Christian
The silenceat dinner was deafening. Sitting there, watching Travis and Piper, was like watching two strangers forced to share space and a meal. Whatever spark they had in those first few weeks—the one I tried like hell to ignore—has fizzled out faster than a match in a thunderstorm.
They’ve never been the kind of couple who couldn’t keep their hands off each other—thank fuck for small mercies—but in the beginning, they laughed easily and talked like it came naturally. There was something effortless about them back then. Considering it wasn’t that long ago they started dating, the shift and the way they’re practically hostile toward each other now feels too fast, like they’ve crashed and burned before they even got off the ground.
And now, here I am, four in the goddamn morning, wide awake in my bed, thinking about it.I shouldn’t notice these things.I shouldn’t catch the way the light fades in Piper’s eyes whenever Travis opens his mouth, like someone just turned down the brightness on everything good about her.
It isn’t my business.
None of this is my fucking business.
But God help me, I can’t stop wanting what I can’t have. I can’t stop my hands from aching to touch what belongs to my own flesh and blood.
Fuck all of this.
I need to get up.
I need to work.
I need to do anything but lie here in the dark thinking about a woman I can never have, counting all the ways my son doesn’t deserve her.
Yeah, I heard myself, and I’ll beat myself bloody with the guilt later.
There are four weeks until Christmas, which is the only reason Travis is here playing wannabe ranch hand, like a couple of half-assed workdays will somehow make up for a lifetime of privilege and entitlement.
If he wants this business someday… Christ.
It doesn’t feel right to leave it to him. Something doesn’t sit well in my gut about it. But tradition runs deeper than blood in the Crawford family, and the eldest son always inherits. Even if said son is an entitled little shit who wouldn’t know hard work if it bit him in the ass.
Three generations of Crawford blood, sweat, and tears have soaked into this soil. My youngest brother, Colt, took off to chase his dreams—can’t fault him for it, he’s actually made something of himself, and I’ve never been prouder—and Callan is happy running his bar in town, pouring drinks and keeping the locals drunk and entertained.
So here I am, carrying on the family legacy. Not that I mind. I knew this was my future from the moment I could walk, and most days, I’m content. This land is in my blood. It’s as much a part of me as the air in my lungs.
I had other dreams once.
I wanted a house full of kids and a beautiful wife to come home to, but the universe had other plans and made me a father when I was still just a kid myself.
Now, some higher power—or whatever sick bastard is up there pulling the strings—has dropped Piper into my life, and just to reallydrive the point home that I’m never getting it all, it’s decided to bend me over and fuck me with a twelve-inch cock by giving her to my son.
I throw back the covers and drag a hand down my face, feeling the scruff that’s been growing for days. Sleep’s a lost cause, and Piper’s living rent-free in my head anyway, so I figure I might as well give up and get coffee. My legs swing over the side of the bed, my bare feet hitting the cold hardwood floor, and the shock of it does nothing to clear my head. I roll my shoulders, working out the knots from another night of tossing and turning, and don’t bother with a shirt. I just grab a pair of gray sweats hanging off the bedpost and yank them on before stepping into the hallway.
I head for the kitchen, expecting nothing but silence and maybe the dull hum of the fridge. But nothing, not a single damn thing in all my years of farm life, all the early mornings and late nights, could’ve prepared me for what’s sitting in my kitchen.
Piper.
Her dark hair spills down her chest in loose, inky waves, tousled in that just-rolled-out-of-bed way that makes a man’s fingers itch to touch. She’s curled up at my kitchen table, with one leg tucked up on the chair, and her knee bent in a way that makes her sleep shorts ride up her thigh.
The blue glow from the phone in her hand casts soft shadows over her face, highlighting the sharp angles of her cheekbones, the delicate slope of her nose, and the soft, full pout of her lips. She hasn’t noticed me yet or looked up from whatever’s got her attention at this fuck-all hour. Maybe I should turn around and forget I ever saw her, but I’m fucking frozen, drinking in the sight of her and the way her oversized T-shirt slips off one shoulder, revealing light, creamy skin that’s just sitting there, begging to be touched, tasted… bitten.
The floor creaks beneath my feet, betraying me like the traitor it is. Piper’s head snaps up, her phone clutched tight, and fear briefly crosses her face before she realizes it’s only me. And when that tension slips from her shoulders and her mouth curves into a slow, sleepy smile, it punches the air straight out of my lungs.
“What the hell are you doing up?” she asks, her voice still clouded with sleep.
“You do realize you’re sitting in my kitchen at ass o’clock in the morning, right?” I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed over my bare chest, doing my best to ignore the way my pulse thrums beneath my skin.
“Didn’t think I’d see anyone for at least another hour or two.”
“Can’t sleep?”