“Thanks, Mama.” I kiss her cheek and pose for the obligatory victory photo, plastering on my media-ready smile.
Lily, as usual, is already one step ahead of me. She eyes me like a hawk, arms crossed over her perfectly ironed blouse, long blonde hair swept into some no-nonsense braid she probably did in five seconds flat. She's got our mama’s bone structure, but a sharper mouth and sharper instincts.
Looks sweet—smiles like sunshine—but I’ve seen her ruin grown men with that mouth of hers. She's five-foot-nothing at the rebel age of twenty two, but stands like she’s six-two when she's pissed. Always in boots with a heel and always shit stirring.
“Something's wrong with your shoulder,” she says, eyes narrowing. Nothing gets past my sister.
“It's fine,” I dismiss, but Lily crosses her arms, a gesture that means she's not buying what I'm selling.
“You're favoring it. Again.” She turns to our mother. “Mama, tell him to see a doctor.”
“I don't need—”
“Grant Taylor,” Mama interrupts, her voice taking on that tone that still makes all of us Taylor siblings stand a little straighter. “If your shoulder is acting up again, you're going to the doctor. End of discussion.”
I sigh, knowing there's no point arguing when Celia Taylor has made up her mind. “Fine. I'll call Dr. Malan tomorrow.”
“You'll call today,” Mama insists. “For an appointment tomorrow.”
I look to Christian for support and I get none, as the bastard just stands there leaning on one leg with that cocky little grin that sayshe’sthe good-looking Taylor brother, and he damn well knows it. Blond like Dad was back in the day. Marine through and through—disciplined, dangerous, and deceptively charming. He served six years and came home leaner, meaner, and somehowmoreirresistible to the ladies, which I didn’t think was possible.
Looks like he belongs on the cover of a magazine, acts like he belongs in detention. The youngest boy of the family at twenty four, and yet the one most likely to end up shirtless in a girl's Snapchat story.
“Does this mean Grant won't be helping with the fence repairs this weekend?” he asks, all faux-innocence, but there’s a glint in his eye that dares me to call him out.
I narrow mine. “Nice try brother. I'll still be supervising your lazy ass.”
“Language,” Mama warns, but she's fighting a smile.
Dad claps his hands together. “Well, now that that's settled, who's ready to celebrate? First round at The Whisky Barrell is on me!”
Christian whoops enthusiastically, and even Ryan cracks a genuine smile.
Ryan doesn’t say much, doesn’t need to, being the oldest of five Taylor siblings. Standing off to the side like always, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Built like a mountain and just as immovable. Dark hair, stormy blue eyes, and the kind of patience that’ll outlast anything. Rancher down to the bone. He doesn’t do drama, doesn’t chase attention. But he seeseverything.He nods at me from across the parking lot—our version of a hug.
As we head towards the trucks, Mason West appears; silent as always.
My best friend has a way of showing up exactly when needed without drawing attention to himself.
“Good ride,” he says simply, falling into step beside me.
“Thanks.” I roll my shoulder experimentally and wince. “Not my best dismount though.”
Mason eyes the shoulder but doesn’t comment. He doesn’t need to. He knows me too well. Knows exactly how much pain I can swallow before it shows. Hell, he’s the only person who’s ever matched me swing for swing—in the ring and in real life.
Mason and Devon West grew up next door to Portree Hill Ranch, same land as the Taylors, just a different house and a different kind of chaos. They’ve been living with their aunt and uncle since they were kids. Family by circumstance, but chosen all the same.
Mason gives me a knowing look and smirks. His short brown hair and piercing blue eyes could make a confession out of a stranger in ten seconds flat. His jaw is always shadowed with stubble, the kind that says he’s got better things to do than shave—and he does. As if he needed help turning heads, he’s also a goddamn firemananda cowboy. The kind that carries injured calves one minute and drags folks from burning buildings the next. The kind that wears soot like armor and makes flannel look criminal.
The ladies swoon over him—always have. Something about the quiet, the scars, the muscle. Doesn’t matter that he says maybe five words an hour; to everyone else, but me and his twin, Devon; but when he speaks, the whole damn room tilts to listen. We all do.
He's not blood, but he’s more than that. He’s a Taylor in every way that matters.
“Lily ratted me out,” I tell him with a sigh. “I'm going to the doctor's tomorrow.”
“Good.” He nods once, definitively.
“Traitor,” I mutter, but there's no heat in it.
