Page 39 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy (Wild Hearts Ranch #1)

He stands abruptly, crossing to the mantel. “You know what? This needs to go somewhere else.” He takes the photo, disappearing into the hallway.

“Interior decorating phase?” Cash teases. “What’s next, feng shui?”

“Scented candles,” Ridge suggests. “Maybe some healing crystals.”

“Those little signs that say Live, Laugh, Love ,” I add to join in on the fun.

“I can hear you assholes,” Walker calls from the hallway.

But when he returns, he catches my attention and winks. He noticed. He fixed it. Such a simple thing, but my throat tightens.

I return to my food, and we’re all silent for a while, enjoying this incredible feast until I’m ready to burst.

Cash suddenly stretches in his chair, arms behind his head like he doesn’t have a single shameful bone in his body. “Been sleeping well lately, Sophia? Like, real deep sleep? Waking up full of energy, feeling… sa tisfied with life?”

I pause mid-bite of cornbread, one brow lifting. “That’s oddly specific.”

Across the table, Ridge is suspiciously invested in refilling his glass of sweet tea, mouth twitching at the corners. Walker’s smile is pure innocence, which makes it absolutely criminal.

“Just making conversation,” Cash shrugs, grabbing another spoonful of mac and cheese. “Sleep’s important. Found a whole article about it on the internet. Said it affects mood, hormones, even your scent.”

Okay, now they’re being weird.

“Sure,” I say slowly, chasing a green bean around my plate with my fork. “Sleep’s great. Love it. Big fan.”

Walker clears his throat, failing miserably to hide a grin. “Dreams been… vivid, by any chance?”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“Dream recall,” Ridge chimes in like he’s a damn expert. “Can say a lot about your subconscious.”

“Right,” I say, eyeing all three of them. “So we’re just casually chatting about dreams and hormone cycles now? That’s our dinner topic?”

“Very modern of us,” Cash says cheerfully.

I shake my head and go back to eating, but they keep side-eyeing each other with smirks so smug it’s like they’re in on a private joke. My brain starts flipping through possibilities.

Wait.

This morning.

And yesterday morning.

And the morning before that.

Oh my God .

They couldn’t have heard?—

No. No way.

Except… there was that open window.

But they wouldn’t just spy on me. Right?

Oh, shit .

The blog.

My blog.

My very detailed blog post about waking up during an orgasm.

Which, apparently, the cowboys have read.

Here’s the thing—I’ve never advertised this blog.

I only ever told Meredith about it, and she swore on her collection of designer heels to keep it secret that it’s me writing it.

But I guess if someone were, say, googling Omega and cowboys , they might stumble across Confessions of a City Omega .

And if they read even one post? Well. I don’t exactly hold back.

It wouldn’t take long to connect the dots. Especially if they recognized the specific details about rural Montana, barn cats, and being annoyed by how hot your scent matches are while also kind of wanting to bite them. And then me arriving here from Chicago…

So, yeah. That mystery is solved.

They found the blog.

And now I have to live with the fact that three infuriating, perfect Alphas have read my posts about them.

Cool, cool, cool. Totally fine. Not spiraling at all.

My fork freezes halfway to my mouth as it all comes together like a horror montage in my head.

I stare at them. They’re still chatting like nothing’s wrong, but I see it now.

The amused glint in Ridge’s eyes as he picks at roasted carrots.

Walker’s suspiciously attentive chewing.

Cash, grinning like a hyena who just found the snack stash.

“Are you—” I start, voice rising before I cut myself off. No. Don’t give them the satisfaction.

“Everything okay?” Cash asks, completely faking concern. “You’ve gone a bit pink. Need us to crack a window?”

“Choking on a green bean,” I snap.

“No shame in that,” Ridge offers, the picture of politeness. “Happens to the best of us.”

“Oh, I bet it does,” I mutter.

Walker stands abruptly. “Dessert!” he announces, like he’s just pulled the fire alarm to evacuate a burning building. “Tiramisu. Made it this morning.”

Walker collects the empty plates. Like he’s not fazed at all.

Like he didn’t just watch me connect the dots between my blog and their smug little performance.

Ridge helps without a word, stacking dishes as though this is just another night.

Cash hums something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like a victory song.

Soon, we’re all back at the table, staring at a delicious tiramisu. The scent of coffee-soaked ladyfingers and cream fills the air as Walker cuts me a generous slice, plates it like a damn chef, and slides it toward me with a small bow.

“Enjoy.”

I do. The first mouthful is so rich and creamy that I forget to be embarrassed for a full three seconds.

The mascarpone melts on my tongue, velvety and just sweet enough to make my toes curl.

The coffee hits next, and this is beyond addictive.

I don’t just taste it; I feel it, like this dessert is trying to ruin me in a whole new way.

Then I moan. Like, an actual out-loud moan .

All conversation dies.

“Jesus,” Ridge murmurs, ears visibly reddening.

Cash coughs into his napkin and mutters, “Guess she really needed that sugar.”

Walker grins so hard he has to look down at his plate. “Glad you like it.”

“Walker,” I say, glaring at my tiramisu like it personally betrayed me. “This is amazing. You’re a menace.”

He leans in a little. “Full of surprises, remember?”

“I need a drink,” I mumble, and Ridge is already filling my glass with sweet tea.

“Hydration’s important after intense activity,” Cash adds helpfully, eyes twinkling.

I grab a roll and throw it at him. He dodges and catches it in midair like he’s been waiting for it.

“I’m fine, by the way,” I lie. “ Completely fine.”

“Mm-hmm,” Ridge hums, calm as ever. “Just checking. Wouldn’t want our guest overheating.”

“I hate all of you,” I say sweetly, biting another forkful of tiramisu like vengeance can be achieved through dessert.

But the worst part?

I can’t stop smiling.

We migrate to the living room after dinner, with my glass of sweet tea in hand, sprawling on the massive sectional. I end up between Ridge and the arm of the couch, hyperaware of every inch of my distance from them.

“Movie?” Ridge suggests.

“Don’t let him pick,” Cash warns immediately. “His collection is… specific.”

“I have normal movies,” Ridge protests.

“You have a whole shelf of documentaries.” Walker makes air quotes. “Very educational documentaries. About anatomy.”

Oh. OH .

They’re talking about porn .

Ridge has a porn collection.

My glass freezes halfway to my mouth. My face goes nuclear as the realization hits, heat creeping from my neck straight into my scalp. I glance at him, half expecting denial. But Ridge doesn’t even flinch.

“I also have regular movies,” he says smoothly, though the tips of his ears are definitely pink. “Y’know. With plots. Dialogues. Occasionally even a budget.”

“Sure you do,” Cash drawls, the picture of innocence as he leans back in his chair. “Filed alphabetically, right between Cowgirls Gone Wild and Rodeo After Dark .”

Ridge chuckles low. “You mean the two you borrowed last month and never gave back?”

That gets Cash. His mouth opens. Shuts. Opens again. He stares at Ridge like a cat caught mid-pounce, and the silence lasts a full two seconds longer than usual.

Walker snorts into his glass. “Well, now the silence is suspicious.”

“Was research,” Cash mutters, then perks up. “Character development.”

We all lose it. Even Ridge’s low laugh rumbles from his chest, and I bite my lip because I’m sitting way too close to him to not feel everything . The heat, the vibration, like I belong here.

“You got a collection too, sugar?” Cash turns to me, eyes twinkling with mock curiosity. “For science, of course.”

“A lady never tells,” I say primly, lifting my chin after setting my glass down on the coffee table.

Ridge raises an eyebrow. “That sounds like a yes.”

“And the good kind,” Walker adds. “Bet hers are alphabetized and have a color-coded rating system.”

“Hotness scale from one to burn the sheets.” Cash grins .

I shake my head, trying not to laugh. “You three are ridiculous .”

“Ridiculously curious,” Cash fires back. “Just sayin’, we’d be open to suggestions if you got any personal favorites.”

Ridge turns to me, eyes glinting in the firelight. “So… what’s your take? Story-driven? Or straight to the good stuff?”

My face flames. “I’m not answering that.”

“You are blushing,” Walker notes smugly. “Like, bright red. Kinda cute, actually. But hey, we support self-care in this house.”

I roll my eyes, trying for unaffected, but my cheeks are on fire. “You three really are the worst.”

Ridge just chuckles, low and amused. “Didn’t hear a denial, though.”

I shoot him a glare, but his smile only deepens, like he’s reading something I’m not saying out loud. My stomach does a little flip I pretend not to feel.

I reach for my glass of sweet tea on the coffee table, suddenly desperate for a distraction. But even with the space between us, Ridge’s attention clings to my skin like a touch I can’t shake.

And maybe, just maybe… I don’t mind it.

“Let’s play a game,” Ridge suggests quickly. “Found this online. Cowboy phrases.”

He explains the rules where we each say a phrase and everyone gets one guess at the meaning. If you’re right, you can demand something from the person who said it. If everyone’s wrong, the phrase-sayer gets to dare someone.

“I’ll go first,” Cash volunteers, that troublemaker grin in full force. “Hotter than a goat’s butt in a pepper patch.”

“That cannot be real,” I protest.

“Is too! Anyone want to guess what it means?”

“Something about spicy food?” Walker tries.

“Temperature in hell?” Ridge suggests.

“A really unfortunate farming accident?” I offer.