Page 14

GRACE

It’s early morning, but I can’t sleep.

The house is too quiet, and my brain is too loud.

Every time I shut my eyes, last night came roaring back.

Levi’s mouth, his smile, his kisses, and the way he licked me between my legs like sweet pudding off a spoon.

The way his body felt against mine was hard, fluid, and unrelenting.

The way he didn’t let me hide and pretend, but found a way to coax pleasure from me has left my body flying high, still thrumming with release and relief.

I’m not broken.

Then, his expression after, when we had to stop pretending that what we did was anything other than a roll in the hay, literally.

He was good. Better than any man before, so I should feel satisfied.

Instead, I feel cracked open. I gave myself over so easily, but at least this time, he gave me something back.

I bared my soul to him, telling him something I’ve never confessed to another living soul, and he didn’t make me feel bad about it.

Instead, he broke down a barrier and awakened my body in a way I doubted would ever be possible.

At this point, I’d usually be drowning in regret, but I’m not.

It’s still dark when I slip out of bed. The floorboards are cold beneath my bare feet. I drift to the window and ease the drapes apart so I can spy out without being seen.

The yard is a low hum of movement. Men in boots and hats.

Conway’s stride is unmistakably long and no-nonsense.

Cody’s already laughing about something loudly enough to make one of the others shush him.

Trucks rumble to life, their headlights slicing through the gray dawn.

A few of the cowboys head to the barns on foot, shoulders hunched against the chill, their silhouettes as steady and grounded as the land itself.

They look mythic, like folk heroes out of some dust-choked ballad, larger than life in their denim and worn boots, sleeves pushed up to reveal ropey forearms, hats pulled low over handsome, sundrenched faces.

They look like they can carry the weight of the world and still make it home in time for supper. To make supper.

And I’m here watching them from behind a curtain, like a hungover housewife still drunk with sex and wondering when the wave of regret will knock me off my feet.

I throw on jeans and a T-shirt that reads Running on Coffee and Sarcasm, pull my messy hair into a haphazard knot, and head downstairs, needing some strong java to jumpstart me out of this blankness.

The kitchen is dim, cold on the tiles, and perfectly still, but even with no one to animate it, the life that gathers here has left an undercurrent of warmth behind.

I start the coffee first. It’s second nature. My mom always said a day started wrong without it. As it brews, I begin pulling ingredients from the cabinets and refrigerator without much of a plan, driven by a need to do something to keep my mind straight.

Bacon hits the pan with a hiss and a curl.

I crack eggs one-handed, fry them until the edges crisp, and throw them onto a platter to keep warm in the oven.

I wash berries, chop apples, slice bananas, and toss them all into a bowl for fruit salad.

Then, because I don’t know how else to slow my thoughts, I reach for flour, cinnamon, and apples.

Muffins. Mom’s apple-cinnamon muffins, to be precise.

“Keep your hands busy, and your mind will follow,” she says. But my hands are working double-time, and my thoughts are still stuck on Levi. On his hands and my own damn need to feel wanted in the worst ways.

I don’t regret sleeping with him. I can’t when he unspooled my pleasure like fence wire and anchored me against his body.

I regret how easy it was to let myself fall into the old pattern.

It’s hard to weigh the pleasure and release against the moment he pulled away and not feel devastated, but I try, because I’m a pro and dusting myself off and starting again.

I can’t blame him for fleeing when this whole group of men is looking for a woman who isn’t me. Even the one-night stand was a risk neither of us should have taken. What would have been the point of whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears until the small hours?

By the time the muffins are baking and the smell has fully taken over the house, I’m elbow-deep in a bowl of pancake batter and self-loathing.

I think about Dylan.

About his steady silence, the weight in his eyes, and the way he looked at me in the barn like he didn’t trust me but wanted to. I think about how that kind of steadiness must scare people, too.

I think about the kids who have moments of happiness but then drop into a kind of thoughtfulness that’s incongruous for such young children. And I wonder: How does any woman walk away from all this love? How did my dad manage it all those years ago?

Feet thump across the upstairs hallway. Pipes groan. A door creaks. A child’s voice calls out, then little feet patter in a rush.

The rest of the house is waking up.

Corbin is the first one in, barefoot, hair tousled, with Hannah perched on his hip. She’s half-asleep, head tucked into his neck, hand gripping the stretched neck of his worn T-shirt.

“Something smells amazing,” he says, blinking toward the kitchen like he’s still dreaming. “Am I in the right kitchen?”

I flip a pancake, smiling at his bed hair and Hannah’s wide eyes, staring at the muffins. “Breakfast is almost ready. I may have gone overboard.”

“You feeding us or a small army?”

I gesture at the growing spread. “Aren’t you both?”

He chuckles, easing Hannah onto a chair and kissing the top of her head. “You ain’t wrong.”

Soon, the room fills with the men returning from early chores.

Cody stomps in first, followed by Nash, still removing his hat.

Dylan walks in quietly, giving me a single glance, then heads straight for the coffee.

He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to.

That glance felt like a brush of sandpaper against my skin.

McCartney hums a few bars of something low and bluesy under his breath. Harrison actually murmurs “Thanks,” when I pass him a mug. Even Brody mutters, “Not bad, city girl,” through a mouthful of bacon.

Then Levi walks in.

Shirtless.

His hair is damp, his grin is broad and unapologetic, and when his eyes find mine and hold for a second, I swear, it’s louder than a fire alarm in my chest.

He doesn’t sit near me or speak to me, but I’m certain every man in the room feels the silence that sharpens the air.

Conway glances between us once, his eyes narrowed. Jaxon lifts an eyebrow but says nothing. Even little Junie gives me a too-long stare before digging into her pancakes .

The tension might hang in the air like steam from the pancakes, but they don’t let it boil over. Instead, the cowboys do what cowboys do best and move through discomfort like it doesn’t exist.

“Grace,” Cody calls with his mouth half full, “if this is your subtle way of auditioning for kitchen duty, I gotta say, you’re killin’ it.”

“Pretty sure I saw Dylan smile,” Corbin adds. “And that’s rarer than a wet August.”

“I didn’t smile,” Dylan mutters, but there’s a twitch in the corner of his mouth that betrays him.

Hannah raises her fork like a tiny judge. “Miss Grace wins breakfast.”

McCartney taps his glass with a spoon. “Long may she reign.”

“Fine by me,” Corbin holds up his mug of coffee in a salute. “I’ve been looking for a way to retire my services without everyone starving to death.”

“We all cook,” Jaxon grumbles.

“Food is heated, yes. Assembled on a plate, possibly. But whether it’s edible or not is another matter.”

I laugh, roll my eyes, and pour more syrup for the twins while trying to avoid glancing at Levi again.

He’s laughing at something Cody says, but there’s a self-consciousness about it.

Or maybe I’m seeing it now because I’ve seen him at his most honest and vulnerable and watched him withdraw into himself.

The conversation turns toward chores, tractor parts, and whether Nash’s latest batch of goat’s milk soap smells like rosemary or cheese. The awkwardness doesn’t vanish. It settles beneath the noise.

When breakfast wraps up, the men start clearing their plates and heading back out into the rising heat.

Except Cody.

He lingers by the sink, soaping plates I’d planned to wash myself. His easy smile is still in place, but it’s softer now and warmer .

“You okay?” he asks casually.

“Yeah. All good.”

He passes me a tray of silverware and leans a hip against the counter. “Levi, though. He isn’t a bad person.”

I don’t respond, but I stop drying.

Cody sighs through his nose, then glances out the window like he’s checking that the others are out of earshot.

“He was young when we lost our parents. Like the rest of us, but… he didn’t have Dylan’s instincts or Conway’s direction. He had a smile that could cover his pain, and too much freedom once he was old enough to start making bad choices.”

I watch him quietly, waiting.

“He started sleeping with older women early. Way too early,” Cody continues.

“We didn’t know the full story until after.

He got attention, and it worked like anesthesia.

It numbed him to the pain in his heart, but it also…

twisted something. Now, I think sex is the only way he knows how to connect.

Which is fine if that’s all he’s looking for, and the women are on board.

But when there’s someone like you in the picture… ”

I glance down. My hands are still. “Someone like me?”

“Yeah”. He doesn’t elaborate.

“You’re worried he’s hurt me.”

“Yeah… or that you’ll see it as who he is deep down… who we are, and you’ll think whatever happened between you last night is how we do things here.”

I twist my fingers together. “I don’t.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure,” I say, biting the inside of my cheek.

A part of me wants to tell him that I recognize more of myself in Levi than I’d ever want to admit.

The way he uses charm to deflect. How connection feels easier when it’s physical and fleeting.

How maybe neither of us knows what it looks like to be chosen for more than what we look like and what we can give.

How touch comes easily but trust never does.

I feel... sad for him in a way that isn’t laced with pity or judgment but a low, quiet, throat-burning ache, because I know what it’s like to lead with your body when you’re sure your heart isn’t worth keeping.

I know what it’s like to be wanted in pieces, and to start to believe that those pieces are all anyone’s ever going to want.

But I don’t say any of that.

Cody studies me for a long moment, then gives a quiet nod. “Okay.”

We move around each other easily, rinsing plates, wiping counters, and falling into a rhythm that’s familiar even though we barely know each other. It’s strange how quickly this house drags you into its orbit and makes you a cog in the machine.

I set a bowl on the counter and glance at him. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“This arrangement you’re hoping for… the one you advertised for. What do you want out of it? What are you hoping it’ll feel like?”

Cody sets down the dish towel and leans against the sink, arms crossed loosely.

“I want peace,” he says without thinking.

“Not quiet necessarily. We’ve got kids, so that’s never happening.

But something steady. Someone who isn’t afraid of the mess, who walks into a room like this,” he gestures around the chaotic kitchen, “and sees home, love, and family, not chores, grind, and work.”

He pauses, voice softening. “I want warmth and a partner. Not just in raising the existing kids… and more if we’re blessed… or running the ranch, but in the late-night stuff. The hard talks. The long days. The sweet nights. The special moments in between.”

Wow. The romance in that statement takes me by surprise.

I nod, the answer sitting heavier than I expected.

Cody’s answer is deep. He’s obviously thought long and hard about this, which is necessary but surprising.

I made assumptions about these men. I thought they’d be looking for the obvious qualities a woman could bring to the table.

A ranch wife who was content in the kitchen and happier on her back than most. I thought they’d list out practical traits, but he’s looking for a full-life partner.

An equal. What would a woman like that be like?

Would I like her? What qualities would she have that I don’t?

Cody nudges my elbow with his. “And hey, someone who can cook like you wouldn’t hurt, either.”

I laugh, easing into the moment. “Noted.”

At least I’m not a total failure at life. Decent in the kitchen and even better on my knees and back. It’s the rest I can’t figure out.

I don’t know how to be a person who stays. I didn’t witness that kind of relationship growing up. My dad wasn’t built for permanence, and I guess somewhere along the way, I learned not to expect it from myself, from him, or from anyone.

So, how do I become something I’ve never seen? How do I survive the hard talks, the long days, the raw, quiet work of loving someone and being loved back? Even the thought of it knots into something sharp in my chest.

Because here’s the truth: the worst part of wanting something you don’t think you deserve isn’t the emptiness. It’s the hope . The aching kind that flickers every time someone’s kind to you and then fades because, deep down, you’re still bracing for it to disappear.

We finish the cleanup with easy banter, moving around each other like teacups on a fairground ride, until everything is packed away and wiped down. When we’re done, Cody glances at the clock, then at me.

“You ever need to talk,” he says, “about Levi, or anything else, I’m around.”

Then he tips his head and slips out through the mudroom door.

I’m left standing in a spotless kitchen, surrounded by the smell of apple muffins, bacon, and the very real weight of not being enough.