Page 21 of Boss and Brat

His pulse hammered in his ears. Heat shot through his chest, sharp and fast, and his grip locked around the steering wheel until the leather creaked. A tight pressure climbed up his throat, the kind that made swallowing feel like dragging gravel. His jaw clamped down hard, muscles bunching along the sides of his face. The truck’s cab suddenly compressed smaller, the air heavier, as if the entire enclosure had shifted around him.

Of course Carter tracked him. His freedom came with strings attached. And once again someone else decided he couldn’t be trusted.

The slap of realization hit all at once, sharp and humiliating, and the truck suddenly shriveled and made it difficult to breathe in.

He locked the phone, tossed it onto the passenger seat, and gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles went white.

Freedom always came with strings. And apparently Carter tied his just as tightly as his father did.

Ethan started the engine anyway. The truck rumbled to life, loud and uneven, but steady enough to get him back. He pulled out of the parking lot slower than before, checking the mirrors more than he needed to. At every bend in the path, he felt a prickling sensation, as if unseen eyes were following him. Every stoplight felt like someone was waiting to judge how long he sat there.

He eased off the gas. No more music. No more windows down. No more pretending he was just a guy running errands. He drove as if he were being graded.

At one point he almost took the long way back—an old habit, a leftover instinct from dodging his father’s trackers, but he stopped himself. Carter would see the detour. Carter would ask. Carter would know.

So he stayed on the straightest, safest route, hands locked at ten and two, jaw clenched so tight it ached.

By the time he turned onto the ranch road, his shoulders burned from tension. Dust kicked up behind the truck, curling in the rearview mirror like a ghost of the freedom he thought he had earlier.

Carter’s cabin came into view. And there he was—sitting on the porch like he’d been waiting the whole damn time. Ethan swallowed hard and parked. Before he could reach for a single grocery bag, Carter was already off the porch and walking toward him.

“Good timing,” Carter said, taking half the bags without asking.

Ethan nodded, falling into step beside him. His movements felt stiff, controlled—like he had to match Carter’s pace, Carter’s posture, Carter’s everything. He didn’t want to give the man another reason to tighten the leash.

They reached the inside entryway. Carter slipped off his boots, lining them neatly beside the door. Ethan mirrored him automatically, placing his own boots beside Carter’s at the exact angle. He didn’t even think about it. His body just… obeyed.

Inside, they carried the groceries into the kitchen. The cabin smelled like cedar and something warm—maybe the lingering scent of whatever Carter had cooked earlier. The counters gleamed under the overhead light.

Carter set the bags down and moved to the sink, bracing his hands on the edge. His posture was relaxed, but Ethan felt the weight of those eyes even without looking up.

Ethan stood there, heart thudding, the tracker burning a hole in his pocket. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t ask. Didn’t push. He just waited—quiet, careful, already slipping into the version of himself he had to be around men who scrutinized his every move.

And Carter watched. Even when he didn’t look like he was.

Ethan started unloading. He grabbed the milk first and opened the fridge, sliding it onto the middle shelf.

“No,” Carter said from behind him. Not sharp. Not loud. Just firm enough to stop Ethan mid-movement. “Top shelf. Left side.”

Ethan moved it without arguing.

Carter nodded once, then pointed to the next item. “Vegetables go in the bottom drawer. Fruit in the top one. Meat stays sealed until I prep it.”

Ethan followed each instruction, matching Carter’s pace, matching his order. When he set the strawberries in the wrong drawer, Carter reached past him, lifted the container, and placed it exactly where he wanted it—centered, label facing forward.

“Like that,” he said.

Ethan swallowed and mirrored the placement with the next container. Carter didn’t praise him, but he didn’t correct him either, which felt like the closest thing to approval he was going to get.

They moved through the rest of the groceries in a rhythm that belonged entirely to Carter. Ethan handled items; Carter pointed, adjusted, or silently approved. Every can, every carton, every bag found a specific home. No guessing. No improvising.

By the time the last item slid into place, Ethan’s shoulders had loosened, not because he felt relaxed, but because he’d slipped back into the version of himself that didn’t make waves. The version that followed rules before anyone had to repeat them.

Ethan stood there, hands empty, waiting for whatever came next—already tuned to Carter’s order, already bracing for the next instruction.

The tracker in his pocket felt heavier than the keys he’d returned.

Carter closed the fridge and wiped his hands on a towel, eyes flicking toward Ethan as if he was checking for something out of place.