Finn drops the bucket with a clang. "Or when one of us spends more time staring at his phone than at the cattle."
Heat crawls up my neck. "I don't—"
"Don't bother lying," Zach interrupts. "You're distracted. And don't give me the 'ranch work is heavy' excuse. I've seen you handle triple the load without looking like a man about to jump out of his skin."
They exchange a knowing look, smug as hell.
"You both done?" I growl.
"Not by a long shot," Finn says, chuckling. "But we'll leave you to your thoughts before you bite someone's head off."
They walk off, still laughing, and I force myself not to throw something at them. My chest feels tight, my patience shredded. Because they're right.
I am distracted. I am restless. For sure, I’m not the man I usually am. And all of it comes back to her.
By the time the house is quiet later that night and I'm stretched out on my bed, freshly showered, the moonlight slipping through the curtains, I've lost the fight with myself. Staring at my phone, thumb hovering over her name, I tell myself not to. Be smart, keep the line between us clean, I tell myself.
But then I press call.
She answers on the second ring, her voice soft and warm. "Asher."
"You in bed?" My voice is rougher than I mean it to be.
"Yes." A little laugh slips into her words. "Emma finally stopped asking for water at nine thirty. Candy went home. It's quiet."
I lean back against the headboard, closing my eyes. "Good."
There's a pause, then she asks, "Did your brothers give you hell again?"
"Zach thinks he's clever," I admit. "Finn too. They know I'm... different lately."
"And you're blaming me."
"I'm not blaming," I say, my voice dropping. "I'm admitting. They know I'm not myself. They just don't know it's because of you."
Silence hums on the line, filled with everything we're not saying.
"Asher," she whispers, as if she wants to stop me, but can't quite do it.
I shift, stretching out on the bed, one arm behind my head, the other holding the phone tight. "You've been in my head all damn day. Couldn't shake it if I tried. I couldn't stop myself from calling. Didn't even try that hard."
Her breath catches. "You shouldn't say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because I'll believe you," she says, her laugh shaky, her words soft.
"Good," I answer, my chest tightening. "I want you to believe me."
I can almost see her—hair messy from the pillow, eyes shining even in the dark, body curled beneath her blanket. The picture alone is enough to drive me half-wild.
"What are you wearing?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
She gasps softly, then laughs. "You can't just ask me that."
"I just did," I say, my voice low.
Another pause. Then, quieter: "An old T-shirt. Pajama shorts. Nothing worth describing."