Page 25 of Boss and Brat

Carter knew exactly how dangerous that hope could be—for both of them.

Carter pushed back from the table and stood, needing something to do with his hands before he said something he shouldn’t. The kitchen gave him an excuse. First, he washed his hands thoroughly and dried them. Next, he pulled bread from the cabinet, ham from the fridge, mustard, chips—simple things, easy things. His hands moved on autopilot, muscle memory from years of feeding Marines who never said thank you and ranch hands who barely looked up.

Ethan sat at the table, keeping his head down. The kid looked worn out as if the morning had scraped him raw. Carter wanted to smooth the tension out of his shoulders with his hands. He didn’t.

Carter layered ham on the bread, added mustard, and pressed the sandwich together. No asking what Ethan wanted—healready knew the kid would eat whatever he gave him. He set the plate down in front of him, then made his own.

Ethan tore into the sandwich as if he hadn’t eaten all day. Crumbs dotted the table. His hair fell into his eyes, and he kept pushing it back with the heel of his hand. Something about that small, unconscious gesture tugged at Carter harder than it should’ve.

“Thanks,” Ethan said between bites.

That smile—quick, crooked, slipping out before Ethan could stop it—hit Carter low, somewhere deeper, somewhere he’d spent years locking down. But something about the kid’s softness, the way it broke through all that anger and armor, tightened something in Carter’s gut.

Ethan didn’t even know he had that softness. Didn’t know how it showed up in flashes—when he thanked someone, when he laughed, when he let his guard drop for half a second. And every time it surfaced, Carter felt a pull he didn’t have a name for.

He took a slow breath, steadying himself the way he used to before stepping into a firefight. Distance. He needed distance. The kid was younger, vulnerable, and under his supervision. Lines existed for a reason.

But Ethan’s smile lingered in his mind anyway, warm and unguarded, and the echo of it settled under his ribs like a bruise he didn’t mind carrying.

He told himself to look away. He didn’t. He needed to. For his job. For Ethan’s safety. For his own sanity. But damn, the kid made it hard.

When they finished, Ethan stood and gathered the plates without being asked. He stood at the sink—his movements careful and respectful. Like he wanted to get it right. Like he wanted Carter to approve.

Carter dried the dishes beside him, their arms brushing once, twice. Ethan stayed close. Carter pretended he didn’t notice the warmth that lingered.

They pulled on their boots by the door. Ethan had lined his up beside Carter’s without thinking, matching the angle, the spacing. That small act hit Carter deeper than it should’ve—obedience wasn’t what he wanted from Ethan. Trust was. But he wasn’t sure Ethan knew the difference yet.

Outside, the motorcycle waited in the sun. Carter swung a leg over and handed Ethan the helmet. Ethan climbed on behind him, hands settling lightly at Carter’s waist. Too light. He moved, as though he wanted to go unnoticed or not occupy any space.

Carter revved the engine. “Hold on.”

Ethan’s grip tightened—not scared, just steady. Familiar. The heat of Ethan moved through Carter’s shirt, the press of his chest against his back. Carter told himself not to read into it. He failed.

The ride to the stables kicked up dust behind them. The wind tugged at Ethan’s shirt, and every time the bike hit a bump, Ethan’s hands tightened around Carter’s ribs. Carter was okay with that. Not even a little.

When they pulled up to the private stalls, Ethan hopped off before the engine fully died. His entire posture changed—lighter, quicker, like someone had just opened a window in a stuffy room.

“Storm!” Ethan called, stepping toward the stall.

Storm lifted his head immediately, ears pricking forward. He pushed his nose over the gate, snorting as if he’d been waiting all morning.

Ethan’s face broke open in a way Carter hadn’t seen yet—pure, unguarded joy. He cupped Storm’s muzzle with both hands, forehead pressed to the horse’s cheek.

“There you are,” Ethan murmured. “Bet you thought I ditched you.”

Storm nudged him hard enough to rock him back a step. Ethan laughed—really laughed—and something twisted low in Carter’s gut.

He wanted to be the reason Ethan laughed like that. He wanted to be someone Ethan leaned into, not away from. He wanted things he had no business wanting.

Carter leaned against the stall door, arms crossed, pretending to study the horse. “He missed you,” he said.

Ethan glanced back at him, eyes bright. “Yeah. I missed him too.”

Carter swallowed the words he shouldn’t say. The ones that would cross every line he’d drawn for himself.

Within seconds, Carter was saddling his horse in the stall beside Ethan’s.

“I brought my horse from Texas. Her name is Betsy.”