Page 39

DYLAN

It’s not even noon, and the barn’s already hotter than a branding pit. Sweat is dripping down my spine like molasses, and I’ve got hay in places it shouldn’t be. McCartney’s stripped down to his jeans, chest slick with sweat as he tries to outdo me, launching bales into the loft with a smug grin.

“You call that a throw?” I grunt, grabbing the next one. “Nana could toss higher, and she’s been dead a decade.”

Lennon whistles from the loft ladder, hanging off it like a damn goat. “You two gonna keep gabbing or finish the job?”

“I’m a multi-tasker,” McCartney fires back, flexing like a show pony.

We’re soaked, dust-choked, half-blind from the sun slanting through the slats, and still grinning like idiots.

Then Grace walks in, and the atmosphere in the barn shifts.

She’s wearing a faded tank, jeans clinging to her legs, hair up in a red bandana I think belongs to Conway. The pink boots I bought her thud softly on the wood, and she’s squinting up at us with a look that’s half challenge, half mischief, and all I can think about is when it’s going to be my turn.

Six. That’s how many of the men in this house have gotten to taste her sweetness.

Gotten to grip onto those curves and ride the wave.

Where I was wary at first, the deeper the other men get in this arrangement, the more my interest spikes.

I swipe sweat and stupidity from my face.

I’ve got a whole lot more baggage and should know better.

Then I remember Corbin and Conway were with her last night, and I think again.

If Corbin, with all his grief and parental responsibilities, can find it in him to offer Grace some tender affection, then I shouldn’t be holding back.

And if Conway, with all his seriousness and control, can let go, why am I keeping my heart caged?

We don’t have long to stake a claim and make this beautiful woman accept that staying is the only option.

“You boys need some help?”

Harrison leans over the loft edge, grinning. “You sure you’re up for it?”

She rolls her eyes. “I didn’t come out here to sip sweet tea and fan myself.”

“Nah. You came for the view,” McCartney says, flexing, making her smile as her eyes trail over his sweat-slicked torso.

I hop down, dusting off my hands, then tear off my shirt so I’m not outdone by my floppy-haired cousin. Her hazel eyes trail down my body like hot honey, settling as a tingle in my balls. “All right then, sweetheart. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

She grabs a bale and grunts like she’s lifting a small car. “Oh hell, this weighs a ton.”

McCartney wheezes, leaning on a post. “She’s starting to appreciate us, guys. All these pretty muscles.”

Harrison’s already at her side, hands on her hips, curling over her to whisper corrections in her ear. She throws him a warning glare, her independent streak roaring, but she melts under his touch.

“Y’all are ridiculous,” she mutters, but she’s smiling.

By some miracle, under Harrison’s detailed tutelage, Grace gets the hang of it. We settled into a rhythm again; the barn filled with our chatter and the thump of bales landing.

“I bet writing in your swanky office is a darn sight easier than this,” Lennon says.

“When the deadline looms, it’s all hands on deck. Stressed meetings, last-minute changes, late nights.”

“You like it?” McCartney asks.

“It has its moments.” She takes the hem of her tank and lifts it to wipe her face, revealing the smooth skin of her belly, and hell, if we don’t all freeze looking at her.

“What do you love?” Harrison asks.

“The words,” she says. “I’ve always had a fascination with language. The way words can touch hearts, elicit emotions, and convince of truth and lies. I like to hear my voice come through in whatever I’m writing.”

“Your voice?” I ask.

“Yeah. You know. Thoughts and feelings. Tone. Humor. What makes me me.”

“Dylan doesn’t speak much,” McCartney says. “His voice is usually gruff and unamused.”

“Can you blame me when I’m surrounded by your shit all day, every day?”

Grace smiles up at me. “Gruff and unamused, huh? See, that voice would be perfect for a cowboy romance.”

Lennon laughs, holding his stomach. “A cowboy romance, huh? Dylan. He can provide a lot of cowboy but not much romance.”

I rub the back of my neck, uncomfortable to find myself at the center of this conversion. “I’ll have you know, I can do romance when it’s required.”

“Good to know,” Grace says with a wink, then she bends down to brush dirt off the top of her pink boots.

Yeah , I think to myself. Good to know . When I got those boots, I wasn’t thinking about romance, but I guess when she received them, she was.

Romance . Fuck. Romance doesn’t have much of a place on this ranch. Nora wasn’t into gestures of any kind. Bought her flowers once, and she laughed. Said there were flowers in the yard. Romantic gestures only work if the person on the receiving end is feeling romantically.

McCartney heaves another bale and sneezes like a man possessed.

“Are you dying over there or just being dramatic?” Grace asks.

“I’m being actively murdered by dust, ” he chokes out.

Grace unties the bandana and passes it to McCartney, who ties it around his face and continues. Her hair is now loose, framing her sweet face and resting over her shoulders. For a moment, my heart seems to falter in my chest, then restarts with a double beat.

I could be romantic for this woman. I could romance her so hard she wouldn’t walk for a week, but she’d be smiling, nonetheless.

Lennon, bless him, finds an ancient radio and coaxes it to life. Music spills out, crackly, loud, and perfect, and a job that should feel like nothing but hard work inexplicably takes on an element of fun and flirtation.

Grace squeals, climbing the loft ladder two steps at a time, and dances like she’s at a bar, not a barn. Lennon joins her as they both twirl in beams of dust-heavy light.

I pause, elbow on a rafter, watching her spin.

She’s all sweat, straw, and sunlight, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so alive.

***

The loft is stacked, the barn smells like sun-warmed hay, and someone’s thrown a blanket down. We crash onto it like fallen soldiers, too tired to move, too content to care.

Grace lands between me and Harrison, arms flung over her head, breath coming in happy, heavy bursts.

“My spine is hay now,” she says .

“My brain is dust,” McCartney adds.

Lennon sighs and sarcastically says, “Best day I’ve had in a long damn time.”

Grace turns her head toward me, eyes soft. “I’ve never been this exhausted and this happy at the same time.”

I reach out and tuck a piece of straw behind her ear. “Get used to it, darlin’. You’re one of us now. Exhaustion is a constant bedfellow of happiness on this ranch.”

Her eyes flash, and I know this is my moment. I can let it pass me by, thinking about all the ways I tried to do right by Nora but was burned in the process, wondering if I’m tossing more pennies into a dry well, or I can take what’s mine, lay my heart on the line again and pray.

Grace’s shirt’s clinging to her from the heat and work, a smear of dirt on her cheek, and all I can think about is how goddamn good she looks in this life. In our life.

I prop myself on my elbow and gaze down at her. She watches me, and there’s something in her eyes I’ve never seen so clearly before.

Want . Not only the physical kind. The deep kind. The kind that scares the shit out of me. There’s a flash of hesitation there, too, like she understands what it would be like if we finally gave in to the connection that tugs between us.

I use my thumb to wipe the dirt from her cheek, holding her gaze hostage as my heart beats extra in my chest.

“You know what we do when we’re done hauling hay?”

She frowns. “No.”

“Come outside and let me show you.”

I glance at Lennon, who gives me a quizzical look, but he and the rest follow me and Grace outside and round the corner to where the hose is hanging.

Her shirt stuck to her back, hair damp from heat and work.

We’re both filthy in every fold of clothing and crease of skin and ready for a good washing.

I unhook the hose from its loop. Grace is already shaking her head, so I toe off my boots, turn the spigot, and water bursts from the hose in a wild spray that’s cool and shocking.

Holding it over my head, I let the water cascade over my face and hair.

Water beads and runs over the hard lines of my chest, over the curve of my shoulders, and down the plane of my stomach, tracing every cut and contour.

My jeans hang low, darkened by water, clinging perfectly over the swell of my cock.

I tip my head back under the stream, eyes closed, and drag a hand through my hair, slicking it back, opening my eyes to find Grace watching, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth, her lids lowered over eyes that are smoldering.

I keep my eyes on hers as I rub my hand slowly over my abs.

That’s it, Gracie. Enjoy my little show. Imagine all the things I could do to you with this body, these hands, this mouth. How hard this cowboy could ride you after months of a dry spell.

She takes her phone from her back pocket and snaps a few pics. My instinct is to tell her no, but she’s just doing her job. I trust her to give us first refusal over what gets published, and if she thinks I look good enough to be featured in her magazine right now, I’m taking it as a compliment.

Lennon, McCartney, and Harrison are watching, and I hope they’re catching on to what I’m trying to do. Time’s running out for all of us to prove to Grace that we’re worth her trust—worth her choosing us.

"You sure you don’t want to join me, darlin'?" I call out, my voice low and teasing. "This water feels damn good after all that heat and sweat."

She shakes her head as Lennon approaches to take the hose for himself.

One by one, each man washes off, using their hands to clean away the work and exhaustion of the afternoon.

McCartney’s last, and when he’s done, he turns the hose on Grace, showering her from head to toe.

She yelps, jumping back, but her shirt’s soaked through, revealing a scarlet push-up bra beneath.

The sight renders us all still and stupid for a moment before McCartney remembers what he was doing and sprays the rest of us.

“ Oh, it’s on,” she laughs, trying to snatch the hose, but McCartney’s too quick, dodging her as water arcs in silver ribbons, catching the light and splattering our waiting boots, clothes, and hair.

We run, chasing Grace, until I finally catch her around her middle, hauling her slippery, wet body against mine.

She’s breathless and laughing, and when I hold her so McCartney can offer her a refreshing shower, she tilts her head back and lets the water pour over her face and throat, arms spread wide like she’s flying.

The sight of her drenched and glowing in the sun hits me low in the gut. She’s radiant—more than beautiful. She’s moonlight and stardust and an ache in my heart I want to hold close and push aside all at once. Ducking my head, I whisper in her ear. “You like that?”

“Yeah,” she says. “I like it.”

I press my forehead to the back of her head, panting and cool in the afternoon sun, and laugh.

I laugh in a way I don’t remember ever laughing before.

It bubbles up from a deep, forgotten place where joy has been smothered by all the trials and tribulations that life has heaped in my direction.

I laugh despite the harshness of my past and the uncertainty of my future.

I exist in this present space with a woman who’s wrapped herself slowly and steadily around my heart and the hearts of all the men at Cooper Hill, even Brody, though he won’t admit it.

“I want to take you to bed,” I tell her, holding her so tight her rib cage strains against my bracketing arms.

“Now?” she whispers.

I look at each of the men standing in front of us in turn, seeking their agreement, and receive three nods in response.

“Now,” I say. “Let us show you how hard us cowboys can graft for you, even after a long, working day.”

She arches her neck to look up at me, eyes gleaming, eyelashes beaded with diamond water droplets. “Okay,” she whispers before pushing up on her toes to press her full scarlet lips against mine .

I lift her so that her legs hook around my hips, and she gasps against my mouth. Her hands are in my hair now, tugging and grounding us both.

When we break for breath, she’s flushed and wild-eyed, and I swear to God I’ve never seen anyone I want more.

“I can give you this,” she whispers. “I can give you what you need.”

“Yeah?” I press my lips to her jaw. “What about what you need?”

“I guess that’s your job.”

I smirk at her sass. “I’ll have you know I take my job very seriously.”

“Me, too,” she says, grinning, nipples pebbling into tight little points beneath her sodden, clingy shirt. “Me, too.”

“All of us like to put in an A plus for effort and performance,” Harrison says.

“Lennon can write you a list of all the body parts he wants to put his tongue on,” McCartney jokes.

“Harrison can give you a critique of how poetic your dirty talk is,” Lennon laughs.

“McCartney will paint you naked if you let him,” Harrison says.

“Enough jokes,” I growl. “Let’s get this woman inside and strip off these clothes before she catches a cold.”

She arches a brow and cups my face between her hands. “Of course, this is all about making sure I don’t get sick.” I squeeze her tighter and press hard kisses to her lips. She laughs, saying, “Dylan Delaney, time to show me what you’re made of.”

She doesn’t need to ask twice.