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 stop.
My fingers hover over the keys.
That’s ten. My eyes flick upward, mentally retracing my steps. Who’s missing? I flip my notes open and find the one name I’ve barely written anything about.
Brody.
He’s the outlier. The one who’s stayed on the fringe, orbiting this strange family but never inviting me close. I haven’t had a real conversation with him, and it feels deliberate. The others have let me in, whether out of kindness or curiosity or duty, but not him.
I scroll down and type:
“I thought I was coming here to study them. I didn’t expect them to study me back.”
I exhale slowly, pressing my palm flat against the screen like I can somehow touch the truth of it. That’s how it feels, like they’re watching me for proof that I’m worth letting in. Worth putting effort into. Real or fake. They haven’t worked me out.
What scares me isn’t how they make me feel. It’s how they make me want. It’s different from the frantic wanting I’m so familiar with. The ache to be seen and chosen. This want is quieter and more dangerous.
They make me want something lasting, and they’ve made me realize how all the times I’ve been disappointed have been down to my own fucked up actions. Looking in the wrong places, giving too much too soon, believing that I’m unlovable. It’s like I’m constantly chasing to prove it to myself over and over. The hurt of rejection is familiar.
Now, I’m surrounded by eleven men who deserve love. Real, messy, hard, beautiful love. The startling idea they believe in so deeply that they’ve staked their lives and futures on finding it… it unmoors me.
The cursor blinks. Waiting for the next thought I’m not ready to admit yet.
I close the laptop gently and rest my forehead against the cool windowpane. The moon hangs low over the pasture, casting silver light across the dark silhouette of the barn.
Beau stirs at my feet and noses at my hand. I smile faintly, scratch behind his ears, and whisper, “Who knew cowboys had so much depth?”
Not me. That’s for sure.
16
JAXON
The ceiling above my bed has a crack shaped like a jagged lightning bolt. I’ve stared at it so many nights, I could trace it blindfolded. Tonight, the moonlight filters through the slats of my blinds, turning it into something sharper. A dagger. A sword. My own frustration.
I lie flat, arms behind my head, feet hanging off the end of the bed like always. The sheets are tangled around my legs, but I haven’t even tried to sleep. I’m too aware of Grace’s soft, rhythmic typing coming from across the hall.
I close my eyes and try to focus on something other than what she’s writing. Is it about me? About the kitchen tonight? About the electric storm crackling between us whenever we accidentally touched or exchanged stolen glances that I felt everywhere.
I’ve never felt static like that. It’s gravity, the pull that makes your whole body lean in before your mind can say stop.
I drag my hand roughly down my face. It’s stupid. Dangerous. Unacceptable. I should know better, even if Levi doesn’t.
The typing stops.
I picture Grace closing the laptop, stretching, crawling into bed, and… Jesus. I shift uncomfortably against the sheets, forcing my brain to go anywhere but there. Her door opens, and her soft, lilting voice whispers something, and then Beau’s paws scratch against the hardwood floor as he makes his way downstairs.
I listen hard for the soft squeak of her mattress. I swear I hear it. The house settles back into ranch silence: crickets rasping, the wind pushing faintly against the window frames, the house groaning like its old bones are riddled with arthritis.
Still, I can’t sleep. My pulse beats hot in my neck. I stare at the crack in the ceiling like it holds the answer to why I’m losing control.
The clock on my nightstand clicks over to one-twelve a.m. If I don’t get to sleep soon, I won’t be able to function in the morning.
And then a sound breaks the quiet. Soft. Muffled. Like crying.
I’m upright before I think, my bare feet pressed against the cold wooden floor. A kid? One of the twins? Rory, maybe? It happens sometimes with the little ones. I tug on a pair of old flannel sleep shorts and head into the dark hallway. The house breathes around me: quiet walls, the creak of old boards, the distant snuffle of Beau somewhere downstairs, and faint snoring.
The sound comes again, and my heart twists.
But it isn’t coming from the kids’ rooms.
It’s coming from Grace’s.
Her door is closed, and the noise is made of soft, fractured gasps that cut straight through me.
I hesitate, my hand hovering over the wood. If I knock, I’ll wake one of my brothers or cousins, or maybe one of the kids. My throat tightens. “Grace?” I whisper.