Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 121296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
We lay tangled on the hay, breathing hard, the air thick with sweat and approaching rain, and quiet thunder still on the horizon. Grace has one arm thrown over her eyes, the other still curved around my ribs. Her chest rises and falls in a slow rhythm, and for a second, I think she might have fallen asleep. But then she shifts, exhales, and turns her face toward me.
She doesn’t speak.
Neither do I.
Because what the hell would I say? You’re welcome? I needed that? You made me feel something other than hollow for thirty whole minutes?
No.
That isn’t how this works.
Instead, I sit up, heart racing as I tuck my dick away, pull my jeans back on, and grab my shirt off the bale behind me. I hold it in my hands like maybe if I don’t rush, she won’t think I’m retreating.
But I am.
From the quiet that comes after. From the part where someone might ask for more than what I know how to give. From the whispered intimacy that makes me feel like a fraud.
She props herself on one elbow, watching me with a curiosity that prickles my skin.
And that’s worse.
“That was—” she starts.
“Yeah,” I blurt.
She smirks, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “You always shut down this fast, or am I lucky?”
I grin like I always do, flashing the charm as a deflection. “What can I say? I’m a gentleman. Can’t have a lady thinking I’ll ruin her and overstay my welcome.”
She stiffens but then rolls her eyes and tosses a piece of hay at me. “You’re a jackass.”
“Yeah,” I say again, grinning. “But tonight, this jackass rocked your world, right darlin’?”
It lands flat, even though I deliver it smoothly.
Grace doesn’t answer right away, and I don’t press because I’m already buttoning up the pieces of myself I let her touch.
And I know I’ll regret this later, except for the part where I showed her that she isn’t broken, even as I broke myself.
But I keep going because it’s all I know how to do.
Leaning back against the wall, I run a hand over my face, trying to shake the weight settling behind my ribs.
Rory flashes in my mind then. His tiny body curled up in his crib, the way he smiles like the world hasn’t done anything wrong yet, even though it has. I think about the way he looks up at me, wide-eyed and trusting, like I’m someone solid and worthy of his innocent love.
I’m not.
Hell, I don’t even know for sure if he’s mine. I don’t remember his mother’s name. I don’t remember the night he was conceived. His birth certificate was tucked into the box we found him in and lists his name as Rory Levi. It was the only clue. That and his big blue eyes are a reflection of mine. I knew, or maybe hoped. Maybe it felt easier to claim him than admit how empty I’d felt long before he got dropped on our doorstep.
And the worst part?
I don’t know if I’m what he needs. I don’t know how to be a real father like Corbin or Dylan—men who carry their children’s weight without flinching, no matter how heavy it is. Men who know how to be present.
But at least Rory has them: ten other men who’ll show him what a good man looks like.
Because whatever else I am—pretty, funny, quick with my hands, and quicker with my mouth—I’m not a man to build a life around.
Or build a kid around.
So yeah, maybe this is all I’m good for. It’s what Carl Banister’s wife told me after she took what wasn’t hers and what I wasn’t ready to give when I was only fifteen.
A night in a barn. A moment someone might remember fondly. A giver of orgasms.
But nothing more.
11
DYLAN
The storm rolls in just after midnight.
It isn’t loud at first, barely a rumble, distant and slow, like something hulking dragging its weight across the sky. I feel it before I hear it. In my chest, like the thud of an extra beat, in the ache behind my eyes, and the dampness creeping through the window in my room.
I’m already dressed when the first crack of thunder shakes the house.
Boots on.
Jacket slung over one shoulder.
The barn camera blinked out ten minutes ago, caused by a power surge or the wind. Now, I have to check.
I head downstairs, careful on the old steps, but when I reach the kitchen, I discover I’m not the only one who’s been disturbed by the weather.
Grace is standing in front of the dark window with a glass in one hand and a fixed expression like she’s keeping watch on the world while it sleeps. Her hair is mussed from her pillow, her pajamas too silky and lacy for this rustic ranch house filled with weathered, overworked cowboys. She turns when I enter, and it’s the first time I’ve seen her without her signature scarlet lipstick. She looks younger and sweeter like this. Less ready to cut a man down with a few clever words.