Ad copy

"We're both drunk. And your first time… Fuck, Adison… Your first time shouldn't be because I'm jealous and possessive and completely out of control." "What if that's exactly what I want?" "Adison," His voice cracked. "What are you—" "Showing you what I want." Third button. Fourth. "Since apparently words aren't working." The shirt fell open. Burgundy lace underneath—that bra I'd packed thinking I'd never have reason to wear it. Guess I'd been wrong about that. Chapter 1 Adison's POV Three a.m. scrubbing at my face like I could erase the last six hours along with my foundation, and the thing about scandal is—it moves faster than you do. My phone kept lighting up on the marble counter. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. A metronome of social execution. I didn't need to look to know what was happening. The photos Marcus doctored were already viral. Me, allegedly wrapped around my best friend's fiancé in a coat check room at the Metropolitan Museum gala. But the internet doesn't care about the truth. It cares about the spectacle. So I chose ice. Because ice didn't crack. Ice didn't beg. Ice certainly didn't explain that this asshole had cornered me in a museum corridor himself. His hand on my throat and his other hand somewhere it had no fucking right to be. The Metropolitan Museum's charity gala had been my stage for years—I knew every marble column, every shadowed alcove. I'd thought I was safe there. Stupid. Men like Marcus didn't need permission or privacy; they simply took what they wanted and rewrote history to suit their narrative. The texts kept coming. Friends who weren't really friends, choosing sides like it was a game show. 'Bitch, what were you thinking?' and 'Marcus said you've been obsessed with him for months' and my personal favorite, 'I always knew you were a whore.' Nobody asked for my side. Nobody ever does when the narrative is this good. I'd learned young that explanations were weakness. That society girls who defended themselves too loudly were labeled difficult and hysterical. Desperate. Better to be ice. Better to let them wonder. By seven a.m., I'd migrated to the dining room because staying in my room felt like hiding, and Wards don't hide. We face firing squads with good posture and our grandmother's pearls. Dad was already there, reading The Times like this was a normal Thursday. Like his daughter wasn't currently trending on three different social media platforms. "Adison." He didn't look up. "Sit." I sat. Poured myself coffee I didn't want, added cream with hands that didn't shake. See? Perfectly fine. Completely unbothered. "We need to discuss your situation." My situation. Like I'd gotten a bad grade instead of publicly crucified by a man who'd tried to assault me. "There's nothing to discuss," I said. "Marcus set me up. The photos are fake. Anyone with basic critical thinking skills could—" "It doesn't matter." He finally looked at me, and God, when did my father get so old? "True or false, the damage is done." "So that's it? He wins because Rothwell is a better liar than I am?" "This isn't about lying, Adison. It's about the mess you've created." His tone remained infuriatingly level, boardroom-calm. "Charles's family is threatening to pull out of the engagement. Governor Pemberton doesn't want his son associated with scandal." "Charles can go to hell. You're the one who arranged this engagement anyway. Marcus cornered me. He—" "Adison." The word was a wall. "Marcus has texts. DMs. A very convincing timeline of you pursuing him. His lawyers are better than the truth." The coffee tasted like ash, when I took a nervous sip while Dad set down his newspaper with surgical precision, before delivering the bomb. "I'm sending you to Texas. To Jake Sullivan's ranch. Two months." The laugh that came out of me was sharp enough to cut. "You're joking." "Do I look like I'm joking?" He didn't. He looked like every other Manhattan power player making a calculated move. Damage control. Strategic retreat. Send the problematic daughter somewhere she can't make things worse. "I have a wedding in four months," I pointed out, though we both knew I was negotiating from a position of zero leverage. "Fittings. Planning. Charles—" "Charles needs time to determine if this marriage remains viable. His father suggested… distance." Distance. Political speak for 'your daughter is toxic right now and we're reconsidering this arrangement.' "And if I decline this generous offer?" Dad's expression achieved new depths of neutrality. "Then you're financially independent. Immediately. No credit cards. No trust fund access. No apartment. You're welcome to test the job market with an art degree and a scandal that's currently at twelve million impressions." The art degree. Another highlight from Richard Ward's Greatest Hits of Parental Decision-Making. I'd wanted astronomy—had the grades, the passion. Even the acceptance letter to Columbia's program that I'd hidden in my underwear drawer like contraband. But future political wives didn't study astronomy. They studied art history and nonprofit management, smiling through fundraising dinners without looking like they'd rather be anywhere else. "You don't believe me." Not a question. "About what actually happened with Marcus." Something moved across his face—guilt or indigestion, hard to distinguish. "I believe this situation requires careful navigation. Jake's ranch is private, isolated. No paparazzi. No social media. You work, you reflect, and when you come back, we fix this." We. Like he'd be the one fixing anything. Like I wasn't the one whose life was currently imploding in real-time. But I had no real choice. We both knew it. Twenty-one, financially dependent, with no practical skills beyond speaking fluent French and knowing which fork to use for oysters. Manhattan didn't offer many career opportunities for disgraced socialites. "Fine." The word tasted like surrender, but I forced it out anyway. "Two months." * * * The town car felt like a moving coffin. Dad rode with me, probably afraid I'd bail at the last second. Or maybe experiencing some vestigial parental guilt about shipping his only daughter off to Texas like she was a problem to be solved. "Jake's a good man," he said, staring out the window at Manhattan traffic. "He'll take care of you. He's my oldest friend. " The phrase carried weight I didn't fully understand. Dad rarely talked about Jake Sullivan beyond occasional mentions of their childhood together, back when he summered on his grandfather's Texas property and Jake's father worked the ranch. "By making me shovel horse shit?" I scoffed. "By teaching you there are consequences to your behavior." Not the assault. Not being targeted by a predator. My. Fucking. Behavior. "I know you think I'm handling this wrong." His voice carried an unfamiliar quality. Almost apologetic. "But I love you, Adison. This situation is extraordinary. You need to carefully consider your behavior moving forward." There it was—the underlying assumption that I'd somehow caused this. That better choices, more careful conduct, would have prevented Marcus Rothwell from cornering me, from staging his elaborate setup, from weaponizing his privilege against mine. "If you love me so much," I said quietly, "why didn't you ask my side? Why didn't you want to hear what actually happened from your own daughter?" He flinched. Small movement, quickly controlled. "I'm protecting you the only way I know how." Protection. Interesting interpretation for exile. Here's what nobody mentions about being a Manhattan socialite: the constant male attention. The hands at parties, the lingering looks, the men who see dollar signs and connections and a decorative accessory for their ambitions. I'd learned young to weaponize it. To use their interest while maintaining complete control. Twenty-one and still a virgin, not from any purity doctrine but from fundamental trust issues. Every guy who looked at me saw everything except the actual person. So I'd kept that one thing for myself, that one piece they couldn't have or commodify or use in their networking strategies. Probably the only authentic thing about me. The jet waited at Teterboro, all leather and money and impersonal luxury. Dad hugged me—brief, awkward, checking a box on his parental obligation list. "Use this time wisely." I boarded. The door sealed. Manhattan disappeared below, and I I replayed the Marcus situation methodically. The corridor. His hand. His breath saying, 'Nobody will believe you.' The photos. The perfectly constructed lie. The weaponization of narrative against reality. Fury crystallized into something useful. Something strategic. They wanted me exiled? Fine. I'd take the exile. And then I'd return to Manhattan and systematically dismantle Marcus Rothwell's entire existence. Chapter 2 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. Chapter 3 Turns out manual labor is exactly as terrible as it sounds, and I have the blisters to prove it. Day one: mucking stalls, which is a polite term for shoveling literal horseshit while wearing boots that cost me one "serious conversation" with my father about finances. The glamour of Manhattan is replaced by mud, sweat, and the distinct aroma of livestock. Day two: more horseshit. Plus hauling feed bags that weighed approximately the same as a small human. My arms screamed. My back screamed. Parts of my body I didn't know existed screamed. Day three: I developed a strategy. "I think I'm getting sick," I announced at breakfast, pressing the back of my hand to my forehead like I was auditioning for a Victorian drama. "Might be heat exhaustion. Or that flu that's going around. Definitely shouldn't be handling animals in this condition." Jake looked up from his coffee, expression flat. "You're fine." "I'm really not—" "You're fine." He went back to his phone like the conversation had already ended. So I pivoted to plan B: strategic incompetence. I mucked the stalls so poorly that Tommy had to redo half of them. Mixed up the feed ratios until Jake physically removed the scoop from my hands. Took twice as long as necessary for every single task, moving with the urgency of someone being forced to watch paint dry. Jake watched this performance for exactly two more days before cornering me in the barn. "We need to talk." I leaned against a stall door, going casually and landing somewhere near defiant. "About what? My excellent work?" "About the fact that you're deliberately sabotaging everything I ask you to do." He crossed his arms, and God, even when he was pissed off he looked unfairly good. "You think I don't see through this?" "I have no idea what you're talking about." "Really." Not a question. "So you accidentally mixed chicken feed with horse grain? Accidentally left the gate unlatched so Bear got into the henhouse? Accidentally used the hose to water yourself instead of the garden?" Okay, that last one had been genuinely refreshing, but whatever. "Maybe I'm just not good at this," I tried, but the lie tasted weak even to me. "You're smart enough to be good at anything if you actually tried." He stepped closer, and I caught myself leaning back. "Here's how this works. You either do the job properly, or I call your father and tell him you failed your humility lesson. And we both know what happens then." The words hit like a slap because he was right. My father didn't tolerate quitters, and intentional failure was worse than simple incompetence. I'd played my hand badly, assumed Jake would be too uncomfortable with my presence to enforce real consequences. Instead, he'd seen through me completely, and now I was trapped. "You're a real bastard, you know that?" My voice came out rougher than intended. "And you're exactly the spoiled brat I expected. At least I'm honest about what I am." He turned away, dismissing me. "Dinner's at seven. Don't be late." I managed the next days with actual effort before my pride couldn't take it anymore. Jake was everywhere—correcting me, watching with those cold eyes, never offering a word of encouragement even when I genuinely tried. Tommy at least attempted friendliness, showing me easier ways to handle the horses, cracking jokes that made the work bearable. But Jake remained stone-faced and silent, treating me like an obligation he resented with every fiber of his being. By the evening of day seven, I was exhausted, furious, and done with his martyred routine. He'd left a revised schedule on the kitchen table—even earlier mornings, longer hours, additional tasks. I found him on the porch, beer in hand, staring at pastures painted gold by sunset. "This is insane," I said, slapping the paper against his chest. "You're working me like you're trying to break me. What's the point? To prove you can make the poor little rich girl cry?" He didn't even glance at the schedule. "You need to adjust your attitude…" "My attitude?" The laugh came out serrated. "You want to talk about attitude? Let's talk about yours. You've been a complete asshole since I got here. Cold, hostile, acting like my existence is a personal insult. Maybe you should learn that life isn't just duty and steel and walking around like you've got a stick shoved so far up your—" "Watch it." "Why? Scared of the truth? That you're alone out here on this giant ranch because you're too bitter to let anyone in? Too busy being the tough cowboy to actually have a life?" The words hung between us like thrown knives, and I watched them hit. Something shifted in his expression—surprise, maybe, or fury that I'd seen too clearly. "You know nothing about my life." "I know you're lonely." The words landed harder than I intended. "I know that coldness you wear like armor is exactly why you'll stay that way. At least I'm honest about being a mess. What's your excuse?" Jake moved before I could process it—three steps that closed the distance between us. His body coiled with something that looked like rage but felt like something else entirely. "You think you've got me figured out, huh?" His voice dropped low, dangerous. "You think because you've been here one week, you understand anything?" My back hit the wall. Hadn't even realized I'd been retreating. His free hand slammed against the column beside my head, and he leaned in until his mouth was an inch from mine, his breath hot against my lips. "You don't belong in my world." His face was close enough that I could see the green flecks in his hazel eyes. "You don't belong in my thoughts. You're temporary. A favor to your father. That's all." Something twisted low in my stomach. Something hot and electric that I absolutely shouldn't be feeling right now. "Then why does it bother you so much?" My voice came out breathier than I wanted. "If I'm so temporary, why do you care what I think?" For a second—one suspended, crystallized second—something shifted in his expression. His eyes dropped to my mouth, but then he pivoted away like I'd burned him. "Stay out of my way," he said, already walking toward the house. "And stop pretending you know a goddamn thing about me." I stood there for a full minute, back against the wall, while my heart was doing something arrhythmic and concerning. The space where he'd been standing felt charged, electric, like the air before a lightning strike. Sexual tension. That's what this was. Raw, undeniable, completely fucking inappropriate sexual tension. I'd felt attraction before, but this was different. This was visceral. Dangerous. The kind of pull that made you do stupid things and justify them later. Nope. Not going there. Not with Jake Sullivan. Not with my father's best friend who'd made it crystal clear I was nothing but an obligation. I pushed off the wall, stalked to the house without another word, walked to my bedroom on shaking legs, and slammed the door hard enough to rattle the frame. Childish? Absolutely. Satisfying? Extremely. My heart hammered against my ribs, my skin felt too tight while I changed into sleep clothes with angry efficiency, scrubbed my face, braided my hair. Climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling, replaying the whole interaction on an unwilling loop. His face against mine, his breath on my lips, his body close enough to feel the heat. The way he'd looked at me like he wanted to devour me and destroy me in equal measure. An hour passed. Maybe more. I was determinedly not-sleeping when a knock sounded on the door—single, deliberate. "Adison." Jake's voice, carefully neutral. "You skipped dinner. Everything alright?" Everything is okay. Like he hadn't just pinned me to a wall and left me drowning in confusion and want. I stayed silent, breathing carefully, pretending to sleep with the dedication of someone avoiding a conversation that could derail everything. Another pause. Then footsteps retreating across the floor. I opened my eyes, stared at the darkness, and acknowledged the truth I'd been avoiding. Two months here was going to be significantly more complicated than I'd thought. Chapter 4 Two weeks of manual labor and I'd officially reached my breaking point. Not the dramatic kind where you collapse in the barn—more like the slow-burning realization. That if I didn't feel like a human being instead of a ranch hand covered in perpetual horse hair, I might actually lose my mind. "I'm going into Cedar Falls tonight," I announced over dinner, keeping my tone casual. "Tommy mentioned there's a bar party. I need to breathe. Two weeks of nothing but ranch work is making me crazy." The fork in his hand stilled. When he looked at me, something dangerous flickered in his expression. "No." "Excuse me? I wasn't asking permission." "Then let me inform you of mine." His voice dropped to that low, dangerous register that made my spine straighten. "You're not going. I'm responsible for you to your father, and I won't let you compromise me by getting drunk and making a spectacle in a town where my reputation matters." "Your reputation," I repeated slowly, letting each word land with maximum sarcasm. "Right. Because God forbid the great Jake Sullivan be associated with a girl who wants one normal night out." "You don't know these people. You don't know that bar—" "And I never will if you keep me locked up here like some kind of prisoner." I stood, chair scraping loudly against the floor. "I've done everything you asked. Two weeks of mucking stalls and hauling feed and waking up at ass o'clock in the morning. One night. That's all I'm asking." "You're not a prisoner. You're a guest who needs to follow rules." He stood, clearing his plate with movements that were too controlled. "The answer is no, Adison. Drop it." Oh, I dropped it. Right into my plan to sneak out the moment he went to bed. Tommy thought it was hilarious that I was defying Jake's direct orders. He picked me up at the end of the driveway, his truck idling while I climbed in wearing the one dress I'd packed—short, black, definitely not ranch-appropriate. It earned a low whistle from him. "Boss's gonna kill me," he said cheerfully, while I fixed my makeup in the visor mirror. "Like, actually murder me and hide my body in the south pasture." "Jake doesn't own me," I shot back, though my heart hammered with guilt mixed with exhilaration. "Besides, he'll never know." "Right," Tommy said, clearly unconvinced, but he drove anyway. Cedar Falls' idea of nightlife was a bar called The Dusty Boot that looked exactly like every rural Texas bar in every movie ever made. Neon signs, pickup trucks in the parking lot, country music bleeding through the walls. But it was loud and crowded and blessedly free of Jake Sullivan's disapproving stare. I made it approximately ten minutes before the guy named Brent materialized. Tall, decent-looking in that generic cowboy way, with the kind of confidence that came from being a big fish in a very small pond. He bought me a drink without asking, leaned too close when he talked, and had that look in his eyes that said he thought I was a sure thing. "You're that girl staying at Sullivan's place, aren't you?" he said, hand landing on my lower back like he had a right to touch me. "Word travels fast." His grin widened. "City girl. I like that." The thing about spite is it makes you stupid. And I was riding a wave of pure, crystallized spite directed entirely at Jake Sullivan and his controlling bullshit. So when Brent asked me to dance, I said yes. When his hands got a little too familiar, I didn't pull away. And when he suggested we "get some air," I was actually considering it. Not because I wanted him, but because the look on Jake's face if he found out would be absolutely fucking worth it. Then of course Jake walked through the door. I saw him before he saw me, and the expression on his face made my stomach drop. He looked… God, he looked furious. Not the cold, controlled anger I was used to. This was something primal, dangerous, barely leashed. His eyes found me on the dance floor. Found Brent's hands resting on my body, dangerously low. Found how close we were standing. The temperature in the room dropped about twenty degrees. Suddenly he was there, grabbing Brent by the collar and shoving him aside like he weighed nothing. Brent stumbled, mouth opening in protest, but whatever he saw in Jake's face made the words die. Then Jake's hands were on me, yanking me against his chest hard enough to make me gasp. His arm banded around my waist like iron, forming a wall between me and the world. He leaned down, his mouth at my ear, breath hot against my skin. "You are my problem," he snarled, his voice a low whisper. "And I decide when you are loose. Not you. Not some cowboy with more hands than sense. Me. Do you understand?" His. Like he owned some piece of me I hadn't agreed to give. The territorial, possessive tone made my heart hammer. This wasn't the cold, distant Jake. This was something raw and claiming and terrifying. His grip tightened, and I felt every hard line of his body pressed against mine. He didn't wait for a response. Just grabbed my hand and dragged me through the bar, ignoring Tommy's wide-eyed stare, ignoring the whispers that would reach every corner of Cedar Falls by morning. Then I was in his truck, the door slamming with enough force to rattle the frame. The silence felt alive, pulsing with fury and something darker. I watched his profile—the rigid set of his jaw, the white-knuckle grip on the wheel, the muscle jumping in his temple. "What gives you the right?" I finally demanded. "To control where I go, who I talk to? I'm not your daughter. I'm not your wife. What gives you the right to act like you own me?" "Your father asked me to protect you," he said through gritted teeth, eyes fixed ahead. "That's the right he gave me." "From what? A night out? Dancing? Actually having fun for once in my miserable—" "From everyone," he confirmed, and something in his tone made my stomach flip. "Including yourself, apparently." I should have stopped there. But the memory of his hands on me, the possessive growl, the way he'd yanked me against him… it ignited something reckless. "You act like some kind of bodyguard," I said, shifting in my seat to face him. "But I saw your eyes in that bar. The way you grabbed me when Brent had his hands on me." I let my voice drop, deliberately seductive. "Was that all duty, Jake? For my Daddy? Or was some of that for you?" My breath warmed against his shoulder, deliberate and testing. I watched his throat work as he swallowed, saw his grip tighten until I thought he might break the wheel. The truck swerved before he corrected, pulling over with a spray of gravel.