The silence in a house of five thousand square feet is heavy; it has a weight to it, settling into the corners of the crown molding and pressing down on the furniture like a layer of invisible dust.
Silas Mercer woke before the sun, as he had every morning for thirty-five years, his internal clock set by a rooster that had died two decades ago. He sat up in the center of a California King mattress that cost more than his first truck, rubbing a hand over the scar on his left shoulder, a souvenir from a barbed-wire fence back when he was twenty-two and too stubborn to ask for help. The room was cold. The thermostat was set to seventy-two, but it was a sterile, engineered heat that didn't quite reach the bones.
He swung his legs out of bed, his feet finding the hardwood. He didn't need to be up this early. He had a foreman for the cattle, a manager for the rental properties, and a broker for the stocks. Technically, Silas didn't need to do anything but sign checks and die eventually.
But old habits didn't just die hard; they didn't die at all. They just haunted you.
By 6:00 AM, Silas was in his truck, a thermos of black coffee resting in the cup holder. He drove the perimeter of the south pasture, the tires crunching over gravel frozen by the overnight frost. This was his favorite time of day, the blue hour before the world woke up and started asking things of him.
He parked on a ridge overlooking the valley. From here, he could see the patchwork quilt of land he had stitched together over the last ten years. He had saved the Mercer name. He had bought back the acres his father had been forced to sell when the cancer treatments got expensive. He had turned a failing farm into an empire.
"You'd have loved this view, Pop," he murmured to the dashboard.
He was the "catch" of the county. He knew this because people told him constantly. His aunt, the bank teller, the mayor's wife, they all looked at him with that pitiful, hopeful glint in their eyes. Silas Mercer, the perfect gentleman. Manners of a saint, pockets deep as a well. Why is he still alone?
They didn't understand that he had missed the boat. While the men his age were dating in their twenties, Silas was changing IV bags and arguing with loan officers. While they were getting married, he was working eighteen-hour days to ensure he didn't lose the roof over his head. He had looked up from the grindstone one day, dusted off his hands, and realized everyone else had gone home to their families. He was the only one left in the field.
The diner in town was warm, smelling of bacon grease and sanitizer. Silas hung his coat by the door, tipping his hat to the regulars. He walked to the back booth, the leather creaking as he slid in. He pulled a newspaper from under his arm and unfolded it, seeking the comfort of the routine.
"We don't have the blueberry muffins today. The delivery truck broke down or something," a flat, bored voice announced.
Silas didn't look up immediately. He finished the paragraph he was reading before folding the paper down. Standing there was a girl he hadn't seen before. She looked twenty-one, maybe younger, with her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail that looked like it had been done in a moving car. She wasn't smiling. She looked like she was counting the seconds until her shift ended, her expression one of pure, exhausted apathy.
"Good morning," Silas said, his voice a steady, polite rumble.
"Is it?" she asked, her tone dry and snappy. She didn't wait for an answer, clicking her pen with a rhythmic, irritating snap-snap-snap. "You want coffee, or are you just gonna read the news all day?"
Silas paused. Most people in this town treated him with a certain level of deferred respect, either because of his name or his bank account. This girl looked like she wouldn't care if he owned the moon.
"Coffee would be fine. Black," he said. "And the breakfast platter. Over easy."
She didn't write it down. She just stared at him with an expression that said his order was a personal inconvenience to her. As she reached for the mug on the edge of the table, her movements were careless,the product of a mind that was already miles away. The mug slipped, sliding toward the edge of the table as she turned to grab the pot.
Silas's hand moved instinctively. He was a man of the earth; his reflexes were honed by decades of unpredictable labor. He caught the mug an inch before it hit the floor, his large, callous-thickened hand moving with a grace that didn't match his size.
"Whoops," he said softly.
The girl, Alina—according to the plastic tag on her chest—turned around, her eyes narrowing. She didn't look grateful. She looked annoyed that he'd witnessed the slip. "I had it," she snapped, snatching the mug from his hand.
Their fingers brushed. Silas felt the jolt instantly—a sharp, sudden heat that made the hair on his arms stand up. Her skin was cool, and for a fleeting second, her bored eyes met his, and he saw a flash of something unsettled behind her snappy exterior.
"I'm sure you did," Silas replied, his voice dropping an octave, remaining impossibly calm. "But it's a shame to waste a good mug."
Alina huffed a breath, pouring the coffee with a jerky, impatient motion. She splashed a bit onto the table, stared at the puddle for a second as if deciding whether to clean it, and then simply pushed a napkin over it with the toe of her sneaker.
"Platter's coming," she said, already turning her back on him. "Don't hold your breath, the cook is having a mid-life crisis today."
She walked away, the heels of her shoes hitting the floor with a rhythmic, angry cadence.
Silas watched her go, his newspaper forgotten on the table. He was a forty-year-old man who lived a life of quiet, structured dignity. He had no business being fascinated by a girl who couldn't be bothered to be polite.
He took a sip of the coffee. It was lukewarm and far too strong.
Lord help me, he thought, feeling a slow, dangerous smile tug at the corner of his mouth. I think I've finally met someone who doesn't give a damn who I am.