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)
“You were out for a while,” he says after a beat. His tone’s casual, but he’s fishing.
“Storm knocked the camera feed,” I say, wiping my palms down my jeans. “Had to check it. She tagged along.”
Levi nods slowly, like he’s deciding how much to say or how much to let me think. “She seems to have a talent for showing up where she’s most needed.”
I shoot him a look. “You saying something?”
He shrugs. “Nah. Just making an observation.”
I step past him, keeping my focus on the doorway. “Thought you hated observations.”
He smirks, and I can feel it behind me. “Only when they’re pointed at me.”
I pause and glance back. “Did you...” I trail off, jaw working.
Levi raises his eyebrows, all innocence and a shit-eating grin. “Did I, what?”
I shake my head, jaw tight. “Never mind.”
“Sure,” he says, running his hands through his messy hair. “Sleep tight, Dylan.”
I head for the stairs without answering, and the thick silence closes around me. I shouldn’t care. I don’t even know what I’m feeling. Grace isn’t mine, and this isn’t that kind of story.
But telling myself that doesn’t stop the churn in my gut or the way Levi’s grin sticks in my ribs like a splinter.
I should know better. We all should.
12
GRACE
It’s early morning, but I can’t sleep.
The house is too quiet, and my brain is too loud. Every time I shut my eyes, last night came roaring back. Levi’s mouth, his smile, his kisses, and the way he licked me between my legs like sweet pudding off a spoon. The way his body felt against mine was hard, fluid, and unrelenting. The way he didn’t let me hide and pretend, but found a way to coax pleasure from me has left my body flying high, still thrumming with release and relief.
I’m not broken.
Then, his expression after, when we had to stop pretending that what we did was anything other than a roll in the hay, literally.
He was good. Better than any man before, so I should feel satisfied.
Instead, I feel cracked open. I gave myself over so easily, but at least this time, he gave me something back. I bared my soul to him, telling him something I’ve never confessed to another living soul, and he didn’t make me feel bad about it. Instead, he broke down a barrier and awakened my body in a way I doubted would ever be possible.
At this point, I’d usually be drowning in regret, but I’m not.
It’s still dark when I slip out of bed. The floorboards are cold beneath my bare feet. I drift to the window and ease the drapes apart so I can spy out without being seen.
The yard is a low hum of movement. Men in boots and hats. Conway’s stride is unmistakably long and no-nonsense. Cody’s already laughing about something loudly enough to make one of the others shush him. Trucks rumble to life, their headlights slicing through the gray dawn. A few of the cowboys head to the barns on foot, shoulders hunched against the chill, their silhouettes as steady and grounded as the land itself.
They look mythic, like folk heroes out of some dust-choked ballad, larger than life in their denim and worn boots, sleeves pushed up to reveal ropey forearms, hats pulled low over handsome, sundrenched faces. They look like they can carry the weight of the world and still make it home in time for supper. To make supper.
And I’m here watching them from behind a curtain, like a hungover housewife still drunk with sex and wondering when the wave of regret will knock me off my feet.
I throw on jeans and a T-shirt that reads Running on Coffee and Sarcasm, pull my messy hair into a haphazard knot, and head downstairs, needing some strong java to jumpstart me out of this blankness.
The kitchen is dim, cold on the tiles, and perfectly still, but even with no one to animate it, the life that gathers here has left an undercurrent of warmth behind.
I start the coffee first. It’s second nature. My mom always said a day started wrong without it. As it brews, I begin pulling ingredients from the cabinets and refrigerator without much of a plan, driven by a need to do something to keep my mind straight.
Bacon hits the pan with a hiss and a curl. I crack eggs one-handed, fry them until the edges crisp, and throw them onto a platter to keep warm in the oven. I wash berries, chop apples, slice bananas, and toss them all into a bowl for fruit salad. Then, because I don’t know how else to slow my thoughts, I reach for flour, cinnamon, and apples.
Muffins. Mom’s apple-cinnamon muffins, to be precise.
“Keep your hands busy, and your mind will follow,” she says. But my hands are working double-time, and my thoughts are still stuck on Levi. On his hands and my own damn need to feel wanted in the worst ways.