I never cared if people didn't like me. So be it, if the internet saw me as the villain, right? I could get over it. Then why did I so desperately want this muscular, sandy blonde, flannel-wearing stranger to like me?

Weston and I mostly ignored each other the next day. God, if not like, at least acknowledge me.

The ranch house was too quiet, the floorboards too loud. We played a painful game of "Silent Shift," gliding past each other in the hallways and kitchen, keeping a meter of clean air between us. But the air was anything but clean. It felt charged, like a live wire humming with everything that had been revealed and promised in the dark truck cab. The simple act of reaching for the coffee maker became a high-stakes duel.

I needed the donor list from the barn office table, and I needed it right now. The office was barely bigger than a walk-in closet. Of course, when I rounded the corner, he was already there.

Weston was leaning over the desk, his back to me, the thick blue fabric of his flannel pulling taut across his shoulders. He didn't turn around, but his posture—the sudden stillness of his neck—told me he knew I was there.

I fixed my posture and pasted an emotionless look on my face. “Bug’s fundraising donors’ chart,” I announced to the wall. “I need a printed copy.”

A beat passed. Then two. “It’s already printed.”

I felt the heat rise in my neck. He didn't have to look at me to know that statement was a direct challenge. I had announced my need, and he had already solved the problem before I could even ask. My hyper-efficient corporate mind should have been pleased, but the lack of credit—the lack of acknowledgment—felt like a personal dismissal.

“Can I… have it?” I asked, thrown off rhythm.

Weston straightened fully, but instead of moving away from the narrow desk, he shifted his weight, easing his broad hip against the corner, effectively blocking the path to the printer. I inhaled the sharp scent of dust, clean soap, and something uniquely him—a suffocating fragrance in the tiny office.

"It's useless data, Haven. You need the current supply list."

My cheeks heated in frustration. What happened to our alliance as of last night? I mean, it wasn’t clearly stated, but I thought it was there. Maybe he couldn’t read the subtext.

“I really just need the donor’s chart,”  I said, grinding my teeth. Even if I wanted him to like me, I wouldn’t let myself be the same girl I was last night. I’d have to do something.

I stopped arguing. My logic kicked in: the chart was lying right there, just under the lip of a dirty ledger. I wasn't going to beg, and I certainly wasn't going to ask for permission. I leaned in, entirely forgetting about who this person was and the act I was performing. Entirely forgetting whose bicep my arm slid right over as I reached for the chart.

Weston flinched. His eyes snapped wide, and his jaw tensed, but he didn't move an inch. He looked at the wall, struggling to regain control.

I snatched the printed chart and immediately pulled back, bumping my hip against the doorframe in my haste. The air in the tiny room felt thin. I knew what he expected: compliance. He expected me to drop the chart and dutifully run off to count tools like a scolded puppy.

“Haven—”

I held up the donor chart as he turned to look at me, meeting his now-impatient glare head-on. 

“No,” I stated, my voice coming out loud and sharp. “I’m not doing the supply list yet. I’m doing this first. This chart is the key to the next thirty days of financing. The supplies are the key to the next two days. I am prioritizing the long-term sustainability of the ranch. You can log your own wrenches for an hour.” I said that last sentence a bit too cocky, but it sure did the trick. I shut him up.

“...Fine.” Weston glared at me, aggressively standing up like he’d just lost a board game. “Do the stupid donor thing.”

He strode past me and out of the tiny office, his departure a slam without the door.

I felt like a teenager who’d gotten permission to go to a party, giddy as he exited the office and left me alone with the computer and books. 

I sank onto the cracked vinyl desk chair, grabbed the laptop, and plunged into the data. The printed donor chart I had fought so hard for was useless—handwritten notes and abbreviations only Weston understood. But the donor’s list wasn’t just for Bug; it was the ranches’ donors in general. And I had the pleasure of organizing it. I spent the next three hours in a state of hyper-focus, building the ranch a clean, color-coded, pivot-table-ready database. I organized years of muddled effort into a single sheet, projecting cash flow and highlighting donor habits.

The floorboards outside the office creaked again as someone came by. I flinched and turned, expecting Weston, but it was Clara. Hooray.

"Oh, good, you're not out with heatstroke," she said, leaning against the frame, wiping her dusty hands on her very vintage, very western, and very ugly fringe dress. “What are you doing?”

I turned away, wishing that if I ignored her long enough, she’d leave. Not exactly Clara’s forte, unfortunately.

“Organizing your donor’s chart,” I said matter-of-factly. Pointedly. 

“Hm.” She came through the doorway, peering at the monitor more closely. “I’m not the one who handles the charts; Weston does.”

“Maybe get a little more involved.”

“Maybe watch your tone, Haven. What did you do to Weston, anyway?”

I turned back to her. “What?” She can’t call me guilty if I don’t know my charges. And as much as I wanted her to go away, it was something in the way she said that I needed to know what was the matter with the emotionless, cold ranch staff whom I’d spent too much time analyzing. Weston was like the puzzle piece to this ranch that didn’t fit. Maybe I was fitting him in the wrong angle, though. “What did I do?”

She shook her head, looking at me condescendingly. “He’s been so grumpy all day.”

“Isn’t he always?” I mumble, standing up so she couldn’t look at me like the 9-year-old she never got to raise. I didn’t tower over Clara, but I did hold a few inches above her. Luckily.

“I’m not a child, Clara. I don’t play the Blame Game.” I pushed a strand of brown hair behind my ear. “Do you have a real reason to blame me?”

Clara sighed, her condescension immediately deflating into exhaustion. She didn't press the Weston issue, knowing she wouldn't win. "Never mind," she muttered, turning her attention to the monitor. “But can you really explain what you’ve been doing?

"I’m restructuring your donor relations database," I stated, putting on my professional voice. "Your current system, which relies on guesswork and that absolutely unorganized paper chart, is missing four major annual contributions. I'm projecting a potential $15,000 cash flow shortfall by Q4 if we don't start outreach this week." Clara stared at the complex, color-coded grid. This was a language she didn't speak, but she understood the dollar signs.

"We've been doing that with a paper?" she whispered, shaking her head. "God Haven, where have you been? No one on the ranch has the—the brain for this."

I got taken aback, cheeks reddening. But it wasn’t an angry blush.

“I don’t need your sym– I– I–” I opened and closed my mouth several times, just staring at her, speechless. God, that dance really messed me up. Trying to find words in this specific moment was like trying to unknot a ball of yarn. Absolutely impossible. 

“She’s trying to say thank you.” Weston decided it was time to pay us, me, an unwanted visit. “Josephine wants to talk to you back inside the house, Clara.”  

“Ah, alright!” She turned to Weson, gave his arm a tight squeeze, then left the room.

I, in turn, sat back down at the desk. “Did she really?”

“No.” He paused for a second. “But they’ll find something to talk about. What have you been doing all day?”

I whipped my head around to stare at him. He really did look grumpy— at least more than usual. “I digitized your donors’ chart,” I said simply; if he wanted more details, he could ask. I suppose that if he had composed the first paper, though dysfunctional and organized, he’d understand the numbers.

“Colorful.”

“It’s color-coded,” I remarked. “When you said the chart was printed, I didn’t think you meant handwritten.”

“I didn’t think it mattered. Not much of a tech guy.” Then, as my gaze returned to the monitor, he leaned over my shoulder. I felt my muscles freeze as he peered at the screen, squinting as he read. “15,000 dollars…” He murmurs.

As the pressure of his presence decreases, I stand from the chair, looking Weston straight in the eye. Unfortunately, my previously prized height of 5’7 dimmed as he looked down at me.

“I guess I can count my own wrenches, huh?” He let out a gruff scoff that sounded more like a laugh than I’d ever heard from him. “Sit back down in that chair, Haven.”

I blinked at him, confused. “What?”

“They’res several more charts that need to be digitized.”

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