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)
“Lennon,” he says, offering a polite handshake. “I do a little of everything. Keep things running.”
I barely manage a nod before another voice jumps in—
“And I’m McCartney,” says the one with paint on his forearm and a pencil stuck behind his ear. “Yes, like the Beatles. I play guitar, and I paint and build furniture. And fix things.” He holds out his hand, and I shake it, noticing the ‘All You Need Is Love’ tattoo that stretches in elegant cursive up his forearm.
Conway’s been watching all this radiating quiet power, like nothing happens in this house without his approval. His deep-set hazel gaze, almost the same color as mine, assesses me like he’s trying to decide if I’ll break or hold it together, weighing the contents of my soul against perfection and finding me lacking. He pats the last man on the shoulder. He’s stocky with thick, messy dark hair, a five o’clock shadow that looks like a permanent fixture, and a blunt intensity to his face that makes me instantly wary. His arms are folded across his chest, and his dark eyes are guarded. Before he can introduce himself, Levi says, “That’s Brody. He’s a mule and a mute.”
Brody fixes Levi with a look that could wilt a cactus, finally giving me a nod of acknowledgment. The bare minimum.
Conway doesn’t force the issue. “You’ll stay in the big house,” he says, like I have no choice in the matter.
I open my mouth to protest or ask what the hell the small house is, but he cuts me off gently and firmly.
“We’ll explain everything at dinner.”
Then he turns and walks inside.
I’m left surrounded by kids, dust, cowboys, and the sharp, sinking feeling that nothing in my life will be the same again.
3
GRACE
Cody shows me to my room, which is big and airy, with yellowing lace at the windows and a plaid comforter that swallows the mattress. My suitcase has been placed on the bed, and two towels are stacked neatly next to it. “Your bathroom is there,” he says, waving a hand toward a door in the corner.
My eyes widen in relief, and he smiles, flashing his sexy dimples again. “We have some modern facilities, you know.”
“I didn’t…” I don’t bother finishing the sentence when he wiggles his eyebrows and sweeps his hand through his shaggy brown hair.
“I know. Dinner will be ready in five. You arrived right on time.”
I reach for my suitcase, unzipping it with a flourish. “I’ll freshen up.”
“I’ll leave you to it.”
When Cody leaves the room, he takes his reassuring, warm energy with him, leaving me alone with my overwhelmed self. I grab my wash bag and head into the bathroom, finding it old but clean. I guess they don’t have a housekeeper out here, which means one or more of those big men downstairs handle the domestic duties for this monolith of a ranch house.
Impressive.
I look different in the tarnished mirror above this dark wood vanity than at home. My hair is still miraculously in place, and my makeup, which is nearing the end of its life, is still perfectly acceptable in this setting. Maybe it’s the softer light that streams through the high window that’s taken some of the harshness from my features. Or the relaxed environment that’s removed a pinch from around my mouth. Interesting.
Dinner smells like heaven as the scent of roasting meat wafts through the open door. I start to think about how I’ll approach the research for this article. There are definite pros and cons to a more formal approach. Sitting each of the men down, one by one, to answer the list of questions Rianna had already drafted would be simple. I’d get eleven individual responses, which may or may not be unified. It’d provide the structure to get to the root of their motivations and rationale, but now I’m here, amongst the noise and chaos, it suddenly feels wrong. These men are always on their feet, dealing with the practicalities of their work and home lives. Treating them like academics or celebrities doesn’t fit, and I worry it won’t produce anything more engaging than I could have achieved over the phone without following Moses into the desert, risking life and limb.
The other option may be more dangerous. Follow them around to get to know them in their own habitat. Form slower opinions and grow the story more organically.
That feels closer to what I need to do, but it’s risky. If they don’t open up before I leave, there’s a chance I won’t get what I need to make this tale of old-fashioned love meet the modern world structure in time.
I’m the editor-in-chief. I can’t fail at this.
But I feel rusty. It’s been a while since I've done anything but review the work of others. What if I’ve lost my edge?