Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 55305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 277(@200wpm)___ 221(@250wpm)___ 184(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 277(@200wpm)___ 221(@250wpm)___ 184(@300wpm)
Mason: But you don’t have to, Janey. You ever need anything like that, you know where we are.
Mason: Serious question. You free this weekend? We’d like to take you out. Dinner. Maybe a walk somewhere pretty. No barn required… unless you ask real nice.
A fluttery, breathless feeling tightens my chest. This is confirmation that they’re looking for more than another hookup. They’re asking me out. To do date things. That sounds a whole lot like courting. I stare at the message for a long time, thumb hovering.
Part of me wants to say yes immediately. The same risk taking part that followed them into the barn. The same part that enjoys their messages, and looks at their photos over and over again. But the other part—the one raised on my mother’s lectures about reputation, stability, and “not throwing your future away”—is screaming at me to delete the group chat and focus on my real life, not this fantasy version.
Me: I can’t.
I leave it simple. They don’t need to hear about my life or how they’d be perceived.
Mason: Why not?
Me: Please, Mason.
Mason: Please what, sweetheart? Fuck, I love it when you say that word.
Me: Because last time we were together it got… intense. And I can’t deal with that in my real life.
Brookes: We like intense. But we also like you, Janey. Not just your body. Though we definitely like that too. We want more.
Mason follows right after.
Mason: We’re not looking to treat you like a one-night secret. We want to know the girl who bakes cinnamon rolls and handles angry bulls for a living.
I let out a shaky breath, heart pounding way too hard for a text conversation.
Mason: Say yes, sweetheart. Let us take you out. We’ll be gentlemen… mostly.
Mostly.
I put my phone down, telling myself I need to think, but what's there to think about? I know what I need to do. It might be very different from what I want to do, but duty trumps desire. My mother drummed that in early.
Deep down, I already know I’m going to say no, but I give myself the illusion of choice. The alternative is too depressing.
Saying no is the only option.
It was supposed to be one wild night, but Mason and Brookes Fletcher have already started working their way under my skin.
I have to cut this off before it hurts us all.
Chapter 6
Janey
My mom always sets the table as if she’s expecting company, even when it’s only the three of us.
The plates are centered. The cutlery is aligned. The napkins are folded with more care than anyone could reasonably need. Everything has its place, everything is controlled, and everything is exactly as it should be.
It used to comfort me.
Now it feels like I’m being measured.
“You’re late,” she says when I step into the dining room, her tone light enough on the surface, though there’s always a sharper message beneath it.
“Five minutes,” I reply, setting my bag down by the door.
“Five minutes becomes a habit if you let it.” She smooths an already perfect napkin, as though even the smallest wrinkle is a personal failing.
My dad glances up from his seat and offers me a small smile, one that doesn’t quite make it past my mother’s presence. “Good to see you, sweetheart.”
“You too.” I lean down to kiss his cheek before taking my seat.
Lunch smells wonderful. Roast chicken and vegetables, warm and familiar that ought to make me feel at ease.
Instead, I feel off.
Tired, mostly, with a strange heaviness that sits behind my eyes and sinks into my limbs. I feel as if I haven’t slept properly, even though I know I have.
“Are you eating enough?” my mother asks, watching me as I pick up my fork.
I blink at her. “Yes.”
“You look pale.”
I do?
“I’m fine.”
She hums softly, clearly unconvinced. “You’ve been working too much. That clinic is demanding, and you’ve never known how to pace yourself.”
“I manage,” I say, keeping my tone even.
“You could always come back here,” she continues, returning to a conversation we’ve had a hundred times before. “There’s no reason for you to be out there on your own, running yourself into the ground, when you have a perfectly good home.”
I press my lips together and cut into the chicken a little more firmly than necessary.
“I like being on my own.”
“You think you do,” she corrects gently. “But independence isn’t the same as stability. One day, you’ll want something more solid.”
By solid she means predictable and acceptable.
An averagely good-looking man, with an average personality, who can give me an average amount of love and affection. Too good-looking would be too showy. Too extroverted would be a showoff. Being too into me would be weakness or obsession.
I don’t answer. Instead, I focus on my plate, though my appetite is nowhere to be found. The smell of the food, which should be delicious and comforting, suddenly feels too rich, and too heavy, turning strangely in my stomach.