Lennon whistles from the loft ladder, hanging off it like a damn goat. “You two gonna keep gabbing or finish the job?”
“I’m a multi-tasker,” McCartney fires back, flexing like a show pony.
We’re soaked, dust-choked, half-blind from the sun slanting through the slats, and still grinning like idiots.
Then Grace walks in, and the atmosphere in the barn shifts.
She’s wearing a faded tank, jeans clinging to her legs, hair up in a red bandana I think belongs to Conway. The pink boots I bought her thud softly on the wood, and she’ssquinting up at us with a look that’s half challenge, half mischief, and all I can think about is when it’s going to be my turn.
Six. That’s how many of the men in this house have gotten to taste her sweetness. Gotten to grip onto those curves and ride the wave. Where I was wary at first, the deeper the other men get in this arrangement, the more my interest spikes. I swipe sweat and stupidity from my face. I’ve got a whole lot more baggage and should know better. Then I remember Corbin and Conway were with her last night, and I think again. If Corbin, with all his grief and parental responsibilities, can find it in him to offer Grace some tender affection, then I shouldn’t be holding back. And if Conway, with all his seriousness and control, can let go, why am I keeping my heart caged?
We don’t have long to stake a claim and make this beautiful woman accept that staying is the only option.
“You boys need some help?”
Harrison leans over the loft edge, grinning. “You sure you’re up for it?”
She rolls her eyes. “I didn’t come out here to sip sweet tea and fan myself.”
“Nah. You came for the view,” McCartney says, flexing, making her smile as her eyes trail over his sweat-slicked torso.
I hop down, dusting off my hands, then tear off my shirt so I’m not outdone by my floppy-haired cousin. Her hazel eyes trail down my body like hot honey, settling as a tingle in my balls. “All right then, sweetheart. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
She grabs a bale and grunts like she’s lifting a small car. “Oh hell, this weighs a ton.”
McCartney wheezes, leaning on a post. “She’s starting to appreciate us, guys. All these pretty muscles.”
Harrison’s already at her side, hands on her hips, curling over her to whisper corrections in her ear. She throws him a warning glare, her independent streak roaring, but shemelts under his touch.
“Y’all are ridiculous,” she mutters, but she’s smiling.
By some miracle, under Harrison’s detailed tutelage, Grace gets the hang of it. We settled into a rhythm again; the barn filled with our chatter and the thump of bales landing.
“I bet writing in your swanky office is a darn sight easier than this,” Lennon says.
“When the deadline looms, it’s all hands on deck. Stressed meetings, last-minute changes, late nights.”
“You like it?” McCartney asks.
“It has its moments.” She takes the hem of her tank and lifts it to wipe her face, revealing the smooth skin of her belly, and hell, if we don’t all freeze looking at her.
“What do you love?” Harrison asks.
“The words,” she says. “I’ve always had a fascination with language. The way words can touch hearts, elicit emotions, and convince of truth and lies. I like to hear my voice come through in whatever I’m writing.”
“Your voice?” I ask.
“Yeah. You know. Thoughts and feelings. Tone. Humor. What makes me me.”
“Dylan doesn’t speak much,” McCartney says. “His voice is usually gruff and unamused.”
“Can you blame me when I’m surrounded by your shit all day, every day?”
Grace smiles up at me. “Gruff and unamused, huh? See, that voice would be perfect for a cowboy romance.”
Lennon laughs, holding his stomach. “A cowboy romance, huh? Dylan. He can provide a lot of cowboy but not much romance.”
I rub the back of my neck, uncomfortable to find myself at the center of this conversion. “I’ll have you know, I can do romance when it’s required.”
