Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 121296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
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.