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)
“She’s friendly,” I say flatly. “And inquisitive. That doesn't mean shit.”
“She’s lonely, too.”
I snap my head in his direction, studying his profile and the faraway look he fosters when he’s talking about the only woman under our roof.
“Lonely?”
“You don’t feel it?”
Maybe I do. Maybe, it’s why I bought those damned boots because I wanted to show her she’s worth something in my eyes. That she’s seen, even over something small and practical.
“Lonely isn’t a good reason to stay.”
“We all need companionship, Dylan. Maybe it’s the best reason to stay.”
I sigh and rake a hand through my hair. “It’ll wreck the kids if we get this wrong again.”
Conway nods, still serious, but then the corner of his mouth twitches. “Then let’s get it right.”
The last light slips behind the hills. We stand there a while longer, two men staring down the barrel of hope, fear, and the endless unknown of our unpredictable future.
***
When I finally return, the kids are asleep, sprawled in tangled piles of blankets and stuffed animals. Rory’s soft little snores drift through the cracked door. I sneak in to press a kiss on Eli’s forehead and then Junie’s before easing the bedroom door shut.
I walk back to my room and stare at the boot box that’s still unopened, still heavy with unspoken intent.
I lift the lid and smile despite myself. The boots are ridiculous, made of the softest leather and bright bubblegum pink, with silver stitching curling over the toes. I remember Grace’s first day here, and how her city shoes were ruined in minutes, and the night of the storm when she crossed the yard in the rain in borrowed boots that swamped her feet. I knew then she needed something that’d hold up better. Something that said this place has a way of claiming you and now you belong. I wanted something that would show that we don’t want to change her. This place has enough brown boots. We don’t need anymore.
I hesitate only once before stepping into the hall, boots in hand. My strides are nearly silent on the worn floorboards. I pause outside her door, hearing Beau snoring faintly somewhere down the hall.
For a long moment, I’m swamped by doubts pressing hard against my ribs.
Then, I set the box gently on the mat. I don’t knock. I don’t speak. She might not even be inside. Maybe she’s with Nash and Cody again. Maybe with any mix of the other men in this house. I leave it there like a question or a challenge; like a damn hope I can’t vocalize.
If she opens the box tomorrow… if she puts them on…
Maybe she isn’t just passing through.
Maybe she’s thinking of doing what we’re all hoping she’ll do, even Brody.
Maybe she’ll stay.
25
McCARTNEY
Clutching my filthy, ruined shirt in my hand, I step through the back door into the cool kitchen.
Grace is at the kitchen table, completely unaware of me. Her fingers fly across the keys, and she’s lost in concentration, her brows pinched, and bottom lip caught between her teeth. It seems she’s relocated from her room, which is a good sign, I think. Means she feels comfortable in the house, and maybe even comfortable in our crazy.
“How’s the writing going?” I ask, making her jump and clutch her chest.
“You scared the shit of me,” she laughs, eyes sweeping over my bare chest and lingering before returning to the screen. It feels good to be looked at with appreciation.
“Good, I think. I want to get it done. They need it as soon as possible.”
I nod and keep walking, heading for the laundry room to grab a clean shirt off the hook. As I tug the soft cotton over my head, Grace groans and pushes back from the table.
“Shit,” she mumbles. A phone is ringing, the vibrations rumbling through the ceiling.
The sound of her bare feet hurrying toward the stairs echoes faintly. I glimpse her as she disappears, ass perky in Daisy Dukes and a flash of smooth skin where her shirt is tied at the waist.
In the kitchen, I pause to glug down some water, my gaze shifting back toward the glowing laptop sitting open and waiting on the kitchen table.
I shouldn’t.
Her voice singsongs from above, followed by laughter.
I shouldn’t, but I’m gonna.
Sliding into the chair she vacated, the soft hum of the laptop beckons me in a way even my sketchpad hasn’t been able to lately.
I glance toward the stairs to be sure. The coast is clear for now.
I pull the screen closer, the glow bathing my forearms in pale blue. Her document is still open, and as I scan the page, my breath catches.
“They’re, annoyingly, everything I didn’t know I wanted.”
“They run a home together, raise children like their own, and love without keeping score.”
“They’ve built something rare: an unconventional family they choose, every single day.”
I sit back, stunned. I expected sharp wit, a little sarcasm with maybe some cool professional detachment. I didn’t expect reverence, understanding, and hope.