Chapter 2

I swallowed hard and looked away, but the image was burned into my retinas. Maybe I'd underestimated more than just his maturity.

"I'll, um, let you get settled," he said, his arms full of belongings.

"Sure," I replied, proud that my voice came out steady.

He paused at the door, looking back at me with an expression I couldn't quite read. "Seraphina? I know this isn't what either of us planned, but... thank you. For saving my family's reputation."

After he left, I sat alone in the sudden quiet of the room, my mind racing. I'd expected the next three years to be a simple waiting period—a business arrangement with a shy ranch boy who would stay out of my way.

But something told me I might have been wrong about that. Very, very wrong.

This might not be as simple as I thought.

I woke up to the sound of roosters crowing outside my window. For a moment, I forgot where I was—then reality crashed back. I was on a ranch in Texas, married to a twenty-one-year-old I barely knew.

The clock on the nightstand read 6:30 AM. In New York, I'd still have another hour before my alarm went off. Here, apparently, the entire world was already awake and making noise about it.

I pulled on a robe and padded downstairs, following the smell of coffee and something that made my stomach growl despite my confusion about this whole situation.

I found Theo in the kitchen, wearing jeans and a faded t-shirt with an apron tied around his waist. He was flipping pancakes at the stove, moving with the kind of easy confidence I definitely hadn't seen last night.

"Morning," he said without turning around. "Coffee's fresh. Cups are in the cabinet above the sink."

I poured myself a mug and took a sip. It was perfect—strong but smooth, nothing like the burnt sludge I usually grabbed from coffee carts.

"You're up early," I said, leaning against the counter.

"This is sleeping in for me." He glanced over his shoulder with a small smile. "Usually I'm up at five."

Five AM? I tried to hide my horror. In my world, five AM was when you finally went to bed after closing a deal in Tokyo.

He plated the pancakes and set them on the kitchen island. "Hope you're hungry."

I took a bite and had to stop myself from groaning with pleasure. The pancakes were light and fluffy, with a hint of vanilla that made them taste like dessert for breakfast.

"These are incredible," I admitted.

A flush of pride crossed his face. "My own recipe. I grind the flour myself from organic wheat we grow here."

He grinds his own flour. I watched him pour syrup—which I was betting he also made himself—and realized I was looking at a completely different person from the nervous boy who could barely meet my eyes yesterday.

When he concentrated on something he knew how to do, his whole demeanor changed. His movements were sure and practiced. There was something almost hypnotic about watching him work.

After breakfast, he offered to show me around the property. "If you're going to be here for three years, you should probably know how things work."

That's how I found myself following him to what he called his "workspace"—a converted barn that had been turned into some kind of artisanal bakery setup.

"This is where I do most of my experimenting," he said, opening the heavy wooden door.

The space was immaculate. Rows of glass jars filled with different grains and flours lined wooden shelves. A massive stone mill sat in one corner, and the counters were covered with equipment I couldn't even identify.

"You built all this?" I asked.

"Most of it." He ran his hand along one of the counters. "It's taken a few years, but I wanted everything to be perfect for organic production."

I watched him move around the space, explaining his process for sourcing grains and testing different flour combinations. This wasn't just a hobby—it was a full-scale operation.

"Want to try making something?" he asked.

Before I could say no, he was already gathering ingredients. "We'll start simple. Basic sandwich bread."

I found myself standing next to him at the counter, watching him measure out flour with the precision of a chemist. When he handed me a measuring cup, I realized I had no idea what I was doing.

"Like this," he said, showing me how to level off the flour without packing it down.

I tried to copy his movements and immediately made a mess, sending white powder across the dark counter.

"It's okay," he laughed—the first real laugh I'd heard from him. "It takes practice."

He moved behind me, his hands covering mine as he guided the measuring cup. "Feel how much resistance there should be."

I could feel the heat from his body against my back, smell the clean scent of his soap. Something that reminded me of mint and fresh air. My concentration on the flour completely disappeared.

"Got it?" he asked, his voice closer to my ear than I'd expected.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

What is wrong with me? This was supposed to be a business arrangement. I wasn't supposed to be noticing how broad his shoulders were or how his voice got lower when he was focused.

But as the morning went on, I kept finding myself stealing glances at him. The way he kneaded dough with strong, patient hands. How he explained the science behind fermentation like he was sharing state secrets. The little smile he got when he talked about perfecting a recipe.

Maybe I've been defining 'suitable' all wrong.