Page 10

GRACE

After I say goodnight to Corbin, I go to my room intending to work, but I get a craving for the clear night air and the mental clarity the uninterrupted view gave me last night. And, honestly, a drag of a cigarette would add to the serenity.

My legs carry me to the front porch instead, where the boards creak underfoot, and the air smells like grass, dust, and cooling wood.

I tuck myself into the corner of the porch swing with my laptop balanced on one thigh and my phone in the other hand.

The house still hums behind me with the murmur of voices, dishes, and evening rituals, but out here, the world exhales with me.

I skim through personal emails that are mostly clutter: edits on a feature I assigned two weeks ago, questions from the design team, and a calendar reminder about a networking brunch I won’t attend. I respond to what I can, flag the rest to Leo, and then flick over to my messages.

Two friends have sent memes. Penelope’s image says, “If you haven’t cried in a barn this week, are you even healing?” I snort and send a thumbs-up. Livy’s meme says, “I watch Yellowstone for the plot,” over a picture of the sexy cowboy main character that’s labeled, “The plot.”

Allie’s message reads, “How many in your harem after twenty-four hours?”

I send an exaggeratedly exasperated gif, then, a sexy cowboy GIF, an eyes-popping-out-of-head gif, and I chuckle quietly to myself.

Fun over, I open a blank doc and type one word.

Cowboys .

I sit with the heading, as images of the men inside flick through my head like a Rolodex. Lordy. I’ve hardly blinked since I arrived, and when I have, another gorgeous man steps into my line of vision and turns my brain to mush.

I can’t have a mush brain and write a thought-provoking, sensitive, yet funny article. I need all my faculties firing. I shake my hands, then link them and press out to stretch my fingers. Then, I start typing notes.

Corbin: Surprisingly gentle. Solid. Reads like a man who knows how to carry weight quietly. Widower? Father? I want to ask him how he learned to keep going without losing the softness. Doubting the realism of this endeavor?

Dylan: Silent strength. Doesn’t speak unless it matters. What is it he’s not saying?

Levi: Too charming for his own good. Always deflects with a joke. What would it take to make him drop the act?

McCartney: The artist. Watched me like he was sketching my soul. His energy is quieter, but sharp. Wants to be seen, but only on his terms. Tattoo on his arm—lyrics? Ask.

Cody: Light-bringer. Big smile, easy conversation. But there’s something deeper there. I want to discover who he is when no one’s looking.

Conway: The anchor, like his tattoo. Stoic to the point of sculpture. But when he speaks, people listen. I caught him watching me at dinner, as if he were trying to solve a riddle I didn’t know I had asked. He unnerves me, and I kind of like it.

I pause and add a header .

Questions :

Then beneath, I add bullet points.

● Why are they really doing this? The ad, the shared wife idea—what/who is the real driving force?

● How do they balance everything? The work, the kids, the emotions?

● What broke them before? Three women didn’t stay—why? Get more angles.

● Do they ever fight? There’s a rhythm between them, but tension, too.

The swing creaks softly as I shift. The laptop is warm against my thighs.

Crickets create a backing track to my thoughts, and something moves through the brush near the fence line.

I glance up, half-expecting to watch someone stepping out of the shadows, but it’s just the night being its unsettled self.

I think of Corbin brushing crumbs off Hannah’s cheek. Of Levi handing me a napkin before I knew I needed it. Of Junie sucking her thumb and almost falling asleep in my lap.

These men… these kids… they’re different to the story I thought I was walking into. My thoughts about a cult seem ridiculous now I’ve gotten to peek inside. I want to get it right.

There are other questions I want to ask once I have my feet under the table.

● What about kids? Do they want more? How would that work?

● How do they see the sleeping arrangements working?

● Legally, marriage can only be between two people. Will they go that far, and who would be the official husband?

I rub my forehead as tiredness slows my thinking. I should wrap this up, but there’s another question that’s burning a hole in my brain that I type at the bottom.

● What are they looking for sexually?

A low whistle sounds from behind me, and I jump.

“Now that’s a hell of a question to leave hanging.”

I turn to find Levi leaning against the porch post, arms crossed, and a slow grin blooming across his face like he’s been waiting for the moment to tease me with it .

“Jesus, Levi,” I exhale. “You scared the hell out of me.”

He strolls over unhurriedly and plops down on the swing beside me.

He’s too close, but somehow exactly close enough.

He smells like soap and fresh air, his T-shirt clinging to hint at the lean muscle I know is beneath.

That messy, dark blond hair of his, which is always one gust of wind from rebellion, is damp and catches the porch light.

He looks freshly showered and effortlessly good in the way that scrambles your train of thought and makes your better judgment blink.

He’s one step away from sin, and he knows it.

“I’m not tired enough to sleep,” he says. “Saw the glow of your screen. Figured it was either deep work or a spreadsheet on which one of us has the best ass.”

I snort. “Please. Like I’d put that in writing.”

“Smart woman,” he says, eyes gleaming. “And it wouldn’t be a fair competition unless you saw them all in the flesh.” Then he nods toward the screen. “But that last question, that’s a bold one.”

I close the laptop halfway, heat blooming up my neck. “It’s for the story. The readers will want to know.”

“Sure,” he says, his voice still playful, but something in it shifts, becoming warmer and heavier.

“Only the readers, huh?” He rubs his chin, his eyes hinting that he believes a different story.

“Still, it’s fair. What are we looking for?

I think most of us want to be seen. Wanted.

Touched like it matters. Something that doesn’t feel like maintenance sex or a pit stop before ghosting. ”

Touched like it matters. That’s deeper than I thought a man like Levi could ever go.

I thought that kind of craving for tenderness was more a woman’s domain.

I think over my last sexual experiences and how unsatisfying they were, and realize that it has a lot to do with feeling like a pit stop, rather than a destination.

Being touched to take pleasure, rather than to give it.

We sit in silence for a beat. Then Levi reaches over and runs a thumb over my knuckles, slow and deliberate. “You always ask dangerous questions, Grace?”

I don’t pull away, sensing I’m on the edge of discovering some of the truth I’m so eager to root out. “I ask what needs to be discovered. It’s my job.”

“And what? You want to know… for personal reasons?” he murmurs, eyes on mine.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” I say lightly. “Not the woman.”

His grin is as wide as the Cheshire cat’s, and twice as mischievous. “And you make it way too easy to answer, but I bet you didn’t think I’d answer like I did.”

“Oh, yeah. What did I think you were going to say?”

He leans in, eyes fixed on mine, voice like velvet and smoke.

“You thought I was gonna talk about what we like in bed? Positions? Kinks? How many partners at once? Whether this thing we’re building is one-on-one, or everyone, together?”

“One-on-one?” I echo. “There are eleven of you.”

“Exactly, doesn’t sound like much fun, waiting for eleven days for your next turn, does it?”

“So, you don’t plan to take turns?”

My cheeks go molten. Despite the coolness of the breeze, the heat climbs all the way to my ears. His clear blue eyes track the flush blooming across my skin, and the corners of his mouth twitch with satisfaction. He leans a little closer, eyes dropping to my mouth.

For a second, I tell myself to pull back.

I’ve done this dance before.

The flirty banter, the slow lean-in, the breathless pause before lips meet.

I know the rhythm. I know the script, and I know exactly where it leads.

There’s a voice in my head, small but persistent, telling me to stop.

Telling me that this is what I always do.

That deep down, I’m chasing the connection that you can’t get from a one-night stand, and the sexual satisfaction I’ve never felt with a man, but I don’t pull back, because the hollow ache inside me craves to be filled and my libido is a rabid animal desperate to let go.

Levi’s a man who makes everything look easy, like he was born knowing how to smile just right and how to leave your breath stuck somewhere behind your ribs.

He flirts like it’s muscle memory and walks like he knows he’s being watched, probably because he is.

Half the time he’s shirtless, and I’d bet good money it’s not accidental.

But there’s something else, too. Something quieter, curled beneath the confidence like a secret he doesn’t think anyone will notice, and maybe no one does.

There’s something in Levi’s eyes that looks like hunger and familiarity wrapped in the same lazy blue.

So, I shift slightly, and he closes the laptop with a soft click and gently slides it off my lap, placing it carefully on the swing beside me.

Then we kiss.

And neither of us holds anything back.

Even though I know this is stupid, I want the heat, the mess, the permission not to think.

I want to forget my complications and the stress of city life, forget why I came here, forget the story and, how Conway’s gaze steadies me in a way I don’t understand.

I want to forget what a good family man Corbin is, or how Cody and Nash made me laugh, or how McCartney’s eyes settled against my skin like stroking fingers, and all the others whom I’ve yet to discover.

Right now, I want the familiarity of letting go, and the delicious yet futile hope for pleasure I only seem to be able to manage when I’m sleeping.

From the moment I laid my eyes on Levi, I sensed he was a man who knows his way around a woman’s body.

I knew he’d be the first to try to bed me because he wears that fuck-boy swagger like cheap cologne and leather boots.

Maybe he’ll read my complexities and figure out the unsolvable riddle of my orgasm.

Maybe he’ll lasso my pleasure and drag it out of me like a reluctant steed.

My mouth catches his in a kiss that’s full of heat and spark and too many years of wrong choices. He tastes like trouble and something sweeter, like candy at midnight, like sunsets, like relief.

Levi makes a low sound in his throat, satisfied, then deepens the kiss, his hands sliding to my waist, already proving he knows how I like to be touched.

It feels instinctive, and my heart skitters.

I press into him, and he pulls me into his lap without breaking contact, fingers brushing under the hem of my shirt, palms rough and warm and sure.

His mouth moves to my jaw, then my neck, teasing fire under my skin with every press of lips and teeth.

“You always this easy to distract?” he murmurs against my throat.

“Only when I’m bored,” I lie.

He chuckles, low and dangerous, and the next thing I know, I’m in his arms, literally. He lifts me like I weigh nothing, my laptop forgotten, the door to reason slamming shut behind us.

“Levi—” I manage, though it sounds more like a gasp than a protest.

“Shhh,” he says, that smile in his voice. “You don’t want to think right now, do you? You want to feel. You want to know.”

And damn it, if it isn’t true.

We don’t make it to the house. He heads for the nearest barn, still carrying me, his mouth hot against mine.

And all the promises I made myself after every previous mistake fall like confetti at our feet.