Page 19

GRACE

I stand by the kitchen window, a cup of lukewarm coffee cupped in both hands, spying like a creep through the cracked curtain as figures move in the afternoon light.

They don’t know I’m watching.

Conway is straight-backed as he rides high on a powerful chestnut-colored horse.

Dylan is towering and solid, carrying something that looks too heavy to manage without help.

Corbin has his shirt slung over his shoulder, hay in his gloved hands.

Levi’s laugh floats faintly on the breeze and makes my stomach clench for reasons I don’t want to unpack.

His hair ruffles in the breeze, and his smile is so natural, so unbidden, and so different from the one he flashed me after we had sex that I have to look away.

And then there’s Jaxon.

He stands apart from the rest, always a little to the side like he’s not fully part of the scene even when he’s right in the middle of it. His arms are crossed, shoulders stiff, posture brooding like it’s second nature, or maybe a shield.

He’s leaner than the others but not lacking an ounce of strength.

His frame is all coiled muscle and intensity, like he’s been holding something in for years and doesn’t plan on letting it go anytime soon.

Black curls fall messily over his forehead like they’ve never once behaved.

His jaw is perpetually stubbled, angular, and sharp, and his eyes—God, his eyes —are bottomless.

Deep, inky black, and unreadable, like staring into pitch darkness and convincing yourself you see stars.

He doesn’t talk much and doesn’t smile unless it’s sharp, but when he looks at you, it feels like being read instead of seen.

I haven’t figured him out yet.

And that bothers me more than I want to admit.

I sip my bitter coffee and soak them up in their worn jeans and beat-up boots, with sunburnt necks and filthy hands. They’re big shapes cut out against all that soft blue sky and green field. They look carved from the land itself.

My forehead hits the cool glass with a soft thud. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I came to write a story. Observe. Record. Maybe flirt a little and get out with a good feature. Not this.

Not feeling. Not yearning. Not craving.

Beau bumps his nose against my knee as if he can sense my spiral. I scratch behind his ears and sigh. “Yeah, I know, buddy. Me, too.”

The screen door creaks, and Lennon steps in, dusty from head to toe, clipboard under one arm like a sword he’s ready to wield against inefficiency.

“What are you in for?” I ask.

“Kitchen duty.” He drops the clipboard on the table, takes off his overshirt, washes his hands, and pulls open the fridge, staring inside for so long I doubt he has a plan. “Conway rotated chores, and somehow, I drew the short straw.”

He says it as though the idea of disrupting already established roles is unconscionable.

“You say it like you aren’t responsible for labeling everything in the pantry.” I pull my hair into a loose knot.

“How did you know that was me?”

I arch a brow. “You need a hand?”

His mouth pulls into a flat line. “You offering?”

“Sure.”

“Can you peel?” he asks.

“I’m not useless, Lennon.”

“That isn’t a yes.”

Before I can fire back, the door groans again, and Jaxon steps in. He peels off his gloves and tosses them on the counter without a greeting. His shirt is clinging to him in ways I shouldn’t notice. But I do, and so does every hormone I’ve ever had.

“Conway said to help in the kitchen,” he mutters. “So I’m here.”

It’s possibly the most words I’ve heard from him in two days.

I freeze at the stove, then recover. “We’re honored.”

Jaxon gives a small huff that might be a laugh, but it ends as fast as it came. His eyes don’t meet mine. They barely ever do. He washes his hands at the sink as I stare at his broad back and his messy dark hair that curls damply around his neck, itching to feel if it’s as soft as it looks.

What would he do if I stroked his neck and ran my fingers through his hair?

Would he like that kind of touch or find it a waste of time?

He looks like a man who goes straight to the fucking and still handles his lover’s business fully and without compromise.

I’m wet thinking about his rough hands and his ass that rounds out his jeans perfectly.

Lennon moves methodically, already pulling flour, sugar, and yeast from the pantry. I stand awkwardly between them, feeling the weight of two different energies: Lennon’s rigid competence and Jaxon’s dark, heavy stillness.

Lennon passes me laden down with ingredients, his handsome face drawn with tension, probably from doing something he’s not proficient at. “You can start peeling potatoes. ”

I want to say, yes sir, to be sassy, but the truth is, his energy does something fluttery to me, like I can imagine him reading out a list of things he wants me to do to him: unbutton my pants, take out my cock, kiss the tip, lick it all the way down, take it in your throat, gag on it, swallow it all down.

I bet he’d follow all of that up with a gruff-sounding ‘good girl.’

I sneak a look at his profile from the corner of my eye, and my toes curl in my socks.

Jaxon finds me a peeler and places it in my palm. Our fingers brush. Static shoots straight through my arm like I touched a live wire. I don’t flinch, but I feel the heat rising up my spine and spilling lower between my thighs.

The three of us move around the kitchen like magnets, refusing to fully connect. Lennon measures flour with a robotic focus. Jaxon chops like the vegetables insulted his ancestors. I peel potatoes with unnecessary tension, humming to fill the silence.

The two of them barely speak, and I feel like the awkward human buffer keeping them from silently combusting. They’re cousins. Shouldn’t cousins have more to say to each other?

“Does it kill you both to talk?” I tease, tossing a peeled potato into the bowl.

Lennon doesn’t look up. “Talking wastes time and distracts.”

Jaxon pauses long enough to flick those dark, unreadable eyes to mine. “Some things are better left unsaid.”

The weight of his dark gaze lingers a beat too long. My stomach flips unexpectedly, and I snap my attention back to the cutting board.

I grab the flour tin to distract myself, considering making another batch of my crowd-pleasing brownies, and turn to dump it into the mixer, only to misjudge the angle. A cloud of white explodes across the counter and onto Jaxon’s black shirt.

I gasp. “Oh my God. ”

Jaxon freezes. White dust clings to his chest, arms, and hair. The glare he levels at me could peel paint, and he does that sexy, jaw-ticking thing that Channing Tatum has perfected to wet even the driest of panties.

For a terrifying heartbeat, I think he’s going to explode. But then he groans in disgust, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

“You two are children,” Lennon mutters.

I face him, lowering my chin and widening my eyes. “Sorry, Daddy,” I croon, and the way he falters is hilarious.

Jaxon swipes at his shirt, and so slowly, I almost don’t register it, flicks a small pinch of flour back at me.

It hits my cheek.

My jaw drops. “Did you—?”

He almost smiles. Almost.

I grab a handful of flour, and he takes a half-step back. Lennon lifts a spoon. “If you throw that, I swear to God, Grace—

“What, Lennon. Will you take me over your knee?”

His eyes flash, but when he wets his lips, I can’t tell if he’s mad as hell or as aroused as I am.

He inhales, broadening his already wide chest. “You’ll be doing inventory for a month.”

I drop it and grin. “Buzzkill.” Then I raise my eyebrows. “Anyway, I’m not staying that long.”

His mouth returns to its serious line, but there’s a definite flicker of amusement at the corners.

Jaxon brushes past me to grab the mixing bowl, but this time, he moves close enough that I feel the heat of his body.

We finish cooking in a rhythm that doesn’t feel awkward anymore. Jaxon swipes a roll. I swat his hand. He does it again to see if I’ll smack him harder. By the time the others come stomping in, smelling like horses, sweat, and laughter, the tension has morphed into warmth and companionship.

Lennon declares the food acceptable, then corrals the kids and rounds up plates. I hang back for a second, leaning against the counter, trying to catch my breath .

Jaxon leans his tall frame against the opposite counter, arms crossed, head tilted as he studies me. The hard lines of his jaw soften in the warm light, and for once, he doesn’t look away when I stare straight at him.

“Not bad,” he says finally.

My brow arches. “The food?”

He gives a small shrug. “All of it.”

His eyes hold mine a beat too long, and I swallow hard, my pulse kicking up, and I smooth my hand over my mouth to wipe away the smile that’s ready to break. “We make a decent team.”

Jaxon’s lips curve as something thoughtful flickers behind his guarded expression. “Maybe.”

I don’t know what to say to that. The air between us stretches again, heavy with all the things we’re not saying.

“Let’s eat.” I push off the counter and brush past Jaxon. He doesn’t stop me, but I feel the weight of his gaze trailing me as I go.

Beau’s nails click softly across the floor as he follows at my heels, my loyal shadow.

I take one last glance back. Jaxon is still leaning there, still watching, his thoughts an utter mystery. I shake my head and smile to myself as I join the chaos.

I should know better. I should want to leave before it gets any messier, but if I’m being honest with myself, the craziness of this home is growing on me, and these men are so intriguing that the prospect of walking away before discovering more of their hidden depths isn’t an option.

I’ve had most of my life to practice holding people at arm’s length and only sharing the parts of me I’m willing to let them touch.

I can handle a couple more days of cowboy temptation.

***

The house has finally quietened. The only sounds are the occasional creak of old wood, a soft snore from somewhere down the hall, and the steady hum of the ceiling fan overhead .

I sit cross-legged on the window seat in my room, laptop warm against my thighs, with Beau curled up like a giant cinnamon roll at my feet. I run my fingers absently through his fur as the cursor blinks on the blank document.

I type and delete the title three times before settling on something half-joking, half-true:

“Eleven Cowboys. One Woman. What Could Possibly Go Right?”

I stare at the words for a long moment, considering alternatives. Then I start to type.

Observation #1: I came here thinking I knew men. I didn’t. Not these men. I’m discovering that I don’t even know myself.

Observation #2: They’re not what the world told me men would be.

They’re soft where they’re supposed to be hard.

Hard where they must be, they take care of what’s theirs, but they share the load.

They love kids that aren’t biologically theirs, run a home together, and aren’t too proud to fold tiny socks or kiss a scraped knee.

Observation #3: Each of them is wildly, frustratingly, and impossibly different.

Lennon : Order. Lists. The quiet stability that holds this chaos together.

Jaxon : Walled off, sharp edges. The silence that speaks more than words, a basement of secrets.

Dylan : Stoic protector, carrying more than his share and never asking for help.

Corbin : The nurturer. Gentle strength. Grief and hope living side by side.

Levi : Charming. Too good at hiding behind smiles and heat.

Too good at giving everything while keeping nothing, and believes in lies that keep him from connection.

McCartney : Artistic soul. Always seeing the beauty most people miss.

Cody : The golden retriever. Light, humor, grounding energy, Conway : The anchor.

The leader. The protector of them all. Solid as bedrock.

Headstrong as a Southern woman. Harrison : The observer.

Analytical. Watches instead of acts. Sees too much, says too little.

Maybe the only one who knows exactly what I’m doing here.

Nash : Quiet, soft-spoken. Communicates best with animals, and maybe that’s why I trust him.

No expectations. No pressure. Just quiet, constant care.

I stop.

My fingers hover over the keys.

That’s ten. My eyes flick upward, mentally retracing my steps. Who’s missing? I flip my notes open and find the one name I’ve barely written anything about.

Brody.

He’s the outlier. The one who’s stayed on the fringe, orbiting this strange family but never inviting me close. I haven’t had a real conversation with him, and it feels deliberate. The others have let me in, whether out of kindness or curiosity or duty, but not him.

I scroll down and type:

“I thought I was coming here to study them. I didn’t expect them to study me back.”

I exhale slowly, pressing my palm flat against the screen like I can somehow touch the truth of it. That’s how it feels, like they’re watching me for proof that I’m worth letting in. Worth putting effort into. Real or fake. They haven’t worked me out.

What scares me isn’t how they make me feel. It’s how they make me want . It’s different from the frantic wanting I’m so familiar with. The ache to be seen and chosen. This want is quieter and more dangerous.

They make me want something lasting, and they’ve made me realize how all the times I’ve been disappointed have been down to my own fucked up actions.

Looking in the wrong places, giving too much too soon, believing that I’m unlovable.

It’s like I’m constantly chasing to prove it to myself over and over. The hurt of rejection is familiar.

Now, I’m surrounded by eleven men who deserve love. Real, messy, hard, beautiful love. The startling idea they believe in so deeply that they’ve staked their lives and futures on finding it… it unmoors me.

The cursor blinks. Waiting for the next thought I’m not ready to admit yet.

I close the laptop gently and rest my forehead against the cool windowpane. The moon hangs low over the pasture, casting silver light across the dark silhouette of the barn.

Beau stirs at my feet and noses at my hand. I smile faintly, scratch behind his ears, and whisper, “Who knew cowboys had so much depth?”

Not me. That’s for sure.