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)
And I freeze.
I’m used to kids. I’m used to their questions, but not ones like these that break your heart. I’m especially not used to dealing with miniature humans while a porch full of suntanned, muscular cowboys watches me try to remember how to breathe.
“Uh…” I glance at the porch. “A little help?”
A man steps forward. He’s older than the others, in his late thirties, maybe, with silver at his temples and a gaze sharp enough to slice bread. He’s calm in a way that makes my pulse kick.
Conway. I remember his name from the background research. He’s the oldest and the unofficial leader. He doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t look cold, either. Just calm and confident, like nothing surprises him. “You must be Grace,” he says. “We appreciate you coming all this way.”
I nod, still one kid deep in leg-cling.
“Are they always like this?”
He shrugs. “You’re a woman. You’re new. You brought big-city energy and shiny shoes. They’re curious.”
One of the kids tugs my hand. “Can you play dolls with me?”
“Uh. Yes? I guess…”
Before I can say a word or even pry the toddler off my ankle, another of the men steps down from the porch and crosses the distance like he owns every inch of ground his boots touch.
He’s broad-shouldered, tan, with shaggy brown hair curling at the ends and an easy, heartbreaker grin that could start trouble in all seven continents. He stops beside me, eyes warm, posture loose, and pheromones pumping like Texas oil.
“Need a hand?”
I gesture helplessly to the rolling suitcase abandoned behind me. “I’d settle for someone grabbing my bag.”
He chuckles and grabs the handle, lifting it like it’s empty and putting my chicken-wing biceps to shame.
“Cody,” he says. “Welcome to our mess.”
He tips his hat before turning to carry my luggage toward the porch.
Another cowboy steps forward. He’s slightly taller and darker, with stubble and deep-set brooding eyes like storm clouds that scan me like he’s cataloging weak points. His hair is black and a little too long, with pretty curls that women pay exclusive hairdressers a fortune to replicate. Combined with a jaw sharp enough to draw blood, he’s in a quandary.
“Jaxon,” he says simply, then nods once and steps back like that was already too much talking.
Okay. Broody cowboy with a sexy name. Noted.
The next one has kind gray-blue eyes, freckles, and a quiet presence that makes the screaming kids fade into background noise. He folds his lean, wiry frame into a crouch next to the toddler still attached to my leg and gently says, “All right, sweetheart. Let’s give Miss Grace a second to breathe, huh?”
The kid lets go. Miraculously.
He rises and offers me a smile that feels like a warm blanket straight out of the dryer. “I’m Nash. Don’t worry. You’re doing better than most already.”
Then comes the flirt, winking before he’s even introduced himself. He’s got dimples you could drown in, sandy blond hair teased into messy, been-rolling-in-the-hay perfection, an impressively bare chest I struggle not to gawk at, and mischief practically radiating off him.
“I’m Levi,” he says, reaching out to shake my hand, then raising my knuckles to his lips like we’re the main characters in a goddamn Regency romance novel.
I blink. “Is this how you greet all your visitors?”
“Nah,” he says with another wink of his ocean-blue eyes. “Only the pretty ones.”
Someone groans from the porch, and Levi rubs his hand over his perfect washboard abs absentminded but maybe purposeful. I already wouldn’t put anything past him.
The next man is toweringly taller, with dark buzzed hair, scarred forearms like tree trunks, and a silence that feels intentional.
“Dylan,” he says. That’s it. Just his name before turning and walking toward the barn.
No nonsense. Zero fluff.
I don’t hate it when combined with all that rugged intensity.
Then, a leaner man with glasses steps forward, crossing his arms like he’s here to evaluate my résumé.
“Harrison. I manage logistics and records.” He eyes me, tipping his head to the side. “You’re not what I expected.”
I blink, taken aback. Is it my outfit? Should I have worn a ball-breaking suit? “Is that a good thing?”
He shrugs, which feels like the emotional equivalent of pending review.
Next is a cowboy with soft brown eyes and a slow, tired kind of smile. His sleeves are rolled up, and there’s a baby monitor clipped to his belt. He runs his hand over his velvet hair like he’s dusting off cobwebs, then offers me his broad hand, the one that isn’t holding the wooden spoon.
“Corbin,” he says. “If you’re looking for quiet, you came to the wrong place. But we provide a mean breakfast as part of the service.”
He’s followed by a tall, serious-looking man with calm written all over him. His shirt’s tucked in. His boots are clean. There’s not a single strawberry-blond hair out of place.