Visitation at Rosebriar Haven

Bri stepped out of the car, boots pressing lightly into the gravel of the long private drive. The estate loomed ahead, unchanged, elegant, controlled—everything Brad kept in order, everything he never let slip.

Rosebriar Haven.

Brad had renamed it for her, back when they were new again. Back when their love felt like certainty instead of miscalculation.

It hadn’t been just a romantic gesture—it had been a statement. A man like Brad didn’t rename the family estate lightly, not when his empire was built on legacy, tradition, names that carried weight. But for Bri, he had done it.

And now?

Now it stood as an echo of what they were, rather than what they had become.

She pulled her coat tighter, crossing toward the entrance. Briony had opted out of this visit—choosing a weekend with her father and twin brother at the horse ranch in Chestnut Ridge instead.

Chestnut Ridge wasn’t somewhere she could go lightly—not with the threat lurking in the fields, the native weeds that had nearly taken her twice.

It wasn’t just precaution—it was survival.

So Bri’s older brother, Connor, had gone with her. A doctor, a safeguard, a watchful eye. He was staying behind at the ranch, making sure Jackson, Beau, and Briony knew exactly what to look for, how to react, and how to do so fast enough to avoid the worst.

With no hospitals nearby, no immediate medical help, anaphylaxis wasn’t just a risk—it was a reality they had to be prepared for, always.

Briony would stay there, under Connor’s watch, with Epipens tucked in saddle pockets, coat linings, kitchen drawers. She was protected. And if Connor was satisfied with what he saw, this may become an option for more frequent visits, albeit brief.

And Bri? She was here. All the way on the other side of the country, alone. Feeling incredibly awkward and vulnerable. Back to what had been her home for over a year but now felt like a completely strange territory. Rosebriar Haven, stepping into a space she was no longer meant to fit inside.

The foyer smelled the same—cedar, fresh linen, quiet refinement—and the walls carried their carefully curated family portraits. Except now—her wedding photo was gone, replaced by a framed shot of Nathaniel.

A quiet correction. A necessary edit.

Brad met her in the hallway, phone in hand, mid-call.

“Hey,” he said, clipped but civil, then to the caller, “Listen, I have to let you go. Just make the edits as discussed and we’ll resume later, mmh-mhh. Bye.” Then pocketing the device as she approached.

“Hey,” Bri answered, adjusting her scarf, shifting her weight slightly.

After a brief, awkward silence, he remembered his manners and took her coat, handing it to the housekeeper, who greeted Bri with an uncomfortable smile and nod.

“Mrs. Cunningham … erm … I meant Cameron. Mrs … umm … Miss Cameron.”

Bri pasted on a smile but cringed, as did Brad.

Brad gestured toward the dining room, offering her refreshments, but she declined politely. She was here for Nathaniel. Nothing more.

“Nate just went down—twenty minutes ago. I really don’t want to wake him now, if you don’t mind. Maybe a coffee after all?”

A pause. Long enough to feel the weight between them, short enough not to let it suffocate.

Bri nodded, and the housekeeper hurried away while Brad gestured her into the dining room.

The room was warm, familiar, but carried a tension he hadn’t figured out how to mask.

Brad pulled out a chair for her, hesitating just a fraction too long before letting go, before settling into his own seat across from her—not too close, not too distant, where an estranged couple might naturally land.

Bri sat carefully, the space between them feeling both too wide and too small.

Brad shifted slightly, glancing toward the hall where Graham and Lauren’s voices carried faintly from the other side of the house.

“Lauren asked about Briony yesterday,” he said, a touch more conversational now. “She’s been wondering why she hasn’t come with you lately.”

Bri hesitated. “Briony wanted to stay home today. We’re trying something new. She’s with Beau and their father at the ranch. Connor is there to make sure it goes well.”

Brad nodded once, accepting but unsatisfied.

“I know she is not my daughter and I have no right to even ask, but I would love to see Briony again. She’s still welcome here, you know. Lauren really misses her. I miss her.”

Bri studied him, searching for something behind the words—an opening, a statement, an obligation. Maybe all three.

“I know,” she said simply. “She misses her too. And you. And Graham. And of course, Nate. She will be back, I am sure. It’s just hard on her, so I am giving her space. Oh—she asked me to give you this.”

Bri dug through her travel tote and pulled out a rolled-up drawing—Briony’s familiar sketchwork, showing Brad, Lauren, and herself riding Brad’s horses along the beach.

Brad unfolded it, studying the details with an unreadable expression.

Then, finally—he smiled.

“I’ll get it framed and will find an honorable spot for this.”

Polite. Restrained. But real.

Silence folded between them again, this time not sharp, but tired.

Brad exhaled sharply, like he was about to say more—but stopped himself. Instead, he glanced at the wedding photo still hanging over the fireplace in the dining room.

“Bri, you know you can stay here, as long as you want,” Brad muttered. “You are still and always welcome. I know you said you would stay at Maeve’s, but it’s silly, so I had the guesthouse made up for you. Please do stay. You know I will behave, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

And for the first time since the divorce, Bri didn’t feel unwanted.

Just displaced.

She glanced back at him. “You kept the estate name. Are there plans to change it?”

Brad swallowed hard, knowing immediately what name Bri was referring to, the estate’s, his Adam’s apple bobbing before he shook his head.

“I like the name. It’s a reminder of an era—albeit brief—but no less life-altering for me.”

Bri’s throat tightened.

“Brad, I wish you nothing but roses and happiness, I do. I’m self-aware enough to know and fully accept that this is fully on me, and not your fault at all. You are a great man, truly. You deserve to be happy and I thought I could be that person to make you happy but I am … I … I just wasn’t as free as I thought I was. I misread my own emotions and feelings. Please know I hate myself for hurting you and putting you through all this. You have been the best husband and father imaginable. Genuinely kind, sweet and loving. I hope one day we can talk like friends again. Maybe even be friends. I know you are very hurt, rightfully so, and for that, I am sorrier than I can ever put into words.”

Brad looked taken aback, borderline shocked at her honesty, but then nodded.

“Thank you, Bri. That does mean a lot. I will admit I did wonder what I could have done differently to … hold your interest and love.”

“Well, I think part of me will always love you. As stupid as this may sound, but I don’t regret anything. Not us, not our time together and definitely not Nate. I hate that he has to live like Briony and Beau, split from what should have been a family, but he had two great siblings here and his amazing father. And me, as often as I can. I did mean it when I gave you my heart, except I didn’t realize it wasn’t mine to give away again. It’s still tethered to … someone else. I just didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know.”

An Echo Between Them

Brad shifted, fingers grazing the rim of his coffee cup but never quite gripping it. He hadn’t touched his drink.

Neither had Bri.

The conversation had stalled—not into silence, exactly, but into something too controlled, too careful.

For over a year, they had existed in rhythms of knowing, rhythms of habit, expectation, connection—but then, suddenly, they were calculating their words, measuring the distance without fully understanding how wide it had become. Both afraid to leave themselves too vulnerable. But Bri now crossed that line and exposed her soft underbelly to Brad. And he acknowledged it.

Brad exhaled slowly, adjusting his posture, fingers threading loosely together. He hesitated.

Then—finally, a quiet concession.

“How long are you staying?” His voice was neutral, but there was something just beneath it—something almost reluctant to ask.

“Just the weekend.”

He nodded. Nothing else.

His gaze flicked toward the window—toward the sprawling estate he had once named for her, a name that still lingered despite everything. Almost carefully, Briar Rose spoke.

“Maeve’s place is cute,” Bri offered, more for explanation than justification. “Kind of a girl’s haven. More my speed. Don’t get me wrong, this estate is beautiful, but…”

“The guesthouse is closer to Nathaniel.” He interrupted, looking directly at her and Bri felt his gaze deep in her soul.

Brad’s words weren’t sharp, but they were pointed enough to land.

Bri pressed her lips together, exhaling through her nose. “I know.”

Brad leaned back, posture looser but still contained, still measured.

“I don’t expect anything, if that’s what you’re worried about. I won’t try anything.” His voice dipped lower—certain, deliberate. “Not now. Not later.”

A pause.

Then—a quieter admission, the kind that almost didn’t belong in the air between them.

“But I do miss you, Bri. More than I can say. I really thought this would last. The end just felt too … abrupt for me to fully come to terms with it yet. I understand that the heart wants what it wants, and yes, I am very hurt, but I do not like this awkwardness between us. We have tried to go separate ways before and it turned me into a resigned shell. I think I would like you to make sure that never happens to me again.”

It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t a regret.
It was just true.
And somehow, that made it heavier.

Bri’s fingers curled against her knee, nails pressing faintly into fabric.

“I miss us, too,” she admitted softly. “The beginning—gawd, you were so cute and awkward but so incredibly sweet about everything I couldn’t help but fall head over heels for you. I wasn’t playing with your heart, my feelings were real. Still are, to a degree which is why I couldn’t see this sooner. But like I tried to explain, which is hard as I don’t even fully understand any of this myself, there is a large piece of my heart that hasn’t been mine to give for a long time, I just suppressed those feelings because of all the hurt I have experienced. You deserve someone who can give you all her heart. You have always been a great guy, Brad, but you’ve changed, come into your own and it suits you well. I mean, the Brad before wouldn’t have stood up for himself the way you have been ever since we met that fateful day downtown by the harbor. And the old Brad would most definitely never gotten into a brawl with a rancher.”

Brad cracked a small smile. “One? I think we’re up to three or four now. Maybe even five. I am thinking I am one of the bad boys now.”

She laughed, and for the briefest moment, so did he.
Then—Brad lifted his cup, prompting her to follow suit.
The quiet settled again, softer this time.

“Alright Brad, I’ll stay. Thank you for the kind invite and your hospitality. I just have to let Maeve know and get my luggage from my rental.”

“Fabulous, I’ll have someone do that for you and have them park the car. May I ask you a personal question, Bri?”

She tilted her head slightly. “You used to be my husband until fairly recently, and we used to date for years in high school, and we share a son. If you can’t ask me something personal, then I don’t know. Please—go ahead.”

Brad hesitated—not long, but enough for her to catch it—before finally meeting her gaze.

“Are you and Jackson back together?”

Bri regretted giving him carte blanche, but she also knew—he had every right to ask.

She swallowed, then answered truthfully. “No. I’m with myself for now.”

Brad’s expression didn’t shift, but his fingers tightened slightly around his cup.

“I didn’t leave you for him. I left for me. I need to find me again,” she continued. “I’m making good progress, but there’s more to be discovered. I’m tired of bending to fit into other people’s places—his, yours, no offense.” She exhaled, shaking her head lightly. “Please don’t misunderstand me, I am not blaming you or anyone. That is fully and wholly on me. I did that to myself. But now? I have identified the issue, as Connor would say, and now have to figure out who I am before I can even entertain being with anyone. Either way, I won’t be called by any other name ever again but my own. No more marriages. No more moves. I am home now, at my parents’ place in San Sequoia with Briony. It’s where I belong.” She met his gaze, steady. “Does that answer your question?”

Brad studied her—not searching, not demanding—just looking, just feeling the weight of everything unspoken.

Then, slowly, he nodded.
Not an agreement.
Not judgement.
Just acceptance.

And for now, that was enough.

A Love That Stays

The nursery was dim, golden evening light pooling in soft streaks through the curtains, casting everything in quiet warmth.

Bri sat curled in the armchair, Nathaniel cradled against her chest, his tiny fingers gripping her sweater in loose fists, his breath rhythmic, steady.

She held him like she had held Beau and Briony once—fully, instinctively, like nothing else existed beyond this moment.

Nathaniel cooed, blinking up at her, his little lips parting in half-formed murmurs, a sound that was both gentle and claiming—a baby knowing exactly where home was.

Brad lingered in the doorway, watching, not interrupting.

Something about the way Bri held their son—the way she loved him so fiercely, so fully—settled deep in his chest, somewhere between nostalgia and ache.

She was not his anymore. But in this moment, she was still something unshakable, still something irreplaceable.

“I know you need to step into your own now, Bri,” Brad said finally, voice low, careful. “I get it. I respect it.”

Bri looked up, soft but guarded, instinctively curling Nathaniel closer, rubbing slow circles against his back.

Brad inhaled, shifting his weight slightly.

“But this—this love you give, the kind that defies words—please don’t take this away from me. Don’t take this moment of seeing you hold him, of knowing that in a world where we didn’t last as a couple, this—” His voice dipped, tightening. “This did. Whatever this is.”

Silence stretched, not painful, not awkward. Just true.

Nathaniel kicked lightly in her lap, another sweet, small sound slipping from his lips, and for a brief second, Bri pressed her nose against his forehead, breathing him in.

Brad let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Then—acceptance.

A love that stays.

Turquoise & Chrome

Sunlight stretched across the water, turning the surface into a shifting palette of turquoise and gold.

Bri leaned against the balcony rail, the breeze pressing soft against her skin, island air thick with salt and promise.

It was the kind of place that made forgetting easy—or at least pretending to.

Her lips curved, just faintly, before turning into something sharper, something with a hint of mischief as she dropped into a lounge chair, positioned herself, lifted her phone, framing the shot.

Click.

Looking at it she laughed harder than she wanted to, while typing up a message. Random. Just so.

Somewhere Else Entirely
Chrome. Glass. Black leather.
A pristine tower of power, the kind that screamed money, precision, influence.
Cunningham Industries.
Board Room.

The SVP had been droning on for twenty minutes—or was it forty? Brad wasn’t sure anymore. Words blurred into each other and into nothing, just another meeting, banter, inconsequential, just another day.

His phone buzzed.

Discreetly, he grabbed it, glanced down, thumb swiping over the screen. His interest barely flickered—until he saw her name.

Briar Rose.

He tapped the message open.
Gasped.
Then nearly dropped his phone.

Careful—composed—he recovered, posture straightening, attention snapping back to neutral.
Except—he was already laughing, low, sharp, before he could stop himself.

Heads turned. The presenter stumbled mid-sentence, eyes flicking toward Brad, uncertain whether to pause or continue.

Brad cleared his throat, masking his amusement with a quick sip of his coffee, waving a hand in mild dismissal.

“Carry on.”

The room settled back into its usual rhythm, but his grin remained, crooked at the edges.
His thumb hovered over the screen, reading the caption again.

‘No, this time it’s not what you think, just my knees, but … made you look! 😊😉’

Damn her.

Memories surfaced, bright and wicked, from a little over a year ago, when Brad was having a bad day at work and she sent him a topless photo without any warning—her way of cutting through his stress, of breaking tension before it could settle too deep. Had worked too. After seeing that, Brad had a lot of things on his mind, but stress wasn’t one of them anymore.

He shook his head, exhaling through his nose, thumb tapping against the screen as he replied.

‘Thanks for the chuckle. I needed that. Sitting through the world’s longest and dullest speech on … I think I forgot what. :)’

‘Yikes. Tell them a good speech should be like a woman’s skirt, long enough to cover everything but short enough to create interest. 😉 ’

Brad chuckled again. Heads turned, he dissuaded them with a stern glare then typed back
‘Good one, I’ll have to remember that! I am tempted to say it out loud. This guy’s skirt is long enough to wrap around the room by now.’

‘Jeeze. You’re the big cheese. Can’t you just tell him to STFU?’

‘I wish, but unfortunately no, unless I want to lose all credibility.’

‘Want me to save you?’

“How?’

‘Pick up your phone!’

His phone rang, it was Bri. Confused he answered, his tone neutral when she immediately instructed him

“Okay, listen—make a face like I’m some work person telling you something mega-urgent, like one of your hospitals is on fire, and tell Skirt Guy you gotta take this somewhere private. Now. Just trust me. Go!”

“Yes, yes, I understand,” Brad said in his sharp business tone, then to the room, “Apologies, something’s come up that I need to address immediately.”

He was up and out the door before anyone could offer to help, coffee in hand, tie slightly crooked now from the sudden escape.

“It worked. I’m out. Now what?”

“Keep going.”

“To where?”

“To your car! Remember? Important thing to address? It’s off site.”

“Bri, I can’t just leave the office like—”

“Of course you can. You’re the big kahuna, remember? If you can’t play hooky, who can? What are they gonna do, fire you? You own that shit, and the building it is in too. Get in the car, Dr. Kooky Kahuna, and drive.”

And somehow—he did.

An hour later, while making fun conversation with Bri on the way passing the time all too quickly, he found himself parked on Main Street in downtown Brindleton Bay, rain streaking gently across his windshield. He looked up at the familiar storefront—the soft pink awning of Ella’s Sweetest Things, hand-lettered signage still curling with quaint charm, fogged windows glowing with golden light.

He sighed. “Bri…”

“Yup. I totally used you. So, since you are there already, might as well go in and buy as many bags as they’ll sell you of that triple mix I am obsessed with—what’s it called again?”

“The Gold Nugget Collection? I heard it was discontinued.”

“Ugh. Those bitches! Can you find me something worthy, pretty please? I trust your taste. Pleeeease …”

“Fine, I’ll see what I can do. I’ll call you back.”

Brad stepped into the shop, warmth and the scent of candied almonds wrapping around him like memory. Glass jars lined the walls, shelves were stacked with artisan confections in neatly folded paper boxes, ribbons tied just so. A bell chimed above him.

The woman behind the counter smiled kindly. “Can I help you?”

He hesitated. “Yes. I’m looking for… a candy. For my … for my …” Brad almost said wife, then wanted to say ex-wife but that felt even wronger.

Pause.

“For my … a very dear friend. Do you still sell the ‘Gold Nugget’? Her favorite.”

“I am afraid those were discontinued a few months ago and we completely sold out. But if she liked that, she’ll love our new one. We call it The Rose Mix.”

She set a small sample box in front of him: elegant watercolor packaging sealed with a wax-pressed dried petal.

“Rose mix? I am intrigued. What’s in it?” Brad couldn’t help seeing the irony with Bri’s full name being Briar ROSE.

“Rosehip Raspberry Truffles—dark chocolate, floral and sharp. Burnt Sugar Violet Brittle with a hint of lavender sea salt. And Almond Butter & Cardamom Swirls—soft, rich, nostalgic. It’s one of our most beloved new collections.”

Brad held the box gently, like it might hold something fragile. “That sounds… very her.”

“Should I wrap a few?”

“All of them. However many you’ve got. Say, do you ship countrywide?”

“Of course, we ship all over the world. I’ll take down the address. And something for yourself?” she asked.

He smiled faintly. “Alderwood Honey Caramels. Please.”

After he had given her Bri’s parents’ address in San Sequoia, she rang him up, he pulled out his phone. “Bri. Sorry, I was right. Gold Nugget’s gone. But they’ve got something new—the Rose Mix. Truffles, brittle, cardamom swirls… how does that sound?”

Her voice purred through the line. “Mmm. Mouthwatering! I love it when you talk candy to me. That sounds divine. Buy every box. And Braddy—don’t forget your Alderwood Honey Caramels. Reward yourself. You earned it.”

He laughed softly, trying to ignore how well she knew him, tucking the phone between shoulder and cheek as he paid. “You could’ve just asked me to ship you something. They do that now, you know—worldwide. You can probably order online too.”

“Yeah, but where’s the fun in that? It’s more special knowing you picked it out for me. And you were bored. I gave you purpose. Saved you from Skirt Guy. Besides, I like to keep you guessing.”

“Mission accomplished on all levels.”

“Anyway, I’m risking things here too. You’re my ex-husband and I have a 50/50 shot you might poison the order. Gotta keep the cliché alive. Dun dun dunnnnnn…”

“Right. Because I went to med school just to learn how to effectively poison ex-wives, the real reason Molly isn’t really talking to me or responding to the kids much. Thanks for the reminder.”

“Bye, Braddy. And thank you.”

“You are welcome and thank you as well. Enjoy your… where are you anyway?”

“Filming a few sequences for another music vid in Tartosa. Balmy. Gorgeous. So much sun, joy, music…”

“Well, I’ll live vicariously through you. I know spring is at the horizon, but right now it is still very much winter in Brindleton Bay and raining sideways. Again. Or still. Who can tell at this point?”

“God, I forgot. The Bay doesn’t do winter—it just marinates in sadness until everything drowns in snow and then suddenly it melts, rains forever then suddenly explodes in springtime beauty. Well, go home and read a book by the fireplace with your favorite cognac and those caramels. Bye, Brad.”

He chuckled, tucking the bag into his passenger seat as the rain picked up.

It wasn’t flirting. It wasn’t closure. It wasn’t anything easy to name. Just a thread between them, a tug in the chest that said still here. Still real. Still something. Something special to him and to her, something real, genuine, unchangeable, something precious and important to both of them.

The Call & The Weight of Time

The ocean stretched out beyond the rental cabin, endless, shifting, blue melting into blue. The breeze curled around her skin, warm, salty, carrying the faint scent of hibiscus and citrus from the gardens below.

Bri sat on the terracotta balcony, bare feet tucked beneath her, a cup of coffee cooling between her hands. The porcelain was smooth, heavy, grounding—but it couldn’t quiet the unsettled churn rising in her chest.

Then her phone rang. At first, she assumed it was Brad again, but the Caller ID read differently.

Mom.

She swallowed. Calls from home could mean anything, but her parents rarely interrupted her workdays—they usually waited for her to reach out. When they did call, it was often something significant. She wiped her palm against her leg and picked up.

The words hit slow, careful, but inevitable.

“I am sorry, baby, but Aunt Caitlin passed this morning.”

Her breath stilled.

She had known it was coming—they all had. Caitlin wasn’t old, younger than Bri’s parents, but when Heath died months ago, it was as if her body had simply decided not to keep going without him.

The former model, already waif-thin, had barely eaten, barely slept, cried until she was too weak to do much else. And now, she was gone. In her late sixties. Died of a broken heart over losing her husband.

She went to be with Heath again. That part made sense.

But it didn’t soften the blow.

Caitlin—her father’s closest sister. They had always been tight.

And before her, other family had gone, all within a few weeks of each other. Blake. Liam. Vivien. Heath.

Loss in waves, each folding over the last, leaving behind empty spaces where permanence once lived.

Vivien’s name carried weight. ViVa.

Gone, but still everywhere—magazine covers, headlines, tributes, that final interview airing endlessly like a ghost refusing to fade.

She had never been close to Chase, her little brother, 14 years between them, but she had been everything to Bri’s career—a mentor, a guide, someone who understood the weight of fame from a woman’s perspective.

Vivien had loved Liam the way Caitlin loved Heath. Loved him until it hurt. Until she couldn’t exist without him.

She died the day after he did.

Both had managed to meet their youngest great-grandbaby before they passed.

Blake had lingered for years without Mila, just existing, never fully living.

Bri’s fingers curled tighter around the cup, the ceramic pressing firm against her palms.

“How’s Dad?” she asked quietly.

A pause.

“Holding up, but you know how he is. It hasn’t fully hit him yet. I expect a meltdown soon. Connor’s stopping by after his shift, and Iris and Jas are coming over for a while. When will you be home?”

Bri exhaled. “I need to finish this shoot. A day, day and a half tops. I think my black dress is still at the cleaners from Heath’s funeral.” She shook her head, voice quieter. “This needs to stop.”

Her father—strong, grounded, still playing music, still jogging with family mutt Snuffins, still crawling around on the floor with the grandbabies.

Still here. But not forever. Bri and her siblings have been made painfully aware of that. Age isn’t always an indicator of time left. She was now happier than ever that she lived with them again.

This was how you knew you were getting older. Not by birthdays, not by the mirror—but by watching the people who had always been there… start to fade into past tense.

She let the tears come—silent, slow, tracing paths against sun-warmed skin.

Then—a knock at the door.

Bri exhaled, wiped her face, reset.

The assistant peeked in, hesitant, apologetic.

“They’re ready for you.”

She turned to the mirror, stared down the red-rimmed eyes, forced the smile into place.

“Show must go on.”

For a brief moment she considered calling Brad, then realized that was too much too soon after the divorce. He had come to Liam and Vivien’s funeral with her and the looks they both has received were more than uncomfortable, especially when Bri fell apart sobbing and he held her. No doubt Brad would drop everything and clear his schedule to come with her again, but that was also not fair to him.

The Funeral

The oak trees towered above the Cameron family crypt, their sprawling limbs bare against the steel-blue winter sky. Branches reached out like timeworn arms, casting long, skeletal shadows across the frost-laced stones and the path that led to the crypt.

No one spoke. Grief had muted the world.

Bri stood just beneath the largest oak, still as stone, the program clenched tightly in her hands. Her fingers were stiff with cold, but she didn’t loosen her grip. The paper had curled from where her palm had pressed too long against it.

She hadn’t read it again. She didn’t need to.

Caitlin.

Her aunt. Her father’s sister. The one who used to sneak her extra frosting and tell the funniest stories from her modeling days and dating a shy nerdy type like Uncle Heath. About raising identical twin boys, Noah and Nolan, whose mourning even reflected the same on their faces as they stood in the front row with their wives and children. Aunt Cait, the quiet one, full of grace and elegance, the one who had been so alive.

And now—gone.

Bri’s eyes drifted to her father, standing at the front of the family, jaw clenched in that way he always did when emotion threatened to break through the seams of his control. She wondered if he even remembered how to cry.

Then—quietly, without warning—a hand slipped into hers.

Rough. Familiar. Warm even through the chill of her fingers.

She inhaled sharply.

Her eyes flicked sideways—and caught her breath.

Jackson.

She hadn’t seen him arrive. Hadn’t heard him step up. But now he stood beside her, solid, still, grounding. Gone were his flannel shirts and scuffed boots. He wore a tailored black suit beneath a dark wool overcoat, clean lines and polished shoes that looked almost foreign on him—and yet, somehow, made him feel even more like himself.

She blinked at him, stunned—not just by the sight, but by the fact of him.

And Jackson, ever composed, gave her a subtle shake of his head and lifted a finger to his lips, nodding faintly toward the front where the priest’s voice continued in gentle cadence.

Not now. No words. Just presence.

His palm shifted in hers with a flicker of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and then he carefully eased his hand free, with that gentle, deliberate patience that was so uniquely him. Bri hadn’t realized how strongly her hold on his hand had become.

He leaned in just enough to be heard.

“Darlin’, I’m gonna still need that hand,” he murmured, low and rough as worn leather. “Can’t work a ranch with just one.”

It wasn’t meant to be funny, but it broke something inside her all the same—a breathless half-laugh tangled in a sob.

She didn’t thank him. Didn’t speak at all. Instead, she let his arm wrap around her shoulders, allowed herself to lean in.
Not for strength.
Not for rescue.
But for the simplest, rarest thing of all—a place to rest her heart for a moment.

She later learned that he had heard about the death from Beau, who had texted with Briony. Instead of dropping Beau off with his grandparents to fly out for the funeral with them, meeting Bri on her way back from Tartosa, Jackson had decided to come along.

A Night of Surprises

The SAA Gala buzzed like a beehive tipped on its side—flashbulbs bursting, red carpet shimmering beneath the relentless flicker of lights, and a chorus of reporters jostling behind velvet ropes, calling out names with sugar-laced urgency.

Bri adjusted the lapel of her sleek black gown, chin lifted as she posed, posture poised against the chaos. Just behind the press line, fans waved signs and held up phones like offerings, hopeful for a wave, a smile, a moment.

This was her night. Her big night.
Then—she saw him.

Jackson.

Her breath caught—not nerves. Shock. Raw and immediate.

He was here?

He stood just beyond the velvet ropes, under the arc of a spotlight that caught on the edge of his dark suit—sharp at the seams but slightly too stiff across his broad shoulders. Hands in his pockets. Chin lifted. Clearly regretting every second. He looked like a man who’d been dragged into the wrong movie and told to act natural.

Bri moved toward him before she could stop herself, slipping through the arch in the rope and whispering, “What are you doing here?!”

Jackson opened his mouth—but before he could answer—

“Oh, hell yes—look who just crawled outta Cowboy Town and into the Sparkle Dome looking dapper AF!!”

Bri didn’t have to turn. Jasper. And instantly she knew how Jackson got there. Jas had something to do with it.

Bigger than life in a velvet tux jacket, sauntering toward them with his usual mix of swagger and zero filter, Bri’s twin sister Iris gliding coolly at his side, utterly unbothered by the storm he was already brewing.

Jackson barely had time to blink before Jasper clapped a hand on his shoulder like they were lifelong pals.

“You dress up nice, babe,” Jasper crowed. “Face still looks like you’d rather be fixing a fence post, but hey—it’s a look. Nothing a couple of gallons of champagne couldn’t fix.”

Security clocked them immediately.

“Sir, this section is for nominees and their designated guests—”

“Yeah, I am a nominee and he’s my plus one,” Jasper fired back, lightning-fast.

The guard nodded toward Iris. “You listed her.”

“Did I say mine?” Jasper shrugged, mock confusion. “I meant her plus one.” He gestured to Bri, then leaned closer with eyes that screamed play along or I swear I’ll create a scene.

Bri flashed her most dazzling, camera-ready smile. “Yes. Jackson’s my plus one. Come here, babe—what are you doing outside the ropes, you silly willy? Men, amirite. Need a leash.”

She and Jasper tugged him across the threshold in synchronized chaos.

A second security guard raised a brow, but the velvet rope fell aside like it knew better than to interfere.

Jackson exhaled, muttering something that sounded like “this is a terrible idea” as he was marched past the line of confused onlookers and very curious photographers.

Bri swore she caught him shooting a death glare at Jasper, who beamed like a man proud of his criminal genius.

“Told ya it’d work,” Jasper whispered. “Jas knows a thing or two about a thing or two.”

Before she could answer, or complain that nobody told her anything, a wave of movement swept toward her.

“Briar Rose—photos now!” barked a publicist, perfectly styled and utterly panicked, her headset slipping as she pointed toward the step-and-repeat like it was a battlefield.

A hand gripped Bri’s elbow. Someone else grabbed Jackson’s sleeve pulling him along to make room for the next batch of VIPs arriving.

And just like that, they were swept into the storm—the wall of lights, the blur of flashes, Jackson blinking like he was being interrogated by aliens.

And Bri?
Still reeling.
Because somehow, impossibly— he’d shown up.
At the SAAs. In a suit.

And she let it happen, moving into position with practiced ease, flashing smiles, adjusting angles, absorbing the moment, answering questions about the designers of her clothing and future plans with her music.

Until—she caught sight of him again.
Trying to blend into the background off to the side, looking on.
That smirk.
Slow. Infuriating. Smug as hell.
She narrowed her eyes, then—without hesitation—reached back, grabbed his wrist, and pulled him forward.

Right into the spotlight.

Jackson stiffened immediately, posture turning to solid steel, jaw tightening as the cameras swiveled in his direction.

He hated attention.
She knew that.
Which made dragging him forward even sweeter.

He muttered something under his breath—something entirely unfit for the microphones nearby—and Bri laughed, gripping his arm just a little tighter, fully basking in his discomfort.

For once, the attention wasn’t all on her.
And for once, Jackson had nowhere to hide.

A Night to Remember

The SAA Gala Hall shimmered under the dazzling glow of gold-drenched chandeliers, reflecting light against polished marble floors. Everywhere she looked, elegance reigned—velvet seating arranged with meticulous precision, towering floral centerpieces blooming in rich crimson and deep indigo, wine glasses catching the flicker of candlelight like tiny prisms.

It was too polished, too pristine, worlds away from where Bri normally felt at home.

But tonight—she belonged here.

At the assigned table near the stage, her mom Hailey to her left, poised and watchful, absorbing every detail; Chase next to her, relaxed yet unmistakably proud, the quiet kind of pride that didn’t need to be announced.

To her right—Jackson.

And beside him—Jasper, already leaning back in his chair, wearing confidence like a second skin, and Iris, effortless, composed, but fully present.

Six seats. A full table. A strange sort of balance.

Jackson shouldn’t have been here. But here he was.

Still adjusting the knot of his tie, like it was strangling the life out of him, his wild hair slicked back in an unsuccessful attempt at refinement.

Bri wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

They weren’t together.
Not really.
And yet.
They weren’t apart either. Never really had been, but now even less so.
Her nerves tightened.

The presenter had been droning on for what felt like hours, listing accomplishments, making half-baked jokes that only a fraction of the audience even pretended to laugh at.

Bri turned to her only defense—champagne.
One glass. Then another. And another.
Then—

Jackson snatched the latest one right out of her fingers.

“You might wanna slow down, Rosey,” he muttered, setting it aside.

She froze. Rosie?! Seriously now?! trying to reach for the glass, but Jackson first pushed her hands off, then grabbed the glass and gulped it down like a gas station Slurpee.

She was mid-protest when Hailey—without so much as glancing up—plucked a canapé from the platter and shoved it right into Bri’s open mouth.

“See that she gets some food in her to float around in all that sparkly,” she instructed smoothly, handing Jackson her plate like a silent contract. “She hasn’t eaten anything all day.”

Jackson grinned, flashing dimples she really didn’t need to see right now.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Bri glared—first at her mother, then at Jackson, chewing with no other choice left.

She swallowed, side-eyed him, and narrowed in just as Jackson reached for another bite.

“Don’t even—”

Jackson feigned innocence, setting the piece back down—then smoothly picking up another, stuffing both into her mouth at the same time, hand covering her lips so she couldn’t spit them out.

Jasper and Iris doubled over laughing as Bri muffled curses between chews. Iris took a few snapshots of her twin sister’s struggle, just because. Chase leaned in “Guys, get it together here. I am all for having fun at these events, but remember it is crawling with press and they are just waiting for clickbait moments. This isn’t one of Connor’s parties, act accordingly.”

And right in that exact moment – Bri’s name was called. Everyone froze in mid-movement.

“And the award for Best Contemporary Pop Song goes to…
Miss Briar Rose Cameron!”

Mouth full, nerves spiked, dress not cooperating—she was buzzed, terrified, and somehow still supposed to make it to the stage in heels.

She shot Jasper a panicked glance, but he only grinned, throwing two thumbs up like she wasn’t dying inside.

“You got this!” Iris said cheerfully, then smacked her hard on the butt as she passed her sister on the way to stage. This moment, shown live on the huge screens, incited more laughs than all of the presenter’s jokes combined.

Bri stumbled forward. Siblings!

Applause roared. Camera flashes burst in rapid succession.

She somehow made it to the stairs and up to the stage—wobbled slightly, because champagne on an empty stomach and a figure-hugging designer gown determined to sabotage her movement plus 6-inch stiletto strappy heels were a terrible mix—and somehow, miraculously, made it up the steps without causing a scene.

Hugged the presenter—whose balmy congratulations didn’t quite register in her champagne-fogged brain. Thank God Jackson had taken the fourth glass from her or this might have ended really badly, she thought, turning to the audience and everything turned blurry for a moment.

Then—the mic.

She scanned the expectant, watchful crowd. Breathed in, then out, like her Dad had told her to do.
She could hear her pulse in her ears, feel the electric tension pressing against her ribs.
Thank God Dad had made her practice like the speech was scripture.

She delivered it—smooth, careful, almost automatic—until…

“And of course, I also want to say something very important, which is … which is…”

Her mind emptied.
Yeah, what was so important again … umm …
Nothing came to mind but utter vacuum.
A full, catastrophic blank.
She panicked.

Bri stood frozen on stage, gripping the microphone like a lifeline, the weight of the award suddenly too heavy in her hands.

She could hear her own heartbeat pounding in her ears, felt panic and anxiety, feel the silence stretching too long, too awkward as she stared out at the expectant audience.

And—desperate—she turned to her family’s table.

Her dad Chase with eyes wide, hands flat on the table like he was physically willing words into her brain. The sheer horror on his face was almost comical if she weren’t currently dying inside.

Her mom Hailey sat poised, elegant—but the sharpness in her expression screamed distress. Her fingers clutched the stem of her champagne flute so tightly it was a miracle it hadn’t snapped yet.

Her fraternal twin Iris sported a deep frown, brow furrowed, visibly trying to figure out how to telepathically beam words to Bri’s brain.

Jasper was pure determination—two thumbs up, an exaggerated nod, like she could will herself out of this if she just believed hard enough.

And Jackson?

Completely still. Expression unreadable.
Just watching.
Just waiting.

“… which … is …” Bri mumbled again, realizing too much time had passed, but also hoping to trigger the rest of the speech into her brain. Or a word. ANY word.

Until—

“YEE-HAW!”

Jackson’s unmistakable country-boy drawl split through the silence, echoing off the walls.

Laughter rippled through the crowd.
Chase—without hesitation—stood, clapping with full dramatic flair.

“You heard the man! Yee-fucking-haw, people! THAT’s what’s important!”

Jasper jumped up too, clapping vicariously “Hell yeah, Yeeeee-hawww, bitchez! That’s what’s up!”

And suddenly—the room erupted in applause, cheers, whistles—and yeehaws.
Somehow, through absolute chaos, she had won her first major industry award.
Somehow—she was … Still Standing. Which, ironically, was the name of the single that won her the award.

She made it back to the table, slid into her chair, snatched another champagne flute of a passing waiter’s tray, eyes daring Jackson to try and stop her.

She took a long sip, then leaned over, voice sickly sweet.

“Thank you for that, but I am going to kill you for force-feeding me just before I had to go on. I am sure all the footage of my first major win now has me with food in my teeth!”

Jackson? Entirely unfazed.

“Ya wanna kill me for makin’ sure ya didn’t go down like the a blimp with a hole in it by gettin’s some food in ya, ya gotta do it now then, or it’s gon’ have to wait. ‘Bout to head back home.” He drawled, sliding his chair back.

Bri blinked, stunned, grabbing his wrist.

“What!? No! Jackson, you can’t leave now! I just won a significant award! We have to celebrate.”

He stood, adjusting his damn tie. Again.

“Well, darlin’, I got a ranch to run. If ya wanna celebrate, ya know where to find me.”

A nod to everyone. “Bye ev’yone, and congrats again. Thanks for havin’ me here, Jas and Iris. Night all.”

Then—he strode away. And Bri—for the second time tonight—was completely speechless.

Home on the Ranch

The sun had climbed high, burning gold against an unbroken stretch of blue. The heat hung thick, carrying dust and the scent of hay, while the quiet rhythm of ranch life unfolded like it always did—work boots scuffing against dry earth, the murmur of men handling tack, the occasional snort from restless horses waiting to run.

Jackson stood near the main corral, one boot pressed against the fence rail, hat dipped low as he watched Beau wrestle with a rope knot that clearly had won the battle before it even began.

Beau wasn’t alone—ranch hands moved around him, tending to saddles, leading horses from paddocks, discussing rotations for the day.

Still, Jackson’s focus settled squarely on his boy.

“Ain’t gonna win that fight, son. Not like that. Best start over fresh,”

Beau gritted his teeth, yanking harder, determined to prove otherwise. “I can do it, Pa!”

Then—he stilled.

Frozen, eyes squinting against the glare of the sun, posture shifting from childhood frustration into something breathless, something entirely unexpected.

And then—he dropped the rope and ran.

“Momma!”

Jackson barely had time to react before Beau shot past him, boots kicking up dirt as he barreled toward the fence.

“Dad, it’s Momma!”

Jackson blinked, then straightened, turning sharply, eyes narrowing at the road leading up to the ranch.

And there—walking toward them like she belonged in every inch of this land – Briar Rose Cameron.

Jackson exhaled slow, disbelief settling across his features before he started forward, steps measured, intentional, but undeniably drawn toward her.

Beau reached the fence first, gripping the top rail, practically vibrating with excitement.

Then—Bri snatched his hat straight off his head, kissed and hugged him tightly, before settling it atop her own, tipping it low—exactly how Jackson did.

“Well howdy, little Sir,” she drawled, imitating his drawl terribly, her grin teasing, playful. “Heard y’all could use some celebratin’ ‘round here.”

Beau laughed first, then Jackson, shaking his head.

“That was painful, please don’t do that again. But as I live an’ breathe … Bri out at the ranch again.”

Bri smirked, adjusting the hat, watching Beau’s face light up like sunrise.
Jackson leaned against the post, arms folded, still watching her too closely.

“Where’s Briony?”

Bri sighed, adjusting the brim of the hat. “School. Speaking of—why isn’t Beau in school? Why are you home, baby?”

Immediately—panic. Beau shrank about two inches, eyes flicking left, then right, before settling on a clear escape route. “Uh oh…”

Then—he bolted, mumbling something about work, ranch duties, urgent responsibilities only a ten-year-old could fabricate convincingly.

Jackson sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, watching the retreat with zero surprise.

“Well, that’s a story for another day.” he drawled, averting his eyes.

Bri arched a brow, unimpressed. “Did he get in trouble AGAIN?”

Jackson gave her a long, knowing look, then shrugged.

“Whaddaya think? That I just thought the kid needed a vacation doin’ manual labor rather than learnin’ things? His punishment for actin’ out again, school sent him back home an hour after he got there, suspended all week, although I am startin’ to think I need to change my approach, he seems to enjoy his punishment more than school.”

Bri sighed, shaking her head. “I swear, every time I talk to you about him he got into some sort of trouble.”

“Yup, lil boys for ya. I’ll tell ya about it later. I personally don’t even think it’s bad, his teachers and the principal disagree. I think it’s actually a kinda funny story, makes it harder to look mad at him for it, when barely able not to laugh,” Jackson cut in smoothly, eyes narrowing slightly. “Now ya tell me why you’re here. Yer smilin’—so I think I ain’t in trouble with ya again somehow.”

Bri grinned wider, pulling forward a large tote on one of her shoulders, pointing to it. “Nope. I am here to celebrate with you. Into the cabin we go, cowboy. Now. I wasn’t expecting Beau to be home, or I would have brought him something too.”

Jackson turned, only now realizing the entire ranch had gone suspiciously quiet—all eyes on them, every single one of his ranchhands watching, waiting, grinning like they were witnessing something legendary unfold.

Jackson rolled his shoulders, then let out a sharp sigh.

“Whatcha all think yer doin’? Alright, y’all listen up—” The ranch hands straightened quickly, feigning innocence. “I know none of ya get paid to stand around starin’. So either ya wanna keep yer job, or y’all can go pretend yer workin’ somewhere outta my sight.”

They scrambled like a fire had just sparked under their boots, muttering under their breaths, chuckling but ultimately clearing the area fast enough to escape trouble.

Then—he called Beau over, who reluctantly inched back to them.

“Yes, Pa?”

Jackson adjusted his hat. “Go over to Chayton’s house and tell him he wants ya, kid. Overnight and make sure he’s takin’ ya to school tomorrow with his twins. Yer mother and I got to talk. Gon’ be a long talk.”

Bri gasped, heat rising to her face instantly.

“Jackson!”

Jackson grinned, entirely too unbothered, turning to their son. “Git!”

Beau grinned wide, practically bouncing. Chayton Greywolf’s children were some of Beau’s best friends so he didn’t have to be asked twice. “Okayyyyy. Bye, Momma!”

“Beau! Take yer bag and books with ya!” Jackson called, causing the boy to run an arc into the cabin, only to appear shortly after with what looked like an overnight bag and his school backpack. Then—he was off, running before Bri could argue. He rather skip on the visit with mom than end up being sat down and lectured about his suspension from school.

“We practiced that. I make sure he always has a bag packed in case of an emergency.” Jackson drawled.

She barely had time to process what just happened before Jackson pulled her toward the cabin, leading her inside with too much certainty, too much control.

As the door clicked shut, she started—”Why did you send him away? Maybe I wanted to—”

She never finished.

Jackson pulled her through the doorway, eyes locked on hers, breath shallow between them. The door clicked shut behind them— and then he pressed her to it.
One arm braced high on either side of her head, palms flat against the wood. His body close, the space between them vanishing as quickly as the breath in her lungs.

Then—he kissed her.

Not soft. Not careful.

His mouth crashed into hers with the kind of force that tasted like months of holding back. It was urgent, claiming, the kiss of someone who knew exactly what he was asking and wasn’t about to apologize for it.

Her hands found his shoulders, gripped tight, and she kissed him back like it might be the last time—heat rising fast, restraint unraveling between heartbeats.

No words. Just the sound of them colliding—against the door, against each other, against the months they spent pretending they were anything but this.

Bri didn’t resist. Didn’t hesitate. She just melted into him, arms curling around his neck, letting the moment crash hard and fast and inevitable.

And then— they pulled back.

Reluctantly. Breath shallow. Eyes wide with something tangled between want and memory. His forehead rested against hers, both of them still trying to catch their breath, stunned by the velocity of it—how easy it still was. How dangerous. Her fingers were still knotted in his shirt.

His eyes didn’t leave hers.

Then, low and rough. “That’s why.” A beat. “You been gone too long to remember that’s my favorite way to celebrate with ya?”

“No. But I didn’t come here to smooch around on you, I brought food and champagne to celebrate my win with you. I am a freaking celebrity now, Jackson. It’s real now. I am now a real musician, just like my dad, like Colton, like Aunt Viv was, like my grandpa, my great-grandparents before him. I am a frigging VIP in my own right now.”

“You always been a VIP to me and, woman, if I had to pick between kissin’ on ya and eatin’, I am gonna say y’all gonna be haulin’ that bag back home with ya.”

“Right. Seriously though Jackson. Thank you for showing up for me. Twice. At the funeral and the award show. I know you hate dressing up. But you did it. For me. Thank you.”

“Well, I did learn from past mistakes. And I am tryin’ to be better. At first, when ya was with Brad, I just wanted to be better so I don’t lose ya completely. Then Boone happened, and Savannah, you had Nathaniel, and I thought everythin’ was lost between us. Tried to move on, I most certainly did try, but … well … for one Boone never liked the things ya like. She was basically like a man with female body parts. You’d think I’d’ve loved that, but … well, turns out I do like me a woman who acts and feels and talks like a woman. And one who don’t run when the goin’ gets tough. You are all woman, Bri. Ya smell like a woman, talk like a woman, act like a woman, hell, ya feel like a woman. But yer strong too, in yer own way, maybe stronger than Boone was. Ya never ran when the going got tough. Ya always stayed. Heck, ya came back for me and stayed with me when I needed ya the most. So, if anybody has to thank anyone, it’s me thankin’ you.”

“Alright. Well, in that case, you can thank me by listening to me. Here’s the plan,” Bri said, slipping the bottles of champagne into the fridge with delicate precision. “I’ll set up the food. You—go shower and change. Immediately if not sooner.” she crinkled her nose.

Jackson leaned in the doorway, brow arched.

She leveled a look at him. “You smell like three hours on horseback and a dare had a baby with a garbage container. And I just unpacked foie gras, caviar, and a wheel of cheese that has its own passport. I am not pairing that with your ‘eau de old saddle and man sweat.’”

He smirked. “Wasn’t aware my natural scent offended you, queen Bri.” he bowed exaggeratedly.

“It offends decency,” she said, straightening a patterned napkin with flair. “And my appetite. So unless you want me to spend the entire meal dry heaving into the paper bag, take that… musky rank cowboy aroma and get in the shower.”

Jackson sighed, shaking his head as he turned toward the bathroom door.

“Musk,” he muttered under his breath. “Thought that was supposed to be sexy.”

“On a deer, maybe,” Bri called after him. “Not when it’s steeped in the smell of horse, hay, leather, sweat and—oh my God. Did you step in something?”

He glanced down, nostrils flaring as her nose wrinkled harder.

“It’s just my boots,” he said, holding one up. “Well-worn leather and a long day, sweetheart. That’s all.”

She raised a brow. “Those boots have seen things. They’ve been through stuff.”

He sniffed the air, paused, then looked down with a slow, suspicious squint. One boot came off with a thud. He lifted it, gave it a cautious sniff—then shrugged.

“That whatcha smell? It ain’t bad, y’all just not used to it anymore.”

Then, with the kind of grin that meant trouble, he turned and held it out to her.

Bri recoiled instantly, hands in the air. “Absolutely not. You keep that funk bubble over there.”

Jackson barked a laugh, shook his head, and grabbed the other boot. With both dangling from one hand, he headed toward the bedroom, muttering something about “ungrateful women and their delicate noses.”

She watched him plop them behind the door with practiced aim, then pad back out toward the bathroom, shirt half untucked, the faintest dust still on his jeans.

He paused in the doorway, looked back at her—like he might say something. Might crack a joke or soften a line.

But then he just smiled. That slow, crooked one. And shook his head. Then disappeared behind the door with the low clack of the latch and the start of running water. She popped the champagne with a grin.

“Whip, cracked. I still got it.” She giggled to herself as she started setting out the food, while the muffled rush of water hitting porcelain filtering into the cabin as Bri set about arranging the food.

The space had barely changed—rough wooden beams overhead, the faded couch still threatening to collapse under the weight of time, and the scent of earth, leather, and something unmistakably Jackson lingering in the air. And no, he hadn’t smelled back at all to her, she just wanted to prove a point to herself.

She set down the mismatched plates, each with patterns so faded you could barely tell anymore what they might have been once, each scarred with years of use, pouring fine champagne into tin coffee mugs because, of course, that was all he had.

Rustic didn’t even begin to cover it.

A door clicked open.

Jackson stepped out, hair damp, towel slung loosely around his neck as he was rubbing his face and hair dry with it, fresh clothes fitting more comfortably now that the dust and sweat had been scrubbed away.

Bri leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, watching him as he tossed the towel onto a chair before settling across from her.

“You’re not gonna hang that up to dry?” Bri asked him, frowning, but this time, her attempt at whip cracking was met by his stubbornness. “Nah, towel’s fine right there.”

He eyed the champagne-filled coffee mugs, shaking his head with a half-smirk.

“Fancy as hell, ain’t it?”

“Would it have killed you to own real glasses?”

“Ain’t never been that deep into my priorities, darlin’.”

She sighed, sat down across the table from him, then lifted her mug, cheering him, and they clinked mugs, both taking a sip.

Then—a pause. A shift in the air. The words hanging between them, weightier than before.

“You showed up for me.”

Jackson didn’t move, didn’t blink, just listened.

“At the funeral. At the award show.”

Bri exhaled, setting her mug down, fingers tracing its rim.

“I know you hate dressing up. But you did it. For me. Thank you, Jackson.”

Silence stretched between them—not awkward, not uncomfortable. Just felt.

But before he spoke—before he even looked at her—his voice drifted low, barely more than a hum, carrying words she hadn’t expected to hear when he sung a few lines.

“If I hadn’t been so stubborn, been so selfish
Thought about her more, thought about me less…”

Bri stilled, fingers lightly pressing into the tabletop.
She knew that song.
Same one he played for her at the waterfall.
She knew exactly what it meant.

Jackson sighed, running a hand through his damp hair, shaking his head like he hadn’t realized he’d let those words slip into the open air.

Then—his gaze landed on her.

“Keep starin’ at me like all that, I’m gonna think I walked out here nekkid.”

Bri smirked, tilting her head, deciding not to dig too deep—not yet.

She lifted her mug, taking a sip.

Jackson leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.

“I did learn from past mistakes. I made many, I know, but for what it’s worth, never from ill intend. Jus’ didn’t know no better, thinkin’ I was doin’ right by ya.”

His voice was lower, weighted, as if carrying everything he hadn’t said before.

“At first, when ya was with Brad, I wanted to be better so I didn’t lose ya completely. Then Boone happened. You had Nathaniel, I had Savannah. Thought everythin’ changed. Gone.”

A pause.
A breath.

Then—he looked straight at her.

“A lot changed around me, but nothin’ changed inside of me. Boone never liked the things ya like and for some reason I never liked that she didn’t. She was basically like a man. You’d think I’d’ve loved that, but… turns out, I like me a woman who acts, feels, talks like a woman. And one who don’t run when the goin’ gets tough.”

Bri held his gaze, steady, waiting.

“You are all woman, Bri.”

Jackson exhaled slow.

“Ya smell like a woman, talk like a woman, act like a woman, hell, ya feel like a woman. Oh boy, do ya ever.”

His voice was rougher now, not sweet, not tender—just honest.

“But yer strong too, in yer own way. Maybe stronger than Boone was. She talked a tough game, but couldn’t get through bein’ a wife, let alone a mother.”

He sat back, shaking his head slightly.

“Ya never ran when the going got tough. Ya always stayed. Came back for me and stayed when I needed ya the most. When I was completely unlovable ya still … ya …”

A pause.
Then—his voice softened just enough.

“Well, anyway, if anybody has to thank anyone, it’s me thankin’ you.”

Bri didn’t answer right away. Didn’t rush to fill the space with unnecessary words.

She just let it settle.

Then—lightening the air just enough, tilting her head, smirking slightly—

“How about some food now. I have got dessert for you too, so eat up.”

She gestured toward the food, the tin mugs, the uneven plates.

A Meal, a Show, and Dessert

The midday sun poured unfiltered through the open kitchen windows, casting clean, slanted light across the scuffed wooden table and its mismatched chairs. The warm breeze carried in the sharp scent of hay, saddle leather, and something faintly sweet—molasses, maybe, from the feed shed. Outside, the ranch pulsed with life: hooves clopped steadily on hard-packed earth, ranch hands shouted back and forth, someone whistled a tune that drifted in and out like a lazy summer bee.

Jackson sat nearest the window, one foot hooked around a chair leg, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He tore into a delicate croissant stuffed with smoked salmon and crème fraîche as though it were a barroom sandwich. He made no effort to mute the satisfied grunt that followed the first bite, washing it down with a long pull from his dented tin mug—champagne fizzing wildly inside like it didn’t realize where it was.

Across from him, Bri was careful not to let the aged gouda touch the edge where the glaze had cracked. Her cashmere wrap hung over the back of the chair like it didn’t belong. She sat poised, almost absurdly pristine amid the worn floorboards and half-stuck window that creaked whenever the breeze shifted.

Jackson ate with the enthusiasm of a man who’d been fixing fenceposts since sunrise—loud, unapologetic, sleeves doubling as napkins. A glob of herbed aioli landed dangerously close to the cuff of his shirt, and he barely seemed to notice.

“You could at least pretend to savor it, cowboy,” Bri said, tilting her head.

“Ain’t got time for savorin’,” Jackson answered, mouth half-full. “Might not look it, but that goat cheese and I have a thing goin’ on here.”

She gave a little laugh, nudging a crumb with her fork. “You slapped pâté on a cracker like it owed you money.”

“It’s food. Meant to be eaten, no matter how, long as ya enjoy it—and I am enjoyin’ the hell outta this.” He grinned around the bite.

“I can tell.”

Through the open kitchen windows, late morning sunlight spilled over the warped floorboards, washing the room in warmth and long shadows. From outside came the steady rhythm of ranch life: hooves clopping, metal tools clanging against wood, distant voices hollering instructions, and a ranch hand whistling an off-key tune as he passed by the window. The scent of fresh hay and leather wafted through on a lazy breeze.

Bri watched him, laughing softly, shaking her head. “You could at least pretend to savor it, cowboy.”

“Ain’t got time for savorin’,” he said between bites. “Hard labor makes a man hungry, and fancy food ain’t never lasted long around me.”

Then he paused mid-chew. His gaze caught movement near the windows further back, near the horse paddock out back—a flicker of faces, shadows that didn’t belong, lingering just a beat too long. He set his fork down, slow and deliberate, brow narrowing.

“Hold that thought a sec, will ya?”

With a scrape of chair legs against the wood, he stood, rushed into the bedroom, when he resurfaced his boots were thudding across the floor as he yanked the front door open.

Bri turned just in time to see Jackson charge across the dirt yard like a man on a mission, the full volume of his voice already making the nearby horses twitch their ears.

“I ain’t payin’ y’all to watch me eat! Git! MOVE!”

She laughed, shielding her eyes against the sun pouring through the window. Sure enough, a half-dozen ranch hands scattered like spooked chickens, and unless her eyes were lying, one or two left with a well-placed boot in their rear urging them along.

It took a full minute before Jackson sauntered back inside, winded but triumphant.

“Sorry about that. Take it ya saw?”

Bri leaned back, mug in hand. “Oh, I saw. Employee motivation a la Kershaw, I saw. You kick ass, man. Literally.”

“Gotta keep ’em in line. I don’t pay ’em to gawk like old ladies sittin’ in church on Easter Sunday.”

They settled back into their seats. He resumed devouring the rest of the delicacies with gusto—she slid the plate just out of his reach now and then, just to slow him down. When the meal was gone, he brewed coffee in the old percolator on the stove, and they slipped into a silence that didn’t press, didn’t prod—just curled around them like an old song, quietly familiar.

Once lunch was reduced to crumbs and coffee simmered quietly on the stove, Jackson leaned back, content and stretched, until he began eyeing the kitchen like something had gone missing.

First, he peeked inside her oversized leather tote. Then he opened the fridge, frowning deeper with every passing second.

Bri raised an eyebrow, half-laughing. “What on earth are you doing?”

He straightened slowly, expression dead serious, and looked at her like she’d just betrayed national trust. “You said somethin’ ‘bout dessert… Where is it?”

Bri’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. “Oh, it’s not in the bag. Not in the fridge either.”

She stood, every inch of her movement deliberate as she drifted toward the far end of the cabin, hips swaying just enough to catch his attention. Jackson tracked her steps, his suspicion growing—and with it, a boyish grin tugging at his mouth.

She stopped by the cracked bedroom door, hand resting on the old brass knob.

“It’s over here,” she murmured, glancing back over her shoulder. “In your bedroom.”

Then—with one smooth motion—she opened the door, turned toward him, and wagged her finger in a lazy beckon.

“Still hungry, cowboy?” she purred, slipping one of her sleeves off her shoulder with a carefree slow slide of her finger, all tease and heat wrapped in designer clothing and sun-glow.

Jackson blinked. Then his grin exploded across his face, wide and wicked.

A beat later, the loudest damn “YEEHAW!” echoed through the whole ranch, startling three horses and a man up a ladder.

He charged forward with the force of a rodeo bull and scooped her up like she weighed nothing, sending her into a fit of breathless laughter. They crashed through the doorway in a tangle of limbs, denim, and delight—Bri still giggling as Jackson tossed her onto the bed like a prize he’d waited a decade to reclaim.

His breath came fast, matching hers, both of them flushed and grinning.

“I am starvin’, darlin’,” he growled, hovering over her with a spark in his eyes like he’d just won something bigger than any rodeo buckle as he bent down to kiss her passionately.

The Morning After— Chaos, Calls & Consequences

Bri and Jackson didn’t wake till the next morning, but not even from the crack of dawn, but Bri’s phone buzzing itself off the nightstand, ignored, until the repeated buzzing sent it wandering off the edge landing on the wood planks with a startling thud.

Groaning, Bri fondled for it, right when it rang again. Jasper. With a groan she answered the Facetime. His handsome, perfectly styled head appeared, frowning. “WOW! What the hell did I call. Did you eat my friend Bri? Or is the zombie apocalypse a real thing?” he laughed.

“Fuck you, Jas. What do you want? It’s too early for your BS.”

“Not that early. It’s 7 AM past. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaait just a hot sec. Is that my bro the cowboy I spot there in the sheets next to you? Ooh lalala! Hey buddy, don’t have to ask how your night went if even you are still in the feathers at this hour. Must feel like sleeping till noon for you, my rugged brother.”

Jackson laying face down raised one arm, his voice deep and raspy, muffled by the pillows “Mornin’ Jas…”

Bri shifted, generating another “Whoa!” from Jas followed by him singing “Moon River … lalalalalalaaaaaa.”

Bri realized he could see Jackson’s bare rear so she turned the phone, just as Jackson rose up, bending to kiss Bri, while holding two raised middle fingers into the camera.

“Yeah, you too bro, I salute you back. Just don’t turn the phone any further, Bri, I really don’t want to see his morning salute at you down below.”

“JASPER!”

“What?! Every dude knows morning wood. I am just happy you are messing with the fun one again. Damn, nothing against Brad, but I can’t believe that walking snoozefest was once my best friend and then you married that shit. Thank you Jeezes my parents moved me away in time or I might have turned out just like him. He still does have a pulse, right?”

“Brad’s sweet. Just not … the right kind of sweet for me.”

“You don’t need sweet, you crave spicy. We have that in common, that’s why I am married to your sister. I am the sweet one. So are you. We need spicy, for balance. Yin and yang and all that shebang.”

“Okay sweet Jas, what do you want?”

“Nothing, just checking on ya. I was talking to your dad earlier, your sister had called him about something, and I asked to speak with you, but guess what? You are not home. So, one starts wondering …”

“Oh no, my parents know. Urgh.”

“Bri, you do realize you are 33, not 13, right?”

Jackson came back into the bedroom grabbed the phone from her hand, turned it to him and smirked “Bye Jas, Bri’s gotta go now. Ranch duties await!” and just hung up.

“Ranch duties? You’re gonna make me work?”

“Didcha forget my golden rule? Anything on this ranch has to pull its weight or leave. I don’t want ya to leave, so I am puttin’ ya to work.” With that he pulled her up, against her moaned and groaned complaints and making herself extra heavy, so he picked her up and carried her to the bathroom, she fought him.
“NO! I am not taking a shower! I need to get home. Set me down. I need to get dressed and get driving before traffic picks up. If I leave now I can make it in less than 2 hours, with little speeding required and be home by 9-ish.”

“Ya gonna wash up, ya reek. Ya smell like … well, like we been doing what we been doin’ all night. I ain’t gonna have you walk back home smellin’ like a big neon advertisement of the kind of naughty nighttime business we been up to. Yer daddy’s gonna come here and kick my rear into next week. Or he’s gonna sic that brother of yers on me.”
He set her down, but she kept trying to leave, rejecting the shower, pushed him away and ran back into the bedroom, picking up her clothing, recklessly discarded all across his bedroom floor the night before.

“Bri, I am asking nicely, one last time, ya gonna go and take a shower now?”

“Nope!” she said, pulling her sweater over her head, so he nodded, picked her up again and threw her over his shoulder, trotted outside with her. Before she could realize what was going to happen it already had.

A Swamp, a Shower, and a Show

With a loud splash, Bri landed in the pond outside his cabin.

She surfaced with a gasp, sputtering and blinking water out of her eyes while Jackson stood on the bank, arms crossed, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

Cold morning air pressed against her wet skin, making the situation infinitely worse. Bri shoved dripping strands of hair back, glaring up at him like she was calculating the precise force needed to launch a fist straight at his smug face.

“There. Much better already,” he said, grinning.

She scooped up a fistful of water vegetation and launched it straight at him, throwing in some choice words about things he should strongly reconsider doing to himself.

Jackson dodged easily, snorting. “Ya keep that up, ya ain’t ever gettin’ outta there.”

Bri swiped water from her face and kicked forward toward the edge, hands gripping onto the mud, legs straining against the chill. She was getting out—frozen toes be damned.

“Fuck you, Jackson! FUCK YOU!” she snarled at him, eyes spraying sparks of anger.

That was, until Jackson—slow, deliberate, infuriatingly relaxed—took a single, casual step closer.

“Ya know, Bri,” he mused, voice carrying over the ranch noise—the distant clatter of trucks arriving, Jackson’s ranch hands trickling in for their shift, the low rumble of conversation, the rhythmic crunch of boots on frost-bitten dirt. “I don’t care much for yer tone, reckon you’ve learned nothin’ yet.”

Before Bri could open her mouth, before she could fully register that warning tone, Jackson nudged her shoulder.

Gentle. Just enough.

Enough to send her slipping backward again.

She landed flat on her backside with a spectacular splash, arms flailing as freezing pond water rushed over her all over again.

Jackson lost it—laughter bursting from him so loud it probably echoed all the way to the barn.

Bri gasped, sputtered, then slapped the surface of the water in pure rage. “YOU—”

“Me.” He grinned wide, rocking back on his heels. “You look real rustic now, darlin’. Almost like you belong out here.”

She locked eyes with him, expression murderous. Then, with the slow precision of a woman dead-set on revenge, she shoved forward through the water, claws practically digging into the earth as she climbed out, soaked to the bone, her sweater clinging to her frame, feet bare and muddy as hell.

One of the ranch hands, still lingering by his truck, caught sight of her stomping toward the cabin and wisely pretended not to see a thing.

Jackson stayed put, arms crossed, grin still curling at the corners.

“Reckon that’s gonna be town gossip by noon.”

Bri shot him a glare so sharp it could’ve gutted cattle. “Like I give a shit!”

Jackson chuckled as she stormed toward the cabin door, but damn if she didn’t feel the heat of his gaze trailing after her—full of amusement, full of trouble, full of something dangerous.

And—of course—the ranch hands had caught on.

A sharp whistle cut through the morning air, followed by a wolf whistle, then a few teasing remarks tossed in Bri’s direction that she promptly returned with a middle finger. Laughter roared up.

The crisp winter breeze wasn’t doing her any favors—her sweater clung awkwardly to her soaked frame, mud streaked across bare legs, water still dripping from her hair. The morning sun was up, the trucks had arrived, the horses were shifting impatiently in their stalls, and now Bri was officially the morning’s main event.

But when the ranch hands’ comments started getting a little too colorful, Bri spotted a fallen branch, grabbed it without hesitation, and brandished it like a weapon.

Jackson barely had time to react before she charged—storming toward the group with the sheer, unrelenting fury of a woman who had been tossed into a pond before coffee.

Jackson, still laughing even as she bolted, ran after her—caught her mid-swing, lifted her clean off her feet, and effortlessly relieved her of the weapon.

“Alright, y’all, that’s enough! Get to work!”

His highly entertained and laughing ranch hands scattered faster than they had yesterday, wisely choosing survival over curiosity.

Jackson turned back to Bri—still squirming in his arms, still sputtering every insult she could think of.

With one smooth motion, he kicked the cabin door open, stepped inside, shed his boots at the threshold, and carried her straight into the bathroom, setting her down by the tub before turning on the hot water.

“Yer not gonna fight me no more then?”

Bri sat there, dripping onto the tiles, arms crossed, still vibrating with indignation.

“I want to kick your sorry cowboy ass so hard it lands in the next century! What am I supposed to wear now, huh? Go commando? Let my boobs flop in the wind as I drive home looking like Raggedy Ann?! You think my parents prefer that over your imaginary scandalous smell?”

Jackson stood there, entirely unfazed, arms folded.

“Ya done?”

A beat. A glare.

Then—with a sharp grunt—Bri spun, yanked off the rest of her soaked clothes, tossed them at him, and stepped into the shower without another word.

Jackson, grinning, leaned against the doorframe.

Outside, the ranch was still waking—boots crunching against frozen dirt, muffled voices trading greetings, the rhythmic clank of equipment being unloaded, and the occasional snicker from a ranch hand who had definitely seen everything but knew better than to comment.

“Need any help in there?” Jackson called into the bathroom after a brief knock with his knuckles.

Her answer was colorful, more creative suggestions on how to best use his own body parts on himself—enough that he smirked, shook his head, and wisely retreated before she launched anything at him.

Breakfast & Old Memories

By the time Bri emerged—wrapped in a towel, still damp but thoroughly cleaned—the smell of eggs and bacon filled the cabin.

Jackson stood by the stove, coffee already poured, looking every bit like this was just another morning.

Bri’s stomach growled, and Jackson grinned as he slid a plate onto the table.

“Go grab one of my shirts, darlin’. If I have to look at ya standin’ there in nothin’ but a towel, we’ll be right back in that bedroom and nobody ain’t getting’ nothin’ done today, except each other.”

“Dream on!” Bri scoffed, stomping off, slamming the door behind her.

She caught her own angry reflection in the mirror—and promptly laughed.

This.

This exact, chaotic, ridiculous mess was what had been missing with Brad.
Brad was sweet. The sweetest. Kind, handsome, generous. And girl could consider herself lucky to be with him. But as Jasper put it—Brad had no spice. And evidently, Bri craved spicy more than sweet.

With Jackson spice never lacked.

Bri remembered it all—the beautiful moments, the raw ones, the screaming-in-the-rain mad-as-hell fights, the stubbornness, the heat, the gentle roughness, the care.

The time she dragged a filthy, wrecked Jackson to an exclusive hotel to take care of him—when he wasn’t even hers to take care of anymore.

She opened the drawer.

His shirts were exactly where they had always been, neatly folded in an almost laughable contrast to everything else in his life.

She picked one up, buried her face into the fabric, breathing in his scent—the mix of earth, leather, firewood, and something entirely him.

God, she missed that.
She had missed him. This.
As upsetting as her morning had been so far, this was what made her feel alive.

She let out a deep sigh, then slipped the shirt over her head, snuggling into it.

Kiss The Caveman

When Bri stepped back into the living area, Jackson straightened from the table, eyeing her with a grin that was both deeply satisfied and undeniably smug.

She crossed the kitchen, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him—long, deep, deliberate.

Jackson sighed against her lips, muttering low, half-laughing, half-melting.

“Thank goodness. For a second there, I wasn’t sure if ya were gonna kick me or kiss me.” He pulled back just enough to study her, eyes flicking over the flannel hanging off her frame. “And I was wrong. This shirt is even worse on ya than that towel, I can barely think straight lookin’ at ya in my damn shirt. Damn, woman, ya gotta do that thing ya do to me? Mercy, take pity. I surrender.”

Bri giggled, shaking her head as she let him go.

Jackson nudged toward her chair. “Sit. Eat.”

No argument from her—the smell was too good, and the morning had been too ridiculous to keep fighting. She slid into her seat, already reaching for her fork.

“No complaints here. Smells damn good.”

Jackson leaned back, sipping his coffee. “Ain’t always gotta be fancy. But I enjoyed it yesterday.”

Bri smirked. “Thank Bri, the VIP musician superstar. The one with her first big fat gold accolade! Ironically for a song about how fucked up my life currently is.”

Jackson chuckled, shaking his head. “I have more to thank her for than just the meal.”

The playful air settled for a moment, a pause—heavier than she expected. He didn’t fill it. Just watched her, measured, like he was thinking too much.

She took a breath, meeting his gaze.

“Thank you. For being exactly the way you are, Jackson. I think you were always just right for me… I just didn’t read the manual.”

Jackson let out a slow breath, shaking his head slightly.

“There ain’t no manual, not needed. Men are simple, Bri. Feel us, feed us, and… well, the other f—and we’re good as gold.”

Bri snorted, shaking her head. “Wow, aim low right? Wonder what the female equivalent would be?”

Jackson shrugged, entirely unbothered. “That’s jus’ it, it ain’t. Women ain’t got no manual, cos nobody understands ’em, not even themselves. They got a labyrinth, one wrong turn and yer lost in eternal damnation. Ya girls are downright mean.”

Rolling her eyes, Bri grabbed a strip of bacon—and hurled it straight at him.

It bounced off his shirt, hit his lap, and onto the floor.

Without hesitation, Jackson picked it up and ate it anyway.

Bri gaped, then burst out laughing, shaking her head.

“Oh my God. You are such a caveman. Eew!”

Jackson grinned wider, full of unrepentant chaos.

Then—he lunged.

“UGGHHH!”

The sound was somewhere between a prehistoric grunt and outright ridiculousness, arms flailing like an unhinged Neanderthal as he attacked—grabbing Bri’s chair, lowering his head like he was hunting prey, and going in.

He nibbled at her shoulder, pretended to gnaw at her neck, dramatically inhaled against her skin like he was smelling the finest meal of his life. “Yumm!” he grunted at her.

“JACKSON!” Bri squealed, half-laughing, half-fighting for her life, trying to escape—only for him to latch onto her tighter. Jackson licked up the side of her face, deliberately slow, obnoxiously loud.

Bri shrieked, shoving at him. “OH MY GOD, YOU’RE WORSE THAN BEAU! He had a lick phase a few years back and it was disgusting! And that kid touches frogs and earthworms with his bare hands! Urgh!”

“Beau learned from the best! Gonna be a man’s man one day. I mean, caveman.”

Another gnaw, another dramatic inhale, another ridiculous chest-thumping growl before he finally trapped her against the chair, hands braced on either side of her, hovering close, grinning wide.

Bri sucked in a breath, narrowed her eyes, and—without hesitation—grabbed a fistful of his shirt, aggressively scrubbing at her cheek like she had just survived war.

Jackson lost it, laughing, watching her wipe herself clean with his shirt, acting like he had personally offended her entire existence.

“That was absolutely disgusting.”

Jackson tilted his head, grinning wider.

“Ya loved it.”

Bri grinned, nodded and sighed “You know, I think you might be right, as humiliating and disgusting as that realization is. I do love all the crazy shit we do together. I love how your crazy just works with my crazy. And we made two absolutely crazy amazing kids.”

Then—without missing a beat—she yanked him down, kissed him hard, and pulled his ridiculous caveman-self right into her space with full reckless abandon.