"Juniper Jenkins, I swear to god, if you don't smile..."

"Ellis, I am smiling," June retorts, half-heartedly swatting my hand away as I fuss with the hood of her bright blue sweatshirt and matching sweatpants—the ones I made her wear for pictures today. I had to practically drag her and Delaney into a Starbucks bathroom to change, but by now, they should both know the deal: if they're coming along on one of my work trips, they're also going to be subjected to being my models.

If it were up to June, she'd avoid any kind of photo shoot or appearance on my account entirely. But that's just not an option when you're my best friend.

I roll my eyes at her and turn away, lifting the phone. "Smile harder, then."

I snap the picture of the three of us just as June flips off the camera. I glance back, shooting her a pointed look. She shrugs, offering me the exact smile I wanted before shifting the Jeep into drive.

After a quick coffee stop right after we left the airport, we settled into the SUV. Unlike Delaney and me, Juniper hadn't panicked and drunk her way through the flight. So, naturally, she took the wheel, while I claimed the passenger seat and Delaney slid into the back.

As June pulls out of the parking lot and merges onto the highway, I take control of Google Maps, setting our course for Diamond Creek Ranch. Then I connect my phone to the Bluetooth and find my favorite artist—the one I've been completely obsessed with for the past year—Maisie Rhodes.

Because let's be honest, I've been a die-hard Rhodie since her debut album came out last year. And who else do you listen to on a road trip?

I snap a handful of pictures from the front seat for Instagram, angling my phone to capture the best lighting and framing. I take a few quick videos for a reel later and grab some shots of the airport outfit I put together this morning. My hair is gathered into a perfectly messy bun, and creamy wide-legged sweats paired with a matching hoodie, Ugg Taz slippers, and my olive green Lululemon puffer jacket.

This was how it all started—me becoming an Instagram influencer. I started making reels showcasing my daily outfits, and, for whatever reason, the algorithm loved me, spurring my popularity. In less than a year, my following skyrocketed from a few thousand to two hundred thousand, and the momentum never stopped. Now, five years later, I find myself with 1.4 million followers.

I honestly have no idea how it all happened, but I've loved every second of it. And while most of my collaborations revolve around fashion and makeup, every once in a while, opportunities like Diamond Creek Ranch come along—inviting me to stay with them in exchange for sharing my experience.

I settle back into my seat and skim through my emails, my eyes catching on one from Sella—again. They are one of the hottest new jewelry brands that everyone seems obsessed with lately. It's the third email from them this month. The subject line reads: We'd Love for You to Host the Launch of Sella Jewelry's Newest Collection at Our Pop-Up!

I swipe out of my inbox with a sigh, uncertain if I'm ready to take on something that big. Hosting a jewelry line isn't just another reasonable-sized sponsorship or a string of well-placed affiliate links. Everything I've built on my account has always been mine—unfiltered, unforced, all me. But this is Sella.

They're everywhere right now—on Instagram, TikTok; they were even in Vogue. Celebrities have been seen wearing them. Every influencer I know is dying for a chance to work with them, and they're asking me. I honestly thought when I got their first email, it was spam—a bad joke someone was playing on me. But then they sent another one. And now this one.

I should be ecstatic. Thrilled out of my mind. But instead, I feel... terrified. Like maybe they've got the wrong person. Like I'm an imposter who doesn't deserve this opportunity.

Because what if I'm just not enough for something this big?

I shake the thought loose from my mind, deciding to deal with it tomorrow and move over to my texts, where I know I have messages from Felix.

He texted, "Did you change where you hide your spare key? I can't find it."

Of course, I did. I hid it under the planter on the back porch with the naïve hope that maybe my grocery bill would stop ballooning from him coming over whenever he pleases.

He texted again, "Never mind, I found it. I like the new hiding spot, btw."

I roll my eyes and quickly send back a text, telling him not to eat all my food while I'm gone. Then I switch over to Instagram and check the reel I posted just before boarding my flight—one featuring my new hair color. While I've always had bleached blonde hair, the last time I went into the salon, I felt the need for something different. My hairdresser suggested mushroom blonde, calling it the "new platinum." I'd been skeptical, but the moment she spun me around in the chair, I was sold.

I'm in my dark blonde era, and I'm obsessed.

Opening the reel, I'm greeted with seventeen thousand likes and over a thousand comments already. I start scrolling through them:

User RosieLark_19: "I feel personally attacked by this change."

User carleeeeeeeee: "Are we okay, babe? Are we having an identity crisis?"

User CassiaRye: "RIP to the iconic blonde era. Gone but never forgotten."

User queen.isaabella: "No one asked for this change. You're losing your entire vibe."

I exhale sharply through my nose, my grip tightening around my phone until the corner of my eye twitches. And for a second, I imagine chucking it out the window and letting it disappear into the dirt.

Well then, queen.isaabella, maybe you should just unfollow me and save us both the trouble.

The screen goes dark as I click it off and toss the phone onto the dash with a loud thud. It's either that people are becoming meaner or I'm starting to care way too much about what they think of me. I can't tell which one's worse.

Despite the majority of nice comments, lately, it's the mean ones that seem to catch my attention.

"You okay?" Juniper asks from the driver's seat, her brows pinching together as she grabs her coffee from the middle console's cup holder.

I nod, turning to look out the window at the snow-capped mountains rising against the horizon, the sagebrush blurring past in streaks of muted green. But all I can focus on is the tightness in my chest. I force myself to start the breathing exercises, counting silently in my head.

In, one, two, three. Hold, one, two, three. Out, one, two, three.

I let out a frustrated groan as I exhale through pursed lips. The breathing exercises don't help—never have, really. I don't even know why I still bother. Instead, I reach for my egg bites and turn the music up a little, letting the lyrics fill the space and distract me as I take a bite.

"Are you irritated because Instagram hates your hair?" Delaney's voice comes from the back seat, her words slightly muffled by the scone she's chewing.

I snap my head around to look at her, surprised. She holds her phone in one hand and a scone in the other, her coffee nestled between her legs as she sprawls across all three seats. "You're reading them too?"

She nods, swallowing before reading one aloud, "'Your hair looks like it went through a dirty dishwasher.'"

Juniper scoffs, glancing at Delaney through the rearview mirror. "Someone actually wrote that?"

Delaney nods again. "Some of these are actually kind of funny, though." She smirks at her screen, takes another bite of scone, and then bursts into a fit of laughter as she reads another one.

Juniper's eyes shoot up to the mirror again. "What did that one say?"

"You guys!" I exclaim, tossing a crumpled napkin at Delaney's face.

This is nothing new—Delaney and Juniper laughing at comically awful comments people write about me. Normally, I join in, rolling my eyes at the absurdity people post. But lately, these comments feel different. They've burrowed under my skin, seeping deeper than they should, affecting me more than I'm used to, more than I usually let them.

"It's what you get for stealing the front seat from me," Delaney teases, sticking out her tongue playfully.

"People are meaner these days, though, right?" I say, looking between the two of them. "It's not just me, is it?"

Delaney shrugs. "I don't know. I guess. Most of the comments are nice, though." She proceeds to read them off as I gaze forward, looking out at the road again. "'Perfection!', 'Shut up I love!', 'Ah gorge!'"

"I think your hair looks great," Juniper says, glancing over at me. "I love the mushroom."

"Yeah, it's giving Hailey Bieber," Delaney adds.

I manage a weak smile, but their words don't sink in the way they usually would. Instead, I find myself fidgeting with my earring, staring out the window. Maybe it's just me. Maybe all of this—half my life so openly on the internet, working ridiculous hours, obsessing over likes and views—is finally catching up. Maybe it's what's causing this anxiety over the last few months.

I've always been the carefree one. I've always let the wind carry me to the wide open, never worrying about things as they came, never tied down to anything. But lately, all I've wanted is to be anchored to something or someone— to feel settled.

The drive doesn't take long before we reach the little town of Cottonwood. It's one of those towns where, if you were driving by and blinked, you might miss it entirely—just a stretch of road with a few quaint brick buildings nestled in the heart of nowhere.

We continue for another ten minutes, weaving through back roads before we finally see the entrance to the ranch. Sturdy wooden posts frame the road, proudly holding up the wrought-iron letters that spell out Diamond Creek Ranch. Another mile unfolds, the tires crunching over the gravel road until the small lodge finally comes into view at the end of the drive.

We park just outside, grabbing only a few of our belongings—I'll have to make another trip for the two other suitcases I brought—and make our way toward the entrance of the building. The doorway is framed by sturdy wooden beams with a pitched roof above us, and it's truly gorgeous—everything I imagined and more. It's clear they've made updates, and it shows in the details.

I open the door to the main lodge, and wood surrounds us from floor to ceiling. But not the reddish, knotty pine wood you always envision in cabins. It's light, warm wood accented with creamy whites, plaids, and old vintage Western pictures of the ranch. The interior is simply beautiful—a perfect blend of warmth, homeliness, Western charm, and just enough modern touches to keep it fresh. It fits perfectly with my aesthetic, and Instagram is going to fall in love with it.

A woman about my age immediately glances up from behind the desk as we step inside. Her face brightens into a warm smile, as if she's been waiting for us to arrive.

"Hi," she says, quickly clearing her throat. "Welcome to Diamond Creek Ranch. You must be Ellis Sutton. I'm Della Price, the person you've been corresponding with over email."

"Hi, nice to finally meet you, Della," I say, setting down my belongings. Juniper follows me to the small front desk, while Delaney walks into the open sitting area over to the window, with the view of the rolling pastures.

"I hope everything was okay with your flight here," Della says, her fingers busy tapping away at the computer keyboard.

"If 'okay' means we almost died, then yes," Delaney quips as she flops onto one of the couches behind her.

"She's exaggerating," I say, shaking my head as if dismissing Delaney's comment with a small smile. "The flight was fine."

"That's good to hear. Those smaller planes freak me out too," Della admits with a laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She clears her throat gently and waves a hand as if brushing the topic aside. "Anyway, a bit about Diamond Creek. We're a family-owned cattle ranch—except for a few of the ranch hands. There's plenty to do during your stay." She hands me a neatly folded brochure. "Horseback rides, guided tours to see the cattle, snowshoeing, snowmobiling—weather permitting, of course. We have y'all set up in the Hawkins Cabin. If you need anything at all, just let us know. The number on the back of that brochure will reach us directly."

"Thanks," I say, flipping the brochure to the back at the number listed.

"What about coffee?" Juniper asks. "Are there any good shops close by?"

"And restaurants?" I add.

"And bars?" Delaney shouts from her sprawled-out spot on the oversized plaid couch.

Della smiles. It's a sweet smile. Like she actually means it.

"Um, there's a town about twenty minutes from here," she says, just as I hear the door swinging open behind us, a soft click as it shuts. "It's called Willow Springs. It has everything you might need—bars, restaurants, coffee."

In my peripheral vision, a man wearing a cowboy hat catches my attention as he walks in and heads behind the counter, his back to me. He tosses his gloves onto the tabletop behind the front desk with a soft thud before busying himself with the paperwork in front of him.

"Is there nothing around here in Cottonwood?" I ask as my eyes dip almost unconsciously, landing on his ass—a very nice one, if I'm being honest—before my eyes slowly crawl back up.

I take in the details of his outfit: cowboy boots tucked under Wrangler jeans, a forest green plaid shirt peeking from under a dark tan canvas jacket, and, of course, a cowboy hat resting atop his overgrown espresso-brown hair. The edges curling on the sides of his neck, where it needs a trim.

I quickly remind myself that I do not do cowboys anymore. I force the thought to settle in, to anchor me. I allow my aunt's voice to echo in my mind—all those stories she'd told me years ago about the cowboys she'd met when she spent her summers in Texas with her friends at my age. The cowboys who'd come and gone, never sticking around long enough to be anything real. The ones who always seemed to find a greener pasture elsewhere.

Back then, when I was younger, she had made it sound dreamy, whimsical—like there was magic somewhere in the dust and the open fields, stardust wrapped in leather boots and wide-brimmed hats. But her stories feel more like cautionary tales now, ones that I don't plan on becoming part of.

"There are a few places here," Della says, snapping me out of my thoughts as she catches my eye. "But most guests tend to head toward Willow Springs. Let me finish getting the rest of your things sorted." She turns to the man with the cowboy hat, pressing a hand to his shoulder to get his attention. "Oh, and this is my brother; he'll help you with your luggage and anything else you need."

I glance over at him again just as he turns around, his face concealed by the brim of his cowboy hat as he leans down. He extends his hand toward my suitcase, but as he tilts his head up, revealing his face, I freeze in place. Because the man grabbing my suitcase is a spitting image of the cowboy from that summer a year ago.

No, he is the cowboy from that summer.

Dark hair, steel-blue eyes, those broad shoulders—I'd recognize him anywhere. I'd be able to pick him out of a lineup, even with my eyes closed.

He hasn't looked at me yet, and my eyes immediately drop to the glossy brochure clutched in my hands as my heart thunders in my chest. I have to be seeing things. This can't be the same cowboy. But then my eyes settle on the family photo at the bottom—just beneath a blurb about the family-owned ranch, right before the number Della just mentioned. The picture is taken from a distance, but Della's there. And next to her... him. Along with a few others I don't recognize.

But there's no way.

There's no way.

There's no fucking way.

What are the odds of running into him again? Like zero, I'm sure. Less than zero. I have to be imagining this.

After a long second, I muster the courage to glance back up, my gaze snagging on his jawline. I know exactly where to look—the one spot that will confirm if it's really him. The faint scar on the left side of his jaw. The same one I'd kissed countless times that summer.

And it's there. Slightly hidden beneath the scruff of his beard, but unmistakably there.

My heart lodges into my throat as my eyes drift up to his—only to find them already locked on me. Whatever crooked smile that was starting to tug up at his lips has vanished and is replaced by something unreadable.

Della is still talking about the ranch, her voice weaving through a description of the pasture and the stables, but the rush of blood in my ears drowns her out completely.

"Here are your keys," I vaguely register Della saying, her hand outstretched, holding them toward me. But I can't pull my eyes away from him.

"Ellis," Juniper says after a second when I don't take the keys, coaxing me back to reality. From the corner of my eye, I see her eyes darting between me and Rhett, eyebrows pinched together. She nudges me with her shoulder, more insistent this time. "Ellis."

I blink, my focus jerking to Juniper and then back to Della, who's still holding out the keys, her brow slightly furrowed. She looks confused—not just by the fact that I haven't taken them, but probably also by the way I'm quite literally gawking at her brother, and him at me.

"Um, I can take those," Juniper offers with a forced smile, quickly reaching for the keys.

I swallow the lump in my throat and steal another glance at the cowboy. Rhett remains exactly as he was—unmoved, suitcase barely an inch off the ground from when he first spotted me.

A sharp stillness swallows the four of us until Della clears her throat. "Um, I'm sorry. Ellis, this is my older brother." She places her hand on his shoulder again. "I'm not sure if I mentioned that or not, but he oversees the cattle here at the ranch and is helping me this week while y'all are staying in the cabin."

I manage a nod. Or at least I think I do.

And then another awkward silence.

"Rhett Lawson," Della scolds in a whisper to him. "Use your manners."

Rhett Lawson.

She gives him a kick to the shin. He flinches, clenching his jaw, and shakes his head slightly, as if coming out of a daydream. He glances briefly at his sister before his attention returns to me. The shock in his eyes is replaced now with a flicker of anger, nestled between his dark eyebrows.

"Hi," he finally says, his voice low and velvety, and it seeps right into my chest, just like I remember it doing the first time we met. There's a long pause as he swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. He wets his bottom lip before glancing down at the floor. "Nice to, uh—Nice to meet you."

A sudden wave of anxiety bubbles up in my chest. It crashes over me, dragging with it every single memory I have of that summer, and I'm quickly reminded of waking up alone in that hotel room without so much as a goodbye. And judging by the expression on his face in this moment, it's becoming painfully apparent that he never intended to see me after he left that morning.

I part my lips to respond, but my mouth is suddenly bone dry, and nothing comes out. My hand flies to my throat instinctively, as if that might somehow help loosen the words lodged there. My eyes dart back to Della, who is now openly bewildered by what is happening.

Clearing my throat, I finally manage to croak out, "I'm sorry, would you excuse me for just one second?"

"Oh, um..." Della frowns. "Okay?"

"Ellis," Juniper whispers, leaning toward me just as I take a step backward.

I turn sharply, and my hips slam into the round table behind me. The large vase, filled with artificial white cherry blossom branches, wobbles precariously, the branches swaying as it tips toward the edge. I lunge for it, my fingers wrapping around the ceramic just in time to set it upright.

I chance a glance back at Rhett to find him clenching his jaw even tighter than he was a second ago, and I swear his nostrils flare.

Without a second thought, I spin on my heel again, shove the lodge door open, and quite literally sprint back to the Jeep.