Chapter 1: City Girl Meets Country Reality
The taxi kicked up a plume of fine, pale dust as it retreated down the driveway, leaving Cassidy standing alone. The heat was a physical weight, pressing down from a white-hot sky and rising back up from the cracked asphalt in visible, wavering shimmers. It smelled of dry hay, of distant manure, of baked earth and the relentless, electric buzz of cicadas in the oaks.
Her high heels, sleek black leather from a boutique in Atlanta, sank into the gravel with a cruel, decisive crunch. She stared at the farmhouse. It looked smaller. The white paint was a little more peeled, the wraparound porch a little more sagging than the fortress she remembered from childhood. Two large suitcases, all she had left, sat beside her like stubborn, expensive tombstones.
A sharp, two-note whistle cut through the cicada hum.
She turned. Leaning against the open barn door was a man, shirtless, sweat glistening on the hard planes of his chest and stomach. A worn cowboy hat shadowed his face, but she could feel the weight of his gaze. The denim of his jeans was faded to a soft blue-white at the thighs. He took a long drag from a bottle of water, his eyes never leaving her.
A younger guy, all lanky limbs and grin, poked his head out from the hayloft above him. “Y’all see that?” he called out, his voice echoing in the barn’s cavernous interior. “Looks like the princess forgot her tiara!”
A few speckled hens scattered, squawking, as Cassidy’s knees threatened to buckle. It wasn’t the heat, or the weight of the suitcases. It was the weight of everything else. The failed job, the emptied bank account, the silent phone, the sheer, humiliating mile she’d just fallen.
The shirtless man below the hayloft didn’t smile. He shoved off from the barn wall and started walking toward her, his boots kicking up little puffs of dust. He moved with an easy, unhurried grace that spoke of long days and physical confidence. As he got closer, she saw the stubble along his jaw, the same sun-streaked brown as the hair curling at his temples. His eyes, when they met hers, were a deep, unfriendly brown.
He stopped a few feet away, looking her up and down—the tailored silk blouse, the pencil skirt, the ruined heels. His expression was flat, unimpressed. “Whatever you’re sellin’,” he said, his voice a low drawl, “we’re not interested.”
Cassidy felt a surge of pure, undiluted irritation. It was better than the despair. She rolled her eyes, a city-girl habit that felt like armor, and turned her back on him. The doorbell was an old, brass button. She pressed it hard. Somewhere inside, a distant, mechanical buzz-buzz echoed.
She waited. The sweat was trickling down her spine now, staining the silk. She could feel the man still standing behind her, a silent, sweaty statue of judgment.
The door swung inward.
Her father, Robert, stood there. He was in his good trousers and a checked shirt, as if he’d been expecting someone else. His face, weathered and kind, went through a series of rapid adjustments—surprise, confusion, a dawning, unhappy recognition. “Cassidy?”
“Hey, Dad.”
“What in the world…?” He stepped out onto the porch, his eyes darting from her face to the suitcases to the shirtless man in the yard. He forced a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. It was the careful, polite mask he wore at bank meetings or funerals. “This is a surprise.”
“I tried calling,” she said, the lie tasting bitter. She hadn’t tried hard. She’d been too ashamed. “The line was busy all week.”
“We’ve had trouble with the line,” he said smoothly, his gaze flicking to the farmhand. “Wade. Be a help and grab these bags, would you?”
So that was his name. Wade. He didn’t move for a second, his eyes locked on Cassidy with a look that said he’d already summed her up and found her lacking. Then, with a slight shake of his head, he stepped forward, his bare shoulder brushing hers as he hefted the two large suitcases as if they were empty.
“Bring them inside, son,” Robert said, his voice firmer.
Cassidy didn’t wait. She walked past her father into the blessedly dim, cool hallway. The smell was instant memory: lemon polish, old wood, her mother’s lavender sachets. It almost undid her. She headed straight for the staircase, her heels clicking a frantic tattoo on the heart-pine floors.
“I’ll just… take the attic room,” she called over her shoulder, already mounting the stairs. It was her old room, tucked under the eaves. The place she’d painted sky-blue at fourteen, where she’d plastered band posters and dreamed of escape.
She was halfway up when her mother’s voice floated down from the kitchen doorway.
“Oh, honey, you can’t go up there.”
Cassidy stopped, one hand on the banister. Her mother, Eleanor, wiped her hands on a floral apron. Her smile was gentle, apologetic, and utterly final.
“That’s Wade’s room now.”
The words didn’t make sense for a second. They just hung in the cool, still air of the stairwell.
Wade?
The click of boots on the porch steps behind her answered the question. He passed her on the stairs, carrying her life in his hands, the muscles in his bare back flexing as he took the steps two at a time. He didn’t look at her. He just shouldered his way through the door at the top of the stairs—her door—and disappeared inside.
The ignorant, annoying ass from the front porch was sleeping in her bedroom.