neutral and failed.
Tommy's grin was knowing. "They've been on-and-off for years. Nothing serious, just—" he made a vague gesture. "She knows the score."
"They together now?"
Tommy shrugged. "Jake doesn't really do 'together.' But yeah, sometimes. When it works for both of them."
The image of Jake and Sarah tangled together made something possessive claw up my throat. Which was insane. I had no right to care who Jake fucked.
Except I did care. God help me, I cared so much it physically hurt.
That evening, seized by some need to prove my worth beyond ranch work, I decided to cook dinner. I'd never actually cooked a meal in my life—there'd always been chefs, caterers, restaurants—but how hard could beef stew be?
Well, it was a disaster.
But I wanted to prove something. That I could be domestic. Capable. The kind of woman who made dinner instead of reservations.
The kind of woman Jake might actually want.
An hour later, the kitchen looked like a crime scene and the stew smelled... wrong. Burnt at the bottom but somehow still watery on top. The vegetables were either mush or rocks. The meat had the texture of shoe leather.
I'd created something genuinely inedible.
Jake walked in, stopped, and took in the picture with one sweep. "What happened here?"
"I made dinner." The words came out defensive. "Beef stew."
He moved to the pot, looked inside, and I watched his expression carefully not change. "You've never cooked before."
Not a question. "Does it matter?"
His first instinct seemed to be criticism—I saw it in the way his jaw tightened—but then he caught sight of my face, saw whatever vulnerability I was failing to hide.
Something flickered across his face. "No. It doesn't."
He grabbed a bowl, served himself a full ass portion, and my stomach dropped. "You don't have to—"
"You made it. I'm eating it."
We ended up on the porch because the kitchen felt too small for whatever this was. Jake actually ate the terrible stew without complaint, though I noticed he was chewing a lot longer than normal.
"You can spit it out," I said. "I won't be offended."
"It's fine."
"It's garbage."
"It's your first try." He met my eyes. "That counts for something."
The kindness in that statement hurt worse than criticism would have.
I picked at my own bowl, couldn't make myself swallow more than a bite. "Sarah seems nice."
"She is."
"You two have history."
Jake set down his spoon. "Tommy's been talking too much."
"I asked. He answered." I paused. "You are together, sometimes."
"Sometimes." He leaned back, studying me. "Why do you care?"
Because I'm wildly, inappropriately jealous of a woman I met once for six minutes.
"Just making conversation."
"Right."
The silence stretched. I broke it because silence with Jake always felt like losing.
"Do you even believe in love? Like, actual love. Not just... convenience."
His laugh was sharp. "No."
"That's it? Just no?"
"After someone you trust chooses money over you, it tends to adjust your worldview. They choose security over passion, status over connection, and you're left holding the pieces of something you thought was mutual."
He took another bite of terrible stew.
“So no, princess, I don't do serious. I don't do vulnerable. I keep things simple, physical, uncomplicated."
"That sounds lonely," I said quietly.
"That’s realistic."
I shifted closer, taking his empty bowl. Let my fingers brush his when I grabbed it. Lingered just slightly longer than necessary.
"Maybe you just haven't found the right person yet."
Jake went still. That particular kind of stillness that meant he'd read exactly what I was doing. "Adison."
I leaned in, close enough to feel his warmth. "What?"
He stood so fast I almost dropped the bowls. Put distance between us with deliberate steps. When he looked at me, his eyes were cold. Calculating. The tenderness from the barn was completely erased.
"You think because we had a moment in the storm, because I ate your terrible cooking, that means something?" His voice was flat, emotionless. "I'm not interested in innocent, inexperienced girls. A virgin who's never let a man close enough to find out what she needs. You certainly wouldn't be able to satisfy mine."
The words landed precisely and devastatingly. He said it like I was a child playing dress-up. Like my virginity was some kind of disqualifying factor instead of just... a fact about me.
"That's what you think of me?" My voice came out smaller than I wanted. "That I'm just some clueless girl?"
"I think you're twenty-one years old and need to find someone your own age to learn with, Adison. Someone who wants a relationship and feelings and all the things I've already told you I can't give." His voice had zero warmth. "I'm not that man."
Jake left before I could form a response. Before I could tell him to go fuck himself. Before I could process the humiliation burning through my chest.
The jealousy from this morning felt quaint compared to this. Sarah had history with him. Adult history. The kind of uncomplicated physical relationship that apparently I was too innocent to provide.
I dumped the stew down the sink with more force than necessary. Scrubbed the pot until my hands hurt. Tried not to cry and to scrub away the sting of his words and failed completely.
‘You certainly wouldn't be able to satisfy mine.’
Fuck him. Fuck his condescension. Fuck the way he looked at me.
But underneath the anger, something else twisted. Something that felt like shame.
Because maybe he was right. Maybe I was just playing at being an adult while actual adults like Sarah understood how to navigate desire without making it complicated.
Maybe I was exactly what he'd called me: a girl trying to prove something.
I hated that the assessment landed. Hated that his rejection stung worse than Marcus's assault.
Hated that I wanted him anyway.