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)
I don’t regret sleeping with him. I can’t when he unspooled my pleasure like fence wire and anchored me against his body. I regret how easy it was to let myself fall into the old pattern. It’s hard to weigh the pleasure and release against the moment he pulled away and not feel devastated, but I try, because I’m a pro and dusting myself off and starting again.
I can’t blame him for fleeing when this whole group of men is looking for a woman who isn’t me. Even the one-night stand was a risk neither of us should have taken. What would have been the point of whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears until the small hours?
By the time the muffins are baking and the smell has fully taken over the house, I’m elbow-deep in a bowl of pancake batter and self-loathing.
I think about Dylan.
About his steady silence, the weight in his eyes, and the way he looked at me in the barn like he didn’t trust me but wanted to. I think about how that kind of steadiness must scare people, too.
I think about the kids who have moments of happiness but then drop into a kind of thoughtfulness that’s incongruous for such young children. And I wonder: How does any woman walk away from all this love? How did my dad manage it all those years ago?
Feet thump across the upstairs hallway. Pipes groan. A door creaks. A child’s voice calls out, then little feet patter in a rush.
The rest of the house is waking up.
Corbin is the first one in, barefoot, hair tousled, with Hannah perched on his hip. She’s half-asleep, head tucked into his neck, hand gripping the stretched neck of his worn T-shirt.
“Something smells amazing,” he says, blinking toward the kitchen like he’s still dreaming. “Am I in the right kitchen?”
I flip a pancake, smiling at his bed hair and Hannah’s wide eyes, staring at the muffins. “Breakfast is almost ready. I may have gone overboard.”
“You feeding us or a small army?”
I gesture at the growing spread. “Aren’t you both?”
He chuckles, easing Hannah onto a chair and kissing the top of her head. “You ain’t wrong.”
Soon, the room fills with the men returning from early chores. Cody stomps in first, followed by Nash, still removing his hat. Dylan walks in quietly, giving me a single glance, then heads straight for the coffee. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. That glance felt like a brush of sandpaper against my skin.
McCartney hums a few bars of something low and bluesy under his breath. Harrison actually murmurs “Thanks,” when I pass him a mug. Even Brody mutters, “Not bad, city girl,” through a mouthful of bacon.
Then Levi walks in.
Shirtless.
His hair is damp, his grin is broad and unapologetic, and when his eyes find mine and hold for a second, I swear, it’s louder than a fire alarm in my chest.
He doesn’t sit near me or speak to me, but I’m certain every man in the room feels the silence that sharpens the air.
Conway glances between us once, his eyes narrowed. Jaxon lifts an eyebrow but says nothing. Even little Junie gives me a too-long stare before digging into her pancakes.
The tension might hang in the air like steam from the pancakes, but they don’t let it boil over. Instead, the cowboys do what cowboys do best and move through discomfort like it doesn’t exist.
“Grace,” Cody calls with his mouth half full, “if this is your subtle way of auditioning for kitchen duty, I gotta say, you’re killin’ it.”
“Pretty sure I saw Dylan smile,” Corbin adds. “And that’s rarer than a wet August.”
“I didn’t smile,” Dylan mutters, but there’s a twitch in the corner of his mouth that betrays him.
Hannah raises her fork like a tiny judge. “Miss Grace wins breakfast.”
McCartney taps his glass with a spoon. “Long may she reign.”
“Fine by me,” Corbin holds up his mug of coffee in a salute. “I’ve been looking for a way to retire my services without everyone starving to death.”
“We all cook,” Jaxon grumbles.
“Food is heated, yes. Assembled on a plate, possibly. But whether it’s edible or not is another matter.”
I laugh, roll my eyes, and pour more syrup for the twins while trying to avoid glancing at Levi again. He’s laughing at something Cody says, but there’s a self-consciousness about it. Or maybe I’m seeing it now because I’ve seen him at his most honest and vulnerable and watched him withdraw into himself.
The conversation turns toward chores, tractor parts, and whether Nash’s latest batch of goat’s milk soap smells like rosemary or cheese. The awkwardness doesn’t vanish. It settles beneath the noise.
When breakfast wraps up, the men start clearing their plates and heading back out into the rising heat.
Except Cody.
He lingers by the sink, soaping plates I’d planned to wash myself. His easy smile is still in place, but it’s softer now and warmer.