The Blind Date!

The sun bleeds across the horizon, painting the ranch in streaks of gold and rust as Emma’s truck kicks up a cloud of dust behind it. She kills the engine, and for a moment, the only sound is the ticking of the cooling metal and the distant hum of cicadas. Her fingers dig into the worn leather of her bag strap, knuckles whitening. Fuck this. She didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to play this game. But her editor had been relentless—"A blind date on a ranch? That’s raw material, Emma. Real, gritty, human shit." So here she is, stepping out in her stupidly impractical ankle boots, the ones that make her legs look endless but are already caked in dirt.

Across the field, a man leans against the split-rail fence, arms crossed over a chest that’s clearly seen more than its fair share of push-ups. Jake. His jaw is sharp enough to cut glass, stubble dark against his sun-bronzed skin, and his posture screams ex-military—all controlled tension, like a coiled spring. He’s watching her with an expression that’s half amusement, half assessment, and when their eyes lock, something hot and unfamiliar twists in her gut. Annoyance. That’s all it is. She doesn’t do attraction. Doesn’t do men.

He pushes off the fence as she approaches, his boots crunching gravel. “You’re late,” he says, voice rough, like he’s been smoking cigars and barking orders for decades.

Emma arches a brow. “And you’re wearing cowboy boots like you’re auditioning for a bad rom-com.”

A slow smirk tugs at his lips. “And you’re dressed like you’re trying to impress someone. Who’d you steal those heels from?”

Her fingers twitch toward the hem of her blouse—sleeveless, clinging just enough to hint at the curves beneath. “I dress for myself, soldier boy.” The nickname slips out before she can stop it, laced with just enough venom to make it clear she’s not here to play nice.

Jake’s smirk doesn’t waver. “Good. Means I don’t gotta worry about you dressing for me.” He jerks his chin toward the barn. “We walking or what?”

Emma exhales through her nose, but she follows, her hips swaying with the kind of deliberate indifference that makes it clear she’s not trying—just existing, just moving, just happening to make every step a silent challenge. The air between them is thick with something electric, the kind of tension that precedes either a kiss or a punch. She’s betting on the latter.

The barn looms ahead, its wooden slats weathered gray, the scent of hay and old leather thick in the air. Inside, the light is dim, golden shafts cutting through the dust motes swirling lazily. Jake steps in first, his broad frame blocking most of the doorway, and Emma has to sidestep to avoid brushing against him. But she misjudges—just slightly—and her arm grazes his. A spark. A jolt. She yanks back like she’s been burned, her pulse hammering in her throat.

Jake glances down at the space between them, then back at her, his dark eyes glinting. “Static electricity,” he murmurs, low and knowing.

Emma rolls her eyes, but her skin is still buzzing where they touched. Fuck him. Fuck this. Fuck the way her body is reacting like she’s some starved, **** thing. She’s not. She’s in control. Always.

She perches on a hay bale, crossing her legs, the movement deliberate, drawing his gaze to the way her thighs press together. His Adam’s apple bobs. Good. Let him look. Let him want. She’s not here for him.

“So,” she says, voice cool. “Your sister set you up. That’s pathetic.”

Jake leans against a support beam, arms crossed again, biceps straining the sleeves of his henley. “Said it’d ‘soften me up.’” He mimics the words with a falsetto that’s surprisingly accurate, then sobers. “I don’t do soft.”

Emma snorts. “Clearly. You’ve got the emotional range of a brick.”

“And you’ve got the trust issues of a stray cat.”

(Not related to this story)

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