Page 6 of 11 Cowboys

“Jaxon,” he says simply, then nods once and steps back like that was already too much talking.

Okay. Broody cowboy with a sexy name. Noted.

The next one has kind gray-blue eyes, freckles, and a quiet presence that makes the screaming kids fade into background noise. He folds his lean, wiry frame into a crouch next to the toddler still attached to my leg and gently says, “All right, sweetheart. Let’s give Miss Grace a second to breathe, huh?”

The kid lets go. Miraculously.

He rises and offers me a smile that feels like a warm blanket straight out of the dryer. “I’m Nash. Don’t worry. You’re doing better than most already.”

Then comes the flirt, winking before he’s even introduced himself. He’s got dimples you could drown in, sandy blond hair teased into messy, been-rolling-in-the-hay perfection, an impressively bare chest I struggle not to gawk at, and mischief practically radiating off him.

“I’m Levi,” he says, reaching out to shake my hand, then raising my knuckles to his lips like we’re the main characters in a goddamn Regency romance novel.

I blink. “Is this how you greet all your visitors?”

“Nah,” he says with another wink of his ocean-blue eyes. “Only the pretty ones.”

Someone groans from the porch, and Levi rubs his hand over his perfect washboard abs absentminded but maybe purposeful. I already wouldn’t put anything past him.

The next man is toweringly taller, with dark buzzed hair, scarred forearms like tree trunks, and a silence that feels intentional.

“Dylan,” he says. That’s it. Just his name before turning and walking toward the barn.

No nonsense. Zero fluff.

I don’t hate it when combined with all that rugged intensity.

Then, a leaner man with glasses steps forward, crossing his arms like he’s here to evaluate my résumé.

“Harrison. I manage logistics and records.” He eyes me, tipping his head to the side. “You’re not what I expected.”

I blink, taken aback. Is it my outfit? Should I have worn a ball-breaking suit? “Is that a good thing?”

He shrugs, which feels like the emotional equivalent ofpending review.

Next is a cowboy with soft brown eyes and a slow, tired kind of smile. His sleeves are rolled up, and there’s a baby monitor clipped to his belt. He runs his hand over his velvet hair like he’s dusting off cobwebs, then offers me his broad hand, the one that isn’t holding the wooden spoon.

“Corbin,” he says. “If you’re looking for quiet, you came to the wrong place. But we provide a mean breakfast as part of the service.”

He’s followed by a tall, serious-looking man with calm written all over him. His shirt’s tucked in. His boots are clean. There’s not a single strawberry-blond hair out of place.

“Lennon,” he says, offering a polite handshake. “I do a little of everything. Keep things running.”

I barely manage a nod before another voice jumps in—

“And I’m McCartney,” says the one with paint on his forearm and a pencil stuck behind his ear. “Yes, like the Beatles. I play guitar, and I paint and build furniture. And fix things.” He holds out his hand, and I shake it, noticing the ‘All You Need Is Love’ tattoo that stretches in elegant cursive up his forearm.

Conway’s been watching all this radiating quiet power, like nothing happens in this house without his approval. His deep-set hazel gaze, almost the same color as mine, assesses me like he’s trying to decide if I’ll break or hold it together, weighing the contents of my soul against perfection and finding me lacking. He pats the last man on the shoulder. He’s stocky with thick, messy dark hair, a five o’clock shadow that looks like a permanent fixture, and a blunt intensity to his face that makes me instantly wary. His arms are folded across his chest, and his dark eyes are guarded.Before he can introduce himself, Levi says, “That’s Brody. He’s a mule and a mute.”

Brody fixes Levi with a look that could wilt a cactus, finally giving me a nod of acknowledgment. The bare minimum.

Conway doesn’t force the issue. “You’ll stay in the big house,” he says, like I have no choice in the matter.

I open my mouth to protest or ask what the hell the small house is, but he cuts me off gently and firmly.

“We’ll explain everything at dinner.”

Then he turns and walks inside.