That Moment Sneak Peek

Prologue—Adrienne

Six Months Earlier…

Denver looks good on me. Being surrounded by civilization, real linens on the table instead of plastic and actual crystal wine glasses. Then again, it’s probably just the beaded Oscar de la Renta gown I broke out for tonight.

Focus Adrienne. 

Candlelight bounces across the white tablecloth that stretches between us. I smooth my dress, cross my legs, and pretend I’m not watching Keegan like a prosecutor waiting for the witness to crack. I squint my eyes as if that will help me listen better.

What was he saying?

He shifts again. Tap, tap, tap, his fingers on the wineglass stem. 

Why is he so nervous tonight? 

I glance over my shoulder casually, trying to assess the crowd at the restaurant to see if maybe it’s an overly enthusiastic fan that doesn’t understand privacy but nobody is looking our way.

He clears his throat. Checks his jacket pocket again like he’s hiding something in there that might run away. I narrow my gaze, trying to make out what he’s clutching at when my throat goes tight.

There it is. A small, square bulge beneath charcoal wool. My stomach drops so fast the room tilts. 

Oh God. Is that a—Smile, Adrienne. Breathe. I grab my glass of wine and and take a generous swallow. Too generous. Do not puke into the sommelier’s pride and joy cab that cost a small fortune.

“Everything okay?” I ask sweetly, attempting to keep my voice steady once I manage to swallow down the wine.

“Yeah,” he says, a heartbeat too quick. “You look… wow, by the way. I meant to say something earlier I’m sorry.” He drags his eyes over me and I offer a flirty smile. “That dress is stunning on you. The pink was a good choice.”

“Thank you.” He’s not wrong. I made sure to put it in a little extra effort tonight when he mentioned going out in Denver. Not that I don’t always look my best but when you’re dating one of the hottest MLB players in the league and the hometown hero, there’s always that looming fear of the paparazzi catching you looking a mess. 

So I made sure to pick out the perfect dress for tonight. The dress that made the salesgirl gasp and offer a whispered yes when I walked out of the fitting room. And while I know I look like a million bucks, Cartier on my wrist, YSL on my feet, confidence on my face… underneath it all is raging chaos.

Ring-shaped chaos to be specific.

I nod at the server’s monologue about aged beef like I’m not currently mentally rehearsing a script if Keegan Fuller asks me to marry him. He orders for us. I let him, because it keeps my mouth from blurting out something in a panic. Not to mention, I’m about two seconds away from choking on my own tongue. 

Option A: Yes, but maybe we should keep it a secret for a while…like a year?

Option B: Maybe, circle back in six months, I have a quarterly review and a fear of commitment.

God, my brain. Harvard Law prepared me for hostile depositions and miles of paperwork, not surprise diamonds from sexy baseball stars with rock hard abs and forearms that would make a nun weep. Not wanting to marry him has nothing to do with his looks or his abilities in bed, that’s for sure.

You’re crazy Adrienne. Women are literally lining up to take your place! He’s loyal, respectful, honest and hot as fucking hell. Is it really that big of a deal that you barely see him with your schedules or that you accidentally pictured Scotty Bescher instead of Keegan once or twice.

Keegan smiles, a little tight, and I love that he’s trying. He does that a lot. Tries. Shows up when he can, texts me good luck before a big meeting, lets me wear his Rockies cap when I pretend to understand RBIs. But baseball is a jealous mistress. She wants him on the road, training, asleep on planes. She wants him a hundred and sixty-two games a year and then some. She doesn’t care that he’s trying to build a relationship with me.

He adjusts in his chair, shoulders a bit too broad for this delicate room, and I’m suddenly remembering every time Aunt Celeste or Aunt Brennan made a joke about men liking a woman who can travel light when they were helping me move in college. 

I can travel light if I need to. I have the luggage to prove it. But a fiancé who lives on plains and in dugouts, who signs balls for girls in crop tops while I pretend I don’t care… can I travel that lightly?

Focus. He’s talking.

“Adrienne.” He leans in, awkwardly looking down at his elbows before pulling them off the table. His voice drops like he’s about to whisper something only meant for my ears. The small box flashes again as his jacket pulls and my heart slams so hard I almost miss the first sentence.

Say yes. Say no. Say I need a shot and a month to think about it.

“Sorry, what?” I smile too brightly, my fingers strangling the stem of a very expensive cabernet.

He laughs nervously, his hand grazing his pocket. I force a breath. I picture my dad’s face if I show up home with a ring. Hudson Slade, unflappable, trying so hard not to smirk because his girl is grown while my mom holds back tears. My triplet brothers, Axel and Aiden, pretending to grill Keegan while also being more excited about having an MLB star in the family than anything. My aunt Celeste, my mentor, asking me ten very smart questions about the prenup.

I take another sip and almost choke. 

Prenup. God, Adrienne.

“Everything okay?” Keegan asks, his voice cautious, like he can sense the way my soul just bolted for the emergency exit.

“Perfect,” I chirp, teeth clenched in what I pray looks like a grin and not a grimace.

He smiles back, nervous as hell, and I want to scream. I should be flattered. This is what normal women want. Love, a ring, a man who at least tries to text you when he lands in Cincinnati.

But I don’t feel normal. I feel like a fraud, cataloguing exit strategies while a man who’s actually pretty damn amazing fumbles with his coat pocket and trips over his words. I take another drink of the cab and try to pull my focus back to the food, reminding myself that my current lack of sleep from work is contributing to my anxiety.

Maybe it won’t be a ring. Maybe it’s earrings. Earrings are harmless. Earrings don’t require you to restructure your life or Google how to be an athlete’s wife.

And because my brain is an asshole, it tosses in another image. One of broad shoulders bent under a Chevy hood, grease-stained cowboy hat tipped low, that slow smile Scotty only flashes me when he thinks no one’s looking. It’s flirty and innocent at the same time, usually followed by a wink that makes little butterflies appear in my stomach. And the way he always walks me to my car without making it a thing. I blink hard, forcing the thought away. 

Wrong man, wrong daydream, wrong life.

But my stomach flips anyway. 

The server retreats after refilling our glasses. We’re alone in a little bubble of candlelight. He reaches for my hand across the white linen. It’s warm. Familiar. I let him take it.

Here it comes. Adrienne Slade, Chief Legal Counsel, Slade Industries International, soon-to-be Mrs. Colorado Baseball Star. See, you're fine, you can do this…it’s not that bad. Mrs. Fuller. Adrienne Fuller. Adrienne Slade-Fuller. God, no.

“Adrienne,” he says again, and that small box presses against his jacket as he exhales. My lungs forget how to work. The room goes quiet. I taste iron where I’ve bitten my lip. Three seconds, two, one…

I drag my gaze up to his, bracing for sparkle. He swallows, his eyes now sad, and squeezes my hand.

“Can we talk?”

Of course we can talk. I have bullet points and questions and a color-coded calendar, and I can make the case for waiting like I do for multi-year contracts. I am ready.

I lift my chin, look right at him. “I’m listening.”

Inside, the panic hums. Brighter. Louder. A runaway train I cannot slow down, not in this dress, not in this city, not with the tiny black box I’m praying never sees the light of day.

Do I want to share my husband with thousands of screaming fans? Do I want a life of hotels, road trips, and other women proudly announcing their plans online to shoot their shot with him at the next Rockies game they attend?

I sip my wine to keep from hyperventilating. The stem wobbles in my hand. I picture myself on the Jumbotron, smiling too brightly while holding a toddler in team colors.

I could claim food poisoning. A sudden migraine. A Slade family emergency! God knows my cousins always provide a plausible disaster.

Keegan’s hand shifts toward his jacket again and my pulse spikes.

Another memory of Scotty pops in my head. This time, it’s that sexy wink he gives me when he’s about to make a comment about how tight my jeans are. I force another smile, softer this time. But under the table, my leg bounces uncontrollably, every nerve buzzing with one refrain I can’t silence.

Don’t say yes. Don’t say no. Just… don’t let him ask.

Because if he does, I might have to admit the truth. It isn’t that Keegan’s wrong. It’s that I was hoping I’d be over my little life long crush on Scotty by now… but I’m not and I don’t know what the hell to do with that.

Keegan leans in. I am so busy drafting footnotes to a conversation we have not had that I almost miss the way his thumb drags back and forth over the linen. Slow. Thoughtful. Like he is stalling too.

The room narrows. Silver clinks, a laugh breaks somewhere near the bar, a waiter glides past in a whisper of starch. I count the beats of my pulse.

He clears his throat. “Adrienne.”

My name in his mouth lands heavier than the wine. I straighten. My spine clicks into courtroom posture. I am ready. If he kneels, I will make it gracious. If he does not, I will still make it gracious. I consider faking sick and running to the restroom, my body rising just an inch off the chair before I decide against it and sink back down.

“Listen,” he says, quiet. He reaches for my hand. I let him take it, heat prickling under my skin where his palm covers mine.

“Yes,” I almost whisper, even though he has not asked anything yet.

He gives a small, strange smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. The edges of the room blur. My heartbeat is a drum-line but I force my shoulders to relax.

Say something light. Make a joke. Make this manageable.

“Do you want to split dessert?”

“Adrienne,” he says again, fingers tightening on mine. My breath stalls. The script in my head goes blank.

And then, Keegan’s voice wavers. He squeezes my hand once, hard, and my pulse spikes. This is it. The velvet box is about to appear, the table will gasp, and I’ll have to smile through a panic attack in front of a medium-rare filet. But instead, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for weeks. His eyes drop to the white linen.

“We need to break up.”

The words skid across the table and slam into me like a gavel strike. For a second, I just blink, my brain refusing to compute. 

Break up? Not propose? Not Mrs. Colorado Baseball?

A laugh bursts out of me, too high, too sharp. “Wait… you’re not proposing?”

Keegan winces. His shoulders hunch, and he shakes his head, looking anywhere but at me as he leans back in his chair.

The laugh dies in my throat, leaving only silence and the ache of humiliation crawling up my neck. All that spiraling, all that panic and he was never going to ask in the first place. Relief and devastation crash together in my chest, so loud I can barely hear the restaurant noises around me.

I set my wine down carefully. Across from me, Keegan clears his throat, guilt stamped all over his face. He rubs his thumb over my knuckles like he’s trying to soothe a skittish animal. It only makes the humiliation prickle hotter under my skin.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice low. “You deserve more than… this. Than me gone half the year, trying to text between games and flights, asking you to come to away games just so I can kiss you in a hotel room at midnight before getting up at the crack of dawn a few hours later and do it all over again.”

My mouth moves before my pride can stop it. “You could have done this in private you know?”

He flinches slightly then leans forward. “I—see what I mean?” He laughs and shakes his head, “I even screwed our breakup up. I’m so sorry.”

I want to be mad but I end up laughing along with him. I have no real reason to be upset with him, apart from my damaged pride. I don’t actually want a life with Keegan and he deserves someone who does.

“Adrienne. I like you. Hell, I think I could love you if I had a normal life. But baseball owns me. It takes and takes and I’m at a point in my career where I can’t afford not to let her. You deserve someone who can show up and be there for you and with you. And so do I.”

“I appreciate the honesty.” For as much as I’m relieved that I didn’t have to reject a public marriage proposal, I can’t help but feel the bitterness of my wounded ego creeping up my throat. 

“I kept trying to make it work. And you kept being… you.” His mouth tips like he wants to laugh. “The way you walk into a room and every guy forgets his own name. The way you talk about everything with such conviction. I wanted to be the man who deserved that. The man that could sit back and let you be the one to shine but—”

“But you aren’t that guy.” I set the glass down. 

“I’m saying it before I hurt you worse. You’ll wake up resenting me. Or I’ll wake up hating myself for choosing another flight over you.”

I swallow hard. God, it burns. It's stupid really. One second I’m panicked about getting married too soon and the next I’m realizing that once again, I’m actually not the one being chosen. 

“So you’re preemptively noble.” I playfully jab.

He huffs a breath. “No. Just honest. You are… a lot.” His eyes soften. “In the best way. You should have a guy who can take you to family dinners and pick you up from the office and sleep beside you more than twice a week.”

A laugh slips out, paper thin. “My family dinners involve competitive roping stories and three different kinds of potato salad while cousins talk over each other. You would hate it.”

“I wouldn’t.” He smiles, sad. “But I’d miss most of it.”

Silence stretches, soft jazz twining through the ache. I straighten my napkin mindlessly. He reaches for the little black box in his pocket and pulls it out. For a second my heart stops. Then he flips the lid and shows me simple studs.

“Not a ring,” he says quietly. “I bought them when I thought maybe I could figure this out. Keep them anyway. Or don’t.” He swallows. “You looked so happy at the game last week. I wanted to give you something that felt… good.”

I stare at the earrings, at the shadow of the life I invented in my head. “They’re beautiful.”

“So are you,” he says, and it should help, but it doesn’t. “I’m sorry,” he says again.

He reaches for the check, neither of us saying anything else. There is nothing left to negotiate. When he stands, I stand too and he ushers us out of the restaurant.

At the curb, he shoves his hands into his pockets. “You’ll be okay?”

“I always am.” I smile, bumping his shoulder playfully to let him know that there’s no bad feeling between us. 

He hesitates, then steps in and kisses my cheek one last time. “Goodbye, Adrienne. I do hope you find what you’re looking for.”

I hold my posture until he’s gone. Then, I exhale slowly, like if I do it wrong the whole city will watch me fall apart while I wait for my ride-share to pull up. I laugh once, drop the earrings into my bag and remind myself that I will be fine, I'm always fine. But then that thought… the one that’s been circling my brain for a while now, the one that I keep avoiding comes creeping back in.

Maybe I'm the problem. Maybe all the years of lying to myself about what I really want has taken it’s toll. 

But before I can spiral down that path too far, my ride pulls up.

The drive home is quiet, the kind of quiet that makes you narrate your own life just to fill it. The low hum of talk radio isn’t enough to drown out the thoughts circling my brain.

At least you won’t have to pretend to care about batting averages anymore or figure out how to be Mrs. Outfielder, forever clapping politely from the wives’ section.

The jokes come easy but the ache, not so much. Because underneath the sarcasm is the truth I can’t shake: no matter how polished I look on paper, no matter how perfect my resume or my lipstick, love keeps slipping through my fingers.

If there’s one thing I know though, it’s that no longer am I letting letting momentum choose for me. If I say yes to anything this year, it will be because it’s right.

My phone buzzes in my clutch. I flip it open, reaching inside to check my screen, half-expecting Keegan’s name. Maybe he's had a change of heart but no. Instead, one missed call glows up at me.

Scotty. I laugh, startled, pressing the back of my hand to my mouth. 

Of course he’s calling me right now. 

It’s like the man has a sixth sense. Like he knows I just walked away from yet another breakup that he’ll have to help nurse me through over beer and sarcastic, sexually charged innuendos. It’s our game, a kind of fucked up one that we continue to play over the years, both too scared of actual commitment or admitting that maybe there is something more between us than just charged hormones. 

“God, you must have a radar for single Slades,” I mutter, shaking my head. Years of circling, of flirting too long, of joking about things neither of us ever let happen.

But my chest hums with that same underlying question that I refuse to entertain. Because Keegan was right, I deserve someone who can give me more and I know damn well that isn’t Scotty Bescher.

Chapter 1—Adrienne

Present Day…

Numbers should be my love language. Clauses too. I am fluent in indemnification. I can negotiate an escrow in my sleep. Normally, the neat stacks on my glass desk are soothing the way a lined arena is soothing before a barrel race.

Today the letters blur.

I blink at a paragraph I wrote and approved two days ago, and all I see is the way grease glints on a forearm when sunlight hits it. All I hear is a voice, low as an engine at idle, teasing me.

You are not a teenager. You are Chief Legal Counsel. Focus, Adrienne.

I sit up straighter, as if posture can scare away a fantasy of Scotty. I turn around to look at the several framed prints of my family lining my office walls. Every time I struggle to regain focus at work, I remind myself of who I’m measuring up to. It’s like a legacy of greatness for me to aspire to. 

But my favorite picture sits on my desk. I turn back around and grab the frame. It’s dad roping with Uncle Drake at the annual Slade Charity Rodeo and four year old me on his shoulders, holding up the trophy, determined that someday it would be me out there racing.

If there’s one thing I have always excelled at, besides kicking most of my male cousin’s asses in barrel racing, it’s having my shit together. Nobody was surprised when I got accepted into Northwestern and graduated Summa cum laude and then went on to graduate Harvard Law Magna cum laude. 

Just like nobody was surprised when I came back home and hit the ground running when it came to taking over Aunt Celeste’s position as Chief Legal Counsel at Slade. Just like nobody is surprised that at twenty-nine, I’ve let my career consume me to the point that the only semblance of a romantic relationship I have is my ongoing flirt-fest with Scotty. 

But inside, it feels like I’m building a house of cards that is barely standing. I flip to the marketing addendum and reread Midas Distributing’s latest dodge. They green-lit “campfire energy” back in March, and now they’re pretending it’s a usage restriction. Fine. I draft a cure notice under Section 7.2—forty-eight hours to reinstate the approved copy or we proceed to remedies. “Looping PR with a fallback line (“smoky caramel finish”) if they blink.” I say aloud as I type. My finger hovers over send while I debate calling Ken at Midas to give him a piece of mind when a soft knock interrupts my thoughts. 

Before I can even respond, my cousin Milly waltzes right into my office with a look on her face already that tells me lunch is going to be exhausting today.

“You’re useless right now,” she says, dropping into the chair across from me and drumming her fingers on the armrest. 

“Excuse me? I’m int he middle of a very serious negotiation with Midas.”

“You’re right, in between daydreams of Scotty.”

I glare at her. “I am deeply committed to getting my way on this negotiation,” I say blandly as I hit send on the email and pretending I did not just stare at the same sentence for four minutes. “Whatever, Brooklyn will eat Ken’s dick for lunch, I guarantee it.”

Milly points at my face. “That is your daydream expression.”

“You’re right, it is. I’m day dreaming about ripping Ken’s dick off.”

She’s not wrong. I’m right on schedule for my usual Scotty infatuation, post breakup. 

I arch a brow. “I’m… strategizing, not daydreaming.”

She rolls her eyes and hikes her thumb over her shoulder. “Brooklyn is already at the new café. Close the laptop, Barbie. The empire will survive if you eat a sandwich.”

“I have a board packet to finalize.”

“We both know you finalized it last night, because you are a monster. Come on.” She stands and snatches my pen, clearly not buying my bullshit today. “You can brief me on the Scotty fantasies while we walk.”

Great, because saying my fantasies about Scotty out loud will absolutely not help me stop thinking about the way his smile tilts when he is about to say something that will live under my skin all day.

I grab my phone and give in. “Fine. Thirty minutes. And you’re buying.”

Milly loops her arm through mine. “Please. I expense everything to the Slade Corporate account. Let’s go.”

We pass Trent’s office, where he’s on the phone gesturing at a schematic, face red with frustration while Uncle Drake sits across from him with that classic unimpressed look on his face. He spots me and mimes a desperate plea for help but I just shrug and keep moving. The elevator doors part and swallow us, and for a second, the mirrored walls catch my eyes and reflect back a woman who looks perfectly calm.

I am perfectly calm. I am not thinking about Scotty not matter how much they goad me. I am absolutely not thinking about Scotty.

The bell over the door jingles as Milly and I walk into the restaurant. The new café that recently opened up in our small corner of the world is like a cutesy little place out of a Hallmark movie. Even the name, Pike’s Perk, feels like it should be the place where the small-town single mom meets the grumpy mountain man that’s new to town. There’s an exposed brick accent wall, fiddle-leaf fig plants dotted throughout and of course, a chalkboard menu with drink names like: ‘Mile-High Macchiato’ and ‘Fourteener Fuel’.

“Welcome in,” a cheery voice greets us from behind the counter. The voice comes from a younger woman who’s dark hair is piled impossibly high onto her head. She smiles, her cheeks so pink and rosy she looks cherubic. “Feel free to sit anywhere and someone will be right over to you.”

Brooklyn has the corner table by the big window, laptop open, blazer on the chair back, phone face plastered to her cheek as she types frantically on the keyboard. 

“I told you from day one Ken, I won’t be dicked around by you or anyone at Midas Media. The terms and conditions were clearly outlined in the contract, along with the deliverables. It’s not my problem if you let an intern read the contract for you instead of your legal counsel.”

I smile to myself, as she lays into him. Brooklyn has a lot less of a filter than I do and zero problems letting someone be on the receiving end of it. 

 There’s a smear of something glittery on her sleeve, probably toddler craft carnage, and a spreadsheet glowing on the screen that says she’s every bit as on-duty as I am. If there’s one woman who can do it all, it’s Brooklyn Slade, as evidenced by her take no prisoners speech she’s barking into the phone.

She sees us and shuts the laptop with a little sigh of relief. “I have to go Ken but don’t call me again about renegotiating because it’s not an option.” She hangs up and drops her phone onto the table before standing up and giving me a brief hug. “Finally. I was about five minutes away from sending out a search party for you.”

“Unnecessary,” I say, sliding into the chair across from her. “I left willingly. Also, nice speech to Ken.”

Milly snorts as she sits. “She left after I snatched her pen out of her hand and promised to pay.”

I press the cold water glass to my cheek. “You’re both dramatic, I’m swamped with work you know that and since Terrance moved back to Denver, I’m short a junior associate I can offload things to.”

“Whatever you say counselor,” Brooklyn replies as the young woman from behind the counter approaches our table.

“Hi ladies, welcome in. I'm Sadie, can I get you something to drink?”

“This place is really cute,” I say, taking a moment to look around again, “are you the owner?”

“I am,” the woman smiles, jutting her hand out toward me. “I’m Sadie.” 

I almost tell her she looks too young to own it but I remember how much I hated hearing that from senior level attorneys over the years. It almost felt like an underhanded way of saying they didn’t take me as seriously because of it. 

“It’s so amazing to meet you Sadie.” I shake her hand and we each go around introducing ourselves. 

“I guess the Slades really do own this town then huh?” She laughs after hearing us each say our last name. 

“Something like that," Milly laughs. “But I promise you, any of the bad rumors that you might hear are ancient history. The only Slade you have to worry about are the single male Slades.” 

That sends us all into a fit of laughter because it’s kind of true. The second a single woman shows her face in this town, it’s a race to see which Slade asks her out first. 

“Including her brothers.” Brooklyn points her finger at me and wiggles it, “that Axel is a handful and a half.”

“No kidding.” I roll my eyes. “But seriously, we’re just teasing,” I add when I see her eyes grow a little wide at our jokes. “My brother is great, he’s just the wild one out of us Slade triplets.”

“Triplets?” She shakes her head, “I bet your poor mom had her hands full then. I only have a fourteen month old daughter and I feel like I’m running on fumes and well,” she gestures around us, “caffeine.” 

We finish up our small talk with Sadie and she retreats to the back to get our drinks. 

Brooklyn folds her hands under her chin and narrows her eyes in a way that would send a grown man’s testicles back up inside of himself. “So. Who ruined your attention span today?”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

Milly props her chin on her palm, grin pure trouble. “She had the look.”

“What look?”

“The Scotty look,” they say together, clearly pleased with themselves.

Heat crawls up my throat. I take a long drink of water. 

“We are not doing this.”

Brooklyn’s smile tells me I don’t stand a chance against their onslaught. “We are absolutely doing this. It has been, what, two years since your last “almost” kiss and you are recently back on the market which means that Scotty will be sniffing around again at any second.

Milly counts on her fingers. “Let’s see. There was the Fourth of July bonfire when he oh so gently put his hands on your waist to get by and you short-circuited. The barn dance at Ranger’s where you two took over the dance floor for like, four songs and then pretended nothing happened. Then last winter, Juniper said you brought donuts to the garage for no reason and left wearing his hoodie.”

“It was cold,” I say primly, reaching for my water again.

“Uh-huh,” Milly says. “And in 2020, when the whole town had nothing to do but drive around and wave at each other from six feet away, you somehow ended up in his driveway a lot.”

I stare at the menu like it might offer a trap door. “He lives on a road between places I frequent.”

Brooklyn finally breaks. “You and Scotty do this every couple of years, babe. You flirt like you invented it, you escalate to emotionally charged jabs at each other and eye fuck each other like the damn Titanic is going down, you almost kiss, you pull back. Then you spend six months pretending he’s just a fun detour while you try to find Mr. Perfect and ignore what you really want.”

Sadie shows up with our order just in time to provide me a few minutes of reprieve from Brooklyn’s knowing gaze. 

But the second she steps away, Milly leans in, eyes sparkling. “You like the chase. That’s the thing. It’s your kink.” My mouth falls open at her comment. “If you ever actually got caught, the fun would be gone.”

My laugh sticks in my throat. I like the chase, sure, but God, sometimes I like the idea of arriving.

“It is not a kink. It’s just—I dunno, maybe it’s the thrill of it since we know it could never be anything more. Scotty isn’t happily ever after material.”

“Which is code for kink,” Brooklyn says, completely unbothered. “Look, I’m not judging. We’ve all been distracted by the bright lights of rippling muscles and a wicked tongue. The problem is the reputation.”

I pick a nonexistent piece of lint from my skirt. “Whose reputation?”

“His,” they say, and then both pause long enough while staring at me until I’m uncomfortable.

The reality of his reputation hovers between us like a neon sign. Scotty, head mechanic and shop manager, boss of thirty guys, hero to every person who just wants their truck to start when it’s negative ten. Scotty, quiet and steady and always at the fringes, looking like sin in a cowboy hat.

“That is not fair,” I say, and I hate how quickly it comes out.

Milly lifts her brows. “It’s not like he’s a villain, Adrienne. He isn’t even a dick. He’s just... not anyone’s last stop. He does casual. He does simple. He does—”

“Everyone.” Brooklyn adds.

“Wow,” I say, pressing the heels of my hands against my forehead.

Brooklyn taps her nail on the table. “Babe, we aren’t telling you anything you don’t already know. He flirts with everyone. Janice at the feed store. Kenzie at the DMV. Your Aunt Autumn, for God’s sake, when he fixed her trailer hitch and she told him he was a gentleman. The man was born flirting.”

He flirts with me differently. The thought is intrusive, unreasonable. It slides under my ribs and makes itself at home. Is that true, or is that just what I need to believe to keep playing?

I raise my cup. “So your advice is… stop enjoying the harmless flirtation. Marry my work. Ignore men with sexy forearms and and a tongue that would probably make me see god?”

Milly’s voice softens, the way hers always does when she sees through me. “My advice is be honest with yourself. If you like the game, own the game. Play the game as many times as you want but if you want to win something, at some point you have to stop playing.”

“Wait,” Brooklyn scrunches her brow, “shouldn’t she have to keep playing to win?”

Milly rolls her eyes, “you know what I mean.”

“While I get the analogy, all the sports talk is a little unnecessary now that Keegan and I are history.”

“Sorry.” Milly shakes her head, “Kent always has Sports Radio on in the car.”

Brooklyn smiles, gentler now. “Look, all we’re saying is we know you. We also know this town and every rumor that’s swirled around about Scotty over the years. Most of which, he has confirmed are true.”

I look out the window to where Main Street hums, a barrage of memories wanting to flood my brain, all of which involve Scotty.

“Also,” Milly adds, because she is incapable of leaving good enough alone, “we have to acknowledge the very real possibility that if you ever actually let him catch you, you would freak out. Because then it isn’t theoretical. Then you have to decide what you actually want.”

I want… I want to be wanted, desire, cared for. I want someone to see me, really see me. But beyond that, I don’t really know what I want when it comes to happily ever after. I thought I knew.

I take a giant bite of my chicken salad sandwich to give myself a task besides spiraling.

Brooklyn sips her latte. “How long has it been now since you and Keegan ended things?”

I swallow. “You mean how long has it been since he dumped me? Six months. And no, I don’t want to talk about that anymore. It was a mismatch.”

Brooklyn’s mouth tips. “It was a pattern too. Shiny on paper. Not enough in person.”

“Wow,” I say, smiling without humor. “Lunch is fantastic.”

She reaches across and squeezes my hand, quick and warm. “We love you, we just want you happy, not just entertained.”

“I can multitask,” I say lightly, but my chest aches because she isn’t wrong. I have spent years choosing safe, choosing impressive, choosing things that photograph well for the family thread and make Dad’s smile grow just a little wider.

We eat, and Brooklyn pivots into a recap of her morning at Slade. Production schedules, a distributor trying to bully them on social media campaign deliverables, Trent needing a tasting note sheet rewritten because an intern insisted “campfire energy” was a tasting note to which Trent replied “unemployment energy” is what the intern was going to be tasting.

“Campfire energy is a vibe,” Milly argues, talking around a bite of grilled cheese. “Put it in. That’s how the younger generations are talking nowadays anyway. That’s why we hired Gen Z interns.”

Brooklyn grins. “Speaking of vibes, the twins decided five a.m. is their new wake-up time. There is not enough caffeine in Colorado to make me look awake these days. Tyler helps me as much as he can but he’s usually halfway out the door to manage the ranch by then.”

“You are still one of the hottest women in a ten-mile radius,” I smile. 

She blushes and laughs. “Tell that to my under-eye circles.”

Milly leans back and tells us how Kent texts her baby name ideas and she replies with surrogate agencies. Brooklyn offers me the latest toddler-ism. 

The bell over the door rings again and Dolly breezes in, ponytail high, lips curved into her signature smile as she waves at Sadie behind the counter. She heads straight for the pick-up counter, then spots us and detours with a grin.

“Look at the Slade board of directors,” she says, hugging Brooklyn, then Milly, then me. Her eyes skim my face with the kind of cousin curiosity that registers too much. “We gossiping or strategizing?”

“Both,” Milly says. “Trying to figure out how to get Scotty to become the man he needs to be so Adrienne can fall in love with him and finally get that dick.”

Dolly laughs. “You are attempting the impossible.” She holds up a paper bag. “I’d stay but I’m running late. Speaking of Scotty, he’s coming over tonight and he and Ranger are grilling out if you want to stop by. I promised to bring the “fancy buns” because I introduced Ranger to brioche once and he hasn’t stopped talking about it.”

“That sounds like fun.” I smile. “But I have another late night of work.”

“Yeah I think Scotty is in need of a beer on the back porch with Ranger kind of night. Apparently he and his most recent situationship are done. Want me to let him know you’re interested?” She bumps her hip against my shoulder with a wink. 

“God, please don’t.” I can feel my cheeks starting to turn bright red.

“Fine, but someday, you two just need to get it out of your systems already. I’ll see if I can drop him a few hints tonight for you. Bye ladies,” she walks toward the door, turning around to wave to Sadie on her way out. 

Silence lingers for a beat. Brooklyn and Milly share one look, then slowly swivel to grin at me. I stab a tomato. “Don’t say a word.”

The second I’m back at my desk, before my ass even has time to hit my leather seat, I have a Slack notification from Trent.

Trent: Need to see you now about Midas.

***

I should go straight home. I even tell myself that as I leave the office, the steering wheel cool beneath my palms. But when I hit the turnoff that leads toward Scotty’s place, my hands ignore my brain and flick the blinker.

Just a detour. Just curious.

The road curls past fields glowing gold in the late evening sun, the mountains looming steady in the distance. My heart beats louder the closer I get to the weathered fence line I know all too well.

And just as I suspected… there he is.

Bent over the hood of an old Chevy, cap pulled low, shoulders flexing under a thin T-shirt that’s seen better days. Grease streaks his arm, his jaw. The whole picture sums up Scotty in its simplicity, a man, his truck, his ranch. My chest squeezes tight at sight of him. 

Damn it, Adrienne.

I slow without thinking. Gravel crunches under my tires, and he looks up like he felt me before he saw me. Our eyes lock. That slow smile pulls at his mouth making my stomach flip over itself. 

Just say it, just say you want to…

He tosses his wrench onto the fender and strolls over, rag dangling from his back pocket. Each step is unhurried, confident in a way that doesn’t come from arrogance but from knowing exactly who he is.

I roll the window down, the warm air rushing in.

“Afternoon, Barbie.” His voice scrapes low. “Cruising by just to stare at me working, or did you finally come to admit you can’t resist me?”

I snort, fighting the blush creeping up my neck. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was on my way home.”

“Uh-huh.” His smirk says he doesn’t buy it. He nods toward the porch, where a cooler sits in the shade. “You want a beer? Cold ones waiting.”

My pulse skitters. This is how it always starts… banter that feels harmless until it doesn’t.

His gaze drifts down to my lips. A curl slips against my cheek, and before I can tuck it back, he reaches in and brushes it away with his fingers. The touch is casual but soft. Still, my breath catches.

“You’ve got a little something—” his hand drops to my jaw, turning my head slightly before he drags his thumb across the edge of my lips. “Lipstick was a little smudged.”

A pickup turns onto the lane. The sound snaps through the quiet moment building between us. I glance toward it, recognizing Nelson Myers, everyone’s favorite plumber.

Heat curls low in my stomach, but so does awareness. A reminder that in this town, someone’s always watching. One more pair of eyes. One more rumor waiting to bloom.

I clear my throat, forcing a small smile. “You could’ve told me.”

“Could’ve,” he agrees, but his eyes linger a second longer than they should.

My throat goes dry. This is exactly what Brooklyn and Milly meant. The game. The chase. If we ever crossed the invisible line, maybe it would all collapse.

He tips his chin toward the porch. “So, beer?”

The cooler sits there, lid cracked, a couple of bottles catching the light. Horses graze in the pasture, tails swishing. The porch looking awfully tempting.

It would be so easy to park, climb those steps, sit with him while the sun drops behind the ridge. So easy to let the world drift away as we fall into a casual ebb and flow or flirting and jabs.

So dangerous.

I hear Brooklyn’s voice in my head: "If you ever actually got caught, the fun would be gone.”

“I can’t.” I smile, aiming for casual. “Early morning.”

He tilts his head, not pushing, but the corner of his mouth says he doesn’t buy it. “Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

“I’m important.” I shrug like it’s a joke. “Places to be.”

His grin softens. “Yeah. You are.”

The way he says it, like it’s fact, like it isn’t even up for debate, makes my chest ache. Because it’s what I want from the right man: to be non-negotiably important.

I lean back against the seat, trying for bravado. “So tell me. You actually fixing that Chevy or just pretending for show?”

“Belongs to Mrs. Ortega. She’s had me keeping it going since I was sixteen. Promised her I would make it last.”

The quiet stretches, thick and charged. I should look away. Instead, I drink him in. Grease on his skin, sweat darkening his collar, the steadiness in his gaze that makes me feel like he’s trying to get me to fold.

I swallow hard. “Well. Don’t let me distract you.”

“You always distract me.” He says it so quickly, I almost expect him to laugh, say he’s joking but he doesn’t.

My heart flips. I mask it with a smirk and a joke. “Careful. People will start talking.”

“They already do.”

I grip the wheel tighter. “Then I better keep driving.”

He shrugs, his fingers dragging once across the edge of my window. “Suit yourself. Offer stands.”

I force myself to put the car in gear. “Goodnight, Scotty.”

“Night, Barbie.”

By the time I hit the end of his driveway, a stupid idea starts to take shape. The Mustang in Dad’s barn, my first car, the one Scotty helped me pick out when I was sixteen—still sits under a tarp collecting dust. 

What if I asked him to help me fix it? It’s practical, harmless. Productive, even. 

He likes projects, and I… well, I like reasons to be near him that don’t look like a confession. Maybe if we’re under the hood, I can keep whatever this thing between us is contained.

Chapter 2—Scotty

Before sunrise, the world belongs to me and my mares.

The sky is still black-blue, a few stars still twinkling while the mountains crouch against the horizon. The only sounds are the horses shifting in their stalls, the crunch of my boots against the earth, and the quiet creak of the old gate hinge I keep meaning to fix.

I like it this way. It’s quiet and predictable.

Routine keeps a man steady. Feed the mares. Check the troughs. Walk the fence line with a thermos of coffee while the crisp air bites my lungs. It’s nothing fancy, nothing like the Slade Ranch, but it’s mine.

My dad used to say mornings made a man honest. “You can’t lie to yourself with frost in your beard and mud on your boots Scotty. Ranch life will cut you loose quicker than you can say I quit.” 

I still hear him sometimes, in the scrape of a shovel or the way the barn door sticks halfway. He’s been gone years, but the ranch holds his memory.

My mind always drifts out here. I drag a hand down the warm flank of my favorite mare Priscilla, and stupidly let myself think about Adrienne Slade.

She’s always been there. Hell, the whole town’s watched her grow up in heels too high for dirt roads and silk blouses that are somehow never wrinkled. She’s always known damn well who she was and so has everyone else. Adrienne belongs in glass boardrooms with contracts and mergers. She sure as shit doesn’t belong side by side with a mechanic. 

And yet, she lingers in my mind like all the fucking time.

Don’t be a fool, Scotty. She’s not for you. Never was.

Still, walking the fence now, I picture her hair catching the porch light. The way her mouth parted when I brushed at her her curls. That small catch in her breath she tried to hide when my thumb brushed against the soft skin of her lips.

I shake it off, shove the memory down where it belongs—with all the other almosts between me and Adrienne Slade.

The sun finally cracks the ridge, streaking gold across the frost. The mares start to whimper, tails swishing, and I lean against the fence, coffee steaming in my hand as I take in the small life I’ve built for myself here.

This life is steady. The garage, the ranch, a couple of horses who don’t care if I shower or shave. That’s enough. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

***

The shop is already alive when the clock barely hits eight.

Air compressors hiss, wrenches clang, the sharp bite of acetylene torches crackle at the far end. Radios hum two different country stations in competing corners of the garage, and somebody laughs too loud at a joke.

Thirty guys depend on me to keep this circus moving, and I don’t let them down. Not if I can help it. I’m hunched over a Dodge with a transmission that doesn’t want to cooperate, torque wrench steady in my hands, when I hear the sweet pitch of her voice. 

“Good morning boys.”

The sound of her stilettos click against the concrete as she walks across the garage floor with a massive bakery box in her hand.

Fuck.

Suddenly every guy in the shop suddenly remembers he’s a red blooded man. Tools still, conversations cut. A socket wrench clatters to the floor.

And yet, she doesn’t hesitate. Adrienne Slade doesn’t hesitate for anyone. She heads straight for me, a cardboard coffee carrier balanced in one hand, the pastry box in the other as her designer bag sways against her hip.

“Morning,” she says, voice smooth like she knows damn well what she’s doing.

My pulse kicks, hard and fast. I wipe my hands on a rag. “Adrienne.”

“I brought you coffee.” She extends the cup toward me.

I take it, fingers brushing hers. Heat zips through me, too damn obvious. The coffee tastes too sweet, but I’d drink ten of them if it meant she kept looking at me like that. 

Her perfume cuts through the usual mix of smells in this place. It’s floral and delicate and too damn tempting. She leans across the workbench to set down the pastry box, blouse dipping low enough that my eyes betray me. I catch myself staring before I can stop it.

The swell of her breast peeks over the bra, the lace detailing immediately sending a message to my cock that I’d like to tear it off of her with my teeth. 

She notices. Of course she notices.

“Eyes up here, Bescher,” she murmurs, her lips curling into a devious little grin.

Heat climbs the back of my neck, but I don’t look away. I can’t. “Maybe don’t bring distractions into my shop if you don’t want me looking.”

Her brows lift, daring. “That supposed to be an excuse?”

“No.” My voice drops before I can reel it back. “That’s a warning.”

She cocks her hip, dropping her hand on it as she eyes me with that I fucking dare you grin. It’s the look that almost got me in trouble a time or two over the years. 

“Oh yeah? And what kind of warning is that?” 

Here’s the thing about Adrienne Slade. She’s everything and I mean everything you could want in a woman and she fucking knows it. But one thing about me, I love getting a rise out of her and I’m one of the very few that can. So I always push it.  

“Keep testing me like that, Barbie, and I’ll forget we’re standing in front of thirty men.”

Her breath catches, just enough for me to hear it, and I wrench my gaze back to the Dodge in the corner like it’s a lifeline. My pulse is wrecked, my jeans uncomfortably tight, and I know I’ve already fucked up. But she doesn’t call me on it. She just lets that smile linger, wicked and satisfied, like she won this round.

“So, you show up to my shop with coffee, sweets and generous glimpse of your cleavage. What’s the catch?”

Her chin tips up. “I want to talk about my Mustang.”

I snort. “The one buried under dust in your dad’s barn?”

“That’s the one.” Her eyes sparkle.

“You want me to fix it.”

“No, I want you to teach me. I want to do it myself.”

I blink. “You?”

“Yes, me.” She sets her bag on the nearest workbench, careful not to let it touch anything greasy, then folds her arms, blouse straining just enough to test my self-control. “Don’t look so surprised. I grew up on a ranch too. I can handle more than boardrooms Scotty.”

I glance down at those stilettos, the delicate straps against her ankles. “Pretty sure those shoes can’t.”

She rolls her eyes. “I won’t be wearing these.”

“Why?” I ask finally.

Her arms tighten. “Because it’s mine. Because I’m sick of letting things sit broken. And maybe,” she adds softly, “I just want to work on something different besides contracts. I’m getting restless being too focused on work. I need…” she tilts her head slightly, “something to distract me.”

The last part has me interested that’s for sure. “You’ll hate it. It’s dirty, frustrating, takes patience.”

She lifts a brow. “So does law school. You think I can’t handle grease because I wear heels?”

Christ. She has an answer for everything.

“You certainly excel at being a lawyer.” I laugh.

I should tell her no. Send her back to her office with her coffee and her damn fuck me heels. Tell her to write me a check and I’ll have the Mustang purring in a month. That’s smart. Safe. But I also know Adrienne well enough to know that once she has her mind set on something, there will be no talking her out of it. 

I lean back against the workbench, crossing my arms. The only reason I don’t shut her down right here is because in my head, she’s still got that Rockies player entertaining her. It creates a safe enough barrier for a man trying not to get stupid. 

She’s off-limits, hell, she’s spoken for. So yeah, maybe I can stand next to her for a few weekends without losing my damn mind.

“Fine,” I hear myself mutter, “Sundays. After hours. No distractions.”

Her smile is quick and triumphant. “Perfect.” She slides her bag back over her arm. “We’ll start this Sunday at 8am, don’t be late Mr. Bescher.” Then she spins on her heel, offering a flick of her wrist as a wave and saunters out.

When the door shuts behind her, the shop exhales in unison. One of the younger guys whistles low. “Damn, boss. That woman’s… wow.”

I glare. “You want to keep your job, you keep your mouth shut.”

He laughs nervously and ducks back to work.

I sip her coffee again, the sugar sticking to my tongue. Too sweet. Too much. Exactly like her.

And still, I’m already picturing her hair pulled back, cheeks flushed, bent over the the hood of that Mustang. 

God fucking dammit this was a mistake.

My garage will never be the same and neither will I.

***

The smell of burgers hits me before I even get through Ranger’s screen door. Dolly’s laugh carries from the kitchen, their daughter Amethyst talking to her toy, and the place feels like it always does: loud, warm, a little chaotic. The kind of noise that usually keeps my brain from chewing itself alive.

Ranger’s at the grill out back, spatula in hand, grinning like a wolf. “There he is. Don’t think I didn’t hear about your day, Bescher.”

I arch a brow, step onto the porch. Of course Dolly told him Adrienne stopped by. 

“Pretty sure the only reason you ‘heard’ is because your wife’s turned my office into town gossip central.”

From the kitchen, Dolly calls, “Somebody’s got to keep everyone in the know. There’s some fresh fruit in here to enjoy before dinner.”

Ranger barks a laugh, flipping a patty. “She’s not wrong. Let’s grab a beer.”

I grunt, but follow him inside where the table’s already set. Dolly hands me a plate of the fruit, Amethyst is already chatting at my side about her new favorite princess. I let the kid distract me while I eat. Until Dolly says, too casually, “Ran into Adrienne earlier this week at that new café. She was with Milly and Brooklyn.”

My fork pauses midair. I force a shrug. “She and her Rockies boyfriend planning their million dollar wedding yet?”

Ranger nudges me with his elbow, smirking. “Careful, man. You’ve been a Rockies die-hard since you could walk. Don’t go turning on your team now.”

I take a swig of beer, hide the tight twist in my chest at the thought of Adrienne falling all over the player she’s been dating. A fact I like to never acknowledge around her. 

“Keegan Fuller?” Dolly pipes up, brows raised. “That ended a while ago. I thought you knew that?”

The words drop like a wrench on concrete. My grip tightens on the beer bottle. 

Ended? 

My stomach drops, a slow, stunned twist of realization. 

I thought she was still with him. That’s the only reason I said yes to the damn Mustang. If she’s single now… Jesus. What the hell did I just sign myself up for?

Ranger catches my eye, that knowing look that says he’s waiting for me to react. I don’t give him the satisfaction. Just grunt, spear another strawberry, and keep eating like my appetite hasn’t already flatlined.

It’s none of my damn business what Adrienne Slade does with her time. Never has been. That’s the line I repeat while Ranger tells a story about how he and Tyler nearly got into a fistfight with a stubborn fence post in their front yard that refused to stay straight.

“Swear to God, the thing had a vendetta,” Ranger says, waving his beer bottle like it’s a weapon. “Tyler’s yanking one way, I’m shoving the other, and Dolly’s on the porch hollering about how we’re both idiots.”

“Because you were,” Dolly cuts in, eyes sparkling. “I told you to soak the ground first. But nooo, you men had to wrestle it like cavemen.”

Ranger grins, unbothered. “Post still went in.”

“Crooked as hell,” she shoots back, laughing. “Don’t worry, I’ll make him redo it tomorrow morning.”

Amethyst pipes up from her booster seat, mouth full of mashed potatoes. “Daddy said bad words.”

That sets Dolly off again, hiding her laugh behind her hand. Ranger just shrugs, “yeah I kind of lost it for a little bit, said every damn word in the book while I kicked the shit out of the thing.”

Dolly eventually shifts the conversation toward Amethyst’s antics at preschool, Ranger piles another burger on his plate, and the easy rhythm of their family fills the kitchen. The kind of thing a man ought to feel lucky to sit in the middle of. But all I can hear, underneath it, is Dolly’s voice earlier. “That ended a while ago.”

By the time the plates are scraped clean and Dolly is wrapping leftovers I don’t need but she insists I take, my chest feels tight enough to split as my thoughts begin to spiral. 

Why didn’t she tell me things ended between them? 

“Now you have lunches for the week,” she says, kissing my cheek as I stand. “Next time, I’ll make pie.”

“Looking forward to it,” I smile, managing a smile.

Ranger claps me on the shoulder on the way out, eyes a little too knowing. “Drive safe, man.”

By the time I head out into the cool night, the stars are spread thick across the ridge. Normally, they settle me. Tonight, they don’t do a damn thing.

Back at the ranch, the quiet presses heavier than usual. The mares shift in their stalls when I step into the barn, ears flicking toward me, their soft whinnies greeting me like always.

Rosa noses at the stall door, impatient for attention, and I can’t help the small smile that tugs at my mouth. “Alright, girl. I hear you. Don’t get pushy.”

She huffs like she understands, stamping once as I slip inside with the brush. Her coat’s warm under my hand, muscles shifting easy beneath the bristles as I work down her flank. Slow, steady strokes, the kind my dad drilled into me when I was a kid. Horses know when you’re rushing, when your mind’s somewhere else.

“You’ve got more sense than most people I know,” I murmur to her, my voice low, the rasp of the brush filling the silence between us. “Don’t look at me like that—you do. Never judged me once, have you?”

Rosa flicks an ear back, leaning into the brush as I work behind her shoulder. I chuckle softly, rubbing at a spot that makes her sigh. “That’s it. You just want the good scratches. Greedy girl.”

Routine. Routine is enough. That’s what I tell myself.

But it’s not anymore. I can’t stop picturing her… Adrienne leaning out her car window, laughing like she knew exactly how to rattle me. That spark in her eyes when she teased. 

I curse under my breath, focus harder on the brush, on the leather tack that needs oiling, on the stall latch I’ve already checked twice. “See, Rosa? That’s the problem with people, they’re complicated. Horses—” I run the brush in one last long stroke down her side— “you’re simple. You just tell a man what you need. No games.”

She blows out a breath, nuzzling at my shoulder like she agrees. This life, the ranch, the shop, the quiet… it used to be enough.

But a few hours later, when I finally crawl into bed, the silence doesn’t soothe. It taunts. Every shadow feels like her laugh, every hollow in the dark echoes with that damn spark in her eyes. And no matter how many times I tell myself it isn’t my business, that she’s not mine and never will be, the truth is, I want her to be but I’m not confident I’d ever be enough for her. 

That’s why I stay on the fringes of her life, dancing in and out when she needs a flirty distraction or a shoulder to cry on. I’m the guy she fucks off with until Mr. Right comes along…I’m more like Mr. Right Now and I’ve come to accept that I’m okay with that. 

I think.

Pre-order That Moment NOW for ONLY $.99!