"Will do." She slides the plans inside their protective cylinder.
I climb into my car and pull out my phone before I can second-guess myself.
Jessica answers on the second ring. "Oh no, you're freaking out."
"I'm not." I start the engine but don't put the car in gear. "But I had an epiphany."
"Do tell."
"Right now, Brittany has all the power in this situation. She's manipulating the narrative and inserting herself between me and Wyatt. By not telling him about her bullying—for lack of a better term—I'm letting her win."
"So...?"
"So, telling Wyatt will take away her power. As long as he and I are on the same page, the same team, she's on the outside of everything."
"Oh my gosh!" Jessica laughs. "It's like you just figured out how to be in a couple."
I can't help but laugh. "Stop teasing me. I'm defective at this."
"Join the club." She pauses. "You know what? I'd rather join your club. When are you introducing me to my future husband?"
"Come to the event we're hosting. I promise to introduce you to someone you can fall madly in love with."
"Deal.”
We say goodbye and hang up, and I sit there for a moment, phone in hand, staring at Wyatt's name in mycontacts. My stomach twists with nerves—not because I think he's guilty of anything, but because telling him what’s been going on means admitting I've let another woman get in my head. Admitting I care enough for it to bother me. I check the clock, he’s at a sponsorship event and I don’t want to drop all this on him during that, so I send him a text asking him to call me when he’s done.
Time to move Brittany out of the driver's seat and into the rearview mirror where she belongs.
Twenty-Eight
IT'S ABOUT TIME SOMEONE FOUGHT FOR HER.
WYATT
The Striker Outfitters store in downtown Spokane smells like new leather and money—the kind of place that sells thousand-dollar saddles to people who've never ridden anything wilder than a golf cart. But they pay well for the use of my name and face, so here I am, wearing their entire spring catalog and smiling for cameras like I was born to model instead of ride.
"Alright, that's a wrap on the photo shoot," the photographer calls, lowering his camera. "Great work, guys. You can change before the meet and greet if you want."
Jake stretches, smoothing down the front of his pearl-snap shirt. "Change? Are you kidding? I look amazing in this. I'm keeping it."
I give him a look. "You're supposed to give it back."
"They can bill me." He grins at his reflection in a nearby mirror. "This is my color."
The marketing director starts moving us to the next area, explaining the setup for the fan event. I check my phone and see a text from Kinsley that came through twenty minutes ago while I was holding a saddle and trying to look rugged for the camera.
Kinsley:Call me when you're done?
A stone lands in my gut. It’s not urgent, not panicked—just purposeful in a way our usual texts aren't. No emoji, no flirty banter.
"You good?" Jake asks, noticing my expression.
"Yeah." I pocket my phone. "Kinsley wants to talk."
"Uh-oh." His grin is teasing. "That's never good."
"Like you know." We’re fine. Better than fine. But I can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong.