Page 25

Delaney stepped into the cool shade, shedding the canvas jacket from June’s wardrobe. Her dark hair hung down her back in the loose braid she wore for the afternoon setups. She let the heavy wooden door slide shut behind her, cutting off the view from the pasture.

“Nadia’s setting up the wide shot by the bank,” Delaney said, her voice dropping as she walked down the aisle. Her boots made a soft scrape on the hard dirt floor. “We have ten minutes.”

Claire tossed the rag onto the workbench. “You should be resting your legs.”

“I don’t want to rest my legs.” Delaney stopped right in front of her. “I miss you. I know I’ve been around you all day, but we’re never alone.” Delaney hooked her fingers into the front of Claire’s canvas vest, pulling her forward an inch. “Everyone’s watching you, or watching me, or watching my horse.”

Claire looked down into those stunning hazel-green eyes. The urge to pull her closer had only grown stronger these past weeks despite every reason it shouldn’t. Twenty-one years between them, a film set crawling with people who couldn’t know, and still Delaney stared back at her like the rest of it didn’t exist.

Out in the pasture the crew was probably already calling for June Calloway, but here Delaney’s braid had loosened just enough for a few dark strands to curl against her neck, and the light from the high window caught the faint freckles across her nose.

Claire’s thumb traced the soft line of Delaney’s jaw, tilting her face up. The first brush of lips was barely pressure, just enough to feel the warmth there, and then Delaney sighed against her mouth and Claire couldn’t stop. She wrapped her arm around Delaney’s waist, pulling her in, deepening the kiss.

Eventually, Claire broke the kiss. “Dinner tonight?”

“Of course,” Delaney murmured, her mouth curving into an easy smile. “Can’t wait.”

“Me neither.” Claire tucked a stray dark strand behind Delaney’s ear. “Now get back out there before Kendra comes hunting for you.”

Delaney gave the canvas vest one last squeeze, let her fingers drag across Claire’s palm, and turned back toward the daylight.

Claire watched her walk out into the glare. Delaney carried herself steady now—shoulders back, boots set firm, completely at home on the ranch.

But it wasn’t going to last.

It was easy to build a life inside two weeks of late dinners and lazy Sundays. But Delaney belonged to a world of red carpets, studio calls, and million-dollar budgets. Next week, the wrap trucks would roll over the cattle guard. The bunkhouse would sit dark. The silence would come back to Hollis Creek.

Delaney would fly back to Los Angeles, and Claire would be left here with her horses and a house that was going to feel far too big.

15

Delaney squinted into the glare of the late afternoon sun, shielding her eyes with the back of her hand as she stepped clear of the production trucks and headed towards the barn. Her shoulders were tight from hours of filming, and she just wanted a few minutes to relax between takes.

Behind her, the endless noise of the set felt loud and grating—walkie-talkies spitting static, grip equipment thumping into the back of a staging truck, Kendra’s sharp voice calling out call-time adjustments for tomorrow morning. It had been going on since six in the morning, a constant barrage of people needing something from her, touching her hair, adjusting her clothing.

Delaney kept walking, putting distance between herself and the chatter. All she wanted was five minutes. Just five minutes with Claire before she had to get back to work.

It was ridiculous how quickly she’d come to rely on Claire’s grounding presence.

Her boots crunched toward the red timber walls. The south doors were partly open, a slice of warm, hay-scented dark against the bright yard. She could hear the soft shift of a horse in its stall.

Her hand touched the rough timber of the doorframe. She leaned in.

And stopped.

Two figures stood under the single pendant light. Claire, in her worn canvas jacket, her blonde hair loose down her back. And Rebecca.

Rebecca’s hand was on Claire’s cheek.

Delaney blinked. The image didn’t change.

Rebecca’s fingers were pale against Claire’s tanned skin, her thumb stroking just below Claire’s eye. Rebecca was smiling, saying something Delaney couldn’t hear. Her manager’s posture was intimate, familiar, tipped forward into Claire’s space in a way that broke every professional boundary Delaney had ever seen her hold.

And Claire was letting her.

More than letting her.

Claire’s head was tilted, just a fraction. A quiet expression softened her mouth—the same look Delaney had caught just once, when Claire had handed her the reins on her first morning and their hands had brushed.