Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 55305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 277(@200wpm)___ 221(@250wpm)___ 184(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 277(@200wpm)___ 221(@250wpm)___ 184(@300wpm)
They follow me in like they’ve visited before, lifting their hats and resting them on the console, looking around at the art on my walls and the photographs lining the shelves. I lead them through to the den, dropping my bag by the door before heading to the fridge. I reach for two beers and a bottle of water, pop the caps, and pass them over.
Mason takes his with a quiet thanks. Brookes’s fingers brush mine as he accepts his, the contact brief but startling. It’s the first time I’ve seen them since we were sweaty and naked and filled with the loose-limbed satisfaction that only a really great fuck can bring.
We settle with Mason on the edge of the sofa, Brookes in the chair opposite, and me somewhere in between, like I don’t quite know where to put myself in my own home.
The silence stretches for a moment, and I wait, wanting to hear what they have to say before anything that might spill from my lips can influence.
Then Mason leans forward, elbows braced on his knees. “We know you didn’t get the chance to tell us yourself.”
I glance at him, warily.
“I’m sorry for that,” he adds. “You should have had that choice.”
That… isn’t what I expected. I look at Brookes to check he’s in agreement.
He nods slightly. “You get to decide how this goes, Janey. Not us. We want you to know that you have options.”
Options?
I settle back against the chair, as the questions and demands I was braced for fail to materialize. ‘Options’ was the last thing I expected them to say. Half of me imagined they’d demand I take care of it. I mean, what man in his right mind wants to deal with a baby from a double team one-night stand? I’m hardly wifey material in their eyes, just a girl to have a role in the hay with to scratch an itch. The other half of me imagined them demanding I keep it. I pictured them being possessive over their child. Maybe wanting to raise it without me, to inherit their ranch and family legacy.
But the tension I’d braced myself for slips away in the face of their sweetness and patience. I wonder what Wade said to them. Did he teach them how to deal with me? Were they ready to fit into either of the roles I’d mapped in my mind until he told them that’d be the wrong tactic?
I love Wade like a brother, and the way he and Caleb have taken in my friend and her son, given them a home, and made them a family makes him honorable and good in my eyes. Still, I know he’s a shrewd businessman, and he could turn that skill to his personal life in a heartbeat.
“For what it’s worth,” Mason continues, “we’re here. Whatever you need.”
I let out a slow breath, my grip tightening slightly on the bottle in my hands.
“This… It’s knocked me sideways,” I admit. “I don’t even know what I need.”
“That’s okay,” Brookes says.
I glance at him.
“You don’t have to figure it out tonight,” he adds. “Or tomorrow. Or even the next day.”
I nod slowly. “Okay.”
Mason shifts slightly, his gaze softening. “You shouldn’t be handling this alone.”
“I’m not,” I say automatically, then pause. “I mean—I have Joelle—”
“You have us, too.”
I swallow, my eyes dropping briefly to my hands.
“We were thinking,” Brookes says carefully, “if you don’t want to be here on your own, you could come stay with us.”
My head lifts.
Mason nods. “Just for a bit. No pressure. No expectations.”
My first instinct is to refuse. I can feel it rising out of habit—independence and the need to hold onto normality.
“I can’t leave everything,” I say.
“We’re not asking you to. But you could take some vacation. Or sick days?” Brookes says quickly. “Have you eaten?”
I blink, thrown by the shift. “Just lunch.”
“I’ll make dinner,” he says, already standing. “If that’s okay.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” he replies simply.
I watch him head toward the kitchen, moving through my space with an ease that feels good.
Mason shifts closer on the sofa, brushing my ankle lightly. “Sit back.”
I frown at him. “What?”
“You look like you’re about to fall over,” he says. “Put your feet up.”
I hesitate, then I do it, because arguing feels like more effort than I have right now.
He lifts my feet into his lap without making a thing of it, his hands warm as they settle around my arches. The first press of his thumbs makes me inhale sharply, tension unraveling in a way I’ve never experienced before.
Mason Fletcher, big, bad cowboy, is giving me a foot rub while his brother prepares a meal. It’s as though I’ve slipped into another dimension where up is down and down is up, and rough ranchers are domesticated. A different kind of Bermuda Triangle where cowboys are gentle and emotionally intelligent.