Chapter 40 Abigail
Chapter forty
Abigail
It’s our second Sunday dinner together at the big house, and I already find myself wishing it’ll become a regular thing.
For it to always be there, something warm and grounding that anchors the week.
I smile to myself as I make my way across the driveway, rifling through the grocery bags in my hand to make sure I have everything.
Without looking I open the front door, having done it hundreds of times at this point, and before I even make it fully inside, the tree stops me.
It’s massive—brushed right up against the high ceiling of the living room, branches full and heavy and impossibly perfect, like it was pulled straight out of a Hallmark Christmas movie instead of the middle of rural Montana.
White lights glow throughout it, and I have to press my lips together to keep from doing something embarrassing, like crying in the entryway.
I can’t remember the last time I saw a tree like this.
Not even when Kat and I were kids. Ours were always a little lopsided, a little sparse, and short enough to fit into our apartments.
Decorations collected over time, sure—but never anything like this.
Never something that felt so intentionally done with love.
This one is covered in history. Hand-painted ornaments.
A few clearly homemade ones—popsicle sticks and crooked lettering that make my chest ache at the sight of them.
There are old glass baubles too, some chipped, some dulled with age, but each one clearly kept on purpose instead of replaced.
Ranch brands etched into wood. Tiny horses.
A bull rider frozen mid-kick. And woven through all of it—like someone made a quiet, collective decision—are small red bows tucked into the branches.
Four men live in this house.
And yet… they still took the time to do this.
As my eyes drift past the tree, I notice it isn’t just the living room.
There’s a wreath on the front door, another on the door leading to the mudroom.
Red ribbon tied neatly along the stair railing.
White twinkle lights wrapped around every post on the porch, each fence rail outside dusted in a warm glow.
Even the barn has a simple strand of lights along the eaves, shining faintly through the snow.
They didn’t go over the top.
They just… made it feel like Christmas.
They did this knowing it would only be up for a few days. That they still thought it was worth it. That somewhere in the middle of contracts and cattle and chaos, they chose the warmth of the holidays anyway.
And I find myself wishing that I’d seen it lit up like this for weeks.
I blink away the tears as I make my way inside, because I know if I let myself get lost in this moment, I’ll end up crying for hours over some lights and red bows. And that’s not what I want this night to be.
Tonight, instead of being relegated to the sidelines with beers while someone else cooks, I’ve decided Jasper and Lincoln are going to start learning how to fend for themselves.
Which is how I end up wedged between them at the stove, “Sweet Lady” by Dylan Gossett playing over the speakers in the house, a wooden spoon in my hand, and the scent of garlic and onion blooming in the pan in front of me.
“Okay,” I say, glancing between them. “This is a simple pasta sauce. Simple. No reason for that face, Jas.”
“I’m not makin’ a face,” he mutters, squinting at the pan like it somehow personally offended him.
Lincoln snorts. “You absolutely are.”
Jasper reaches around me and smacks him on the back of his head, then Lincoln does the same. The two of them wind up in a full-fledged game of slapsies, jostling me between them so close that I’m briefly wrapped in heat and the faint, yet intoxicating, scents of them.
My breath stutters.
God. Get a grip, Abs.
“Boys!” I snap.
“Sorry…” they both mumble in unison.
Once they’ve finished acting like fifteen-year-olds, Jasper’s hand brushes my lower back as he reaches past me for the salt, fingers lingering like it’s an accident he doesn’t bother correcting.
Lincoln’s knuckles graze my wrist when he takes the spoon from me, his thumb pressing just a little too firmly against my pulse.
Neither of them looks at me.
Both of them knowing good and well the effect it’s having on me without needing to see my face.
“Alright,” I say, clearing my throat. “You sauté until it’s soft, then add the tomatoes. Taste as you go. That means with a spoon, not your finger.”
Jasper grins. “You’re no fun.”
“And yet,” I reply sweetly, stepping back, “you’re both still listening.”
As I turn, Jas catches my wrist, slowing me long enough to lean in and press a quick, unapologetic kiss to my mouth. It’s rushed. Barely there. But full of heat and promise all the same.
I feel it everywhere.
I don’t miss the way Beau’s laughter from where he sits at the counter cuts off mid-sound. And when I glance over, he’s watching us—watching me—his expression unreadable and dark and… wanting. It’s not jealous or angry.
It’s something sharper.
Something desperate.
My stomach flips at the sight of blue eyes locked on mine.
The week flashes through my mind in fragments as I walk away from Jasper and Lincoln at the stove. Hands sliding along my back in passing. Murmured words in my ear when the others were only a few feet away. Kisses stolen in hallways and doorways—never hidden, never secret.
Lincoln has been down from his office more and more.
Jasper’s schedule somehow “magically” went from every weekend busy from now until March to only a handful of events.
And I constantly catch Lawson smiling, even when he’s trying his damnedest not to.
And Beau is… he’s there. Always there. Always making me feel like the world is just a little bit lighter.
Lincoln, Lawson, and Jasper haven’t shied away from touching me.
Even Beau takes any chance he can to tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear or brush his thumb against my cheek.
And the thought of them wanting me so openly reminds me day in and day out that being wanted is more than being kept.
It’s being so sure of wanting happiness for a person, wanting them to feel free in every regard, that you follow their lead.
You do whatever you can to make them happy.
To make them craft a smile just for you.
To want their name whispered in your ear any chance you get.
I step between Beau and Lawson sitting at the counter, and Lawson’s arm immediately comes around my waist, the motion easy and familiar. The feel of his fingers squeezing against me warms me at my core.
“Well?” Beau asks from the other side of me, tipping back his glass of whiskey. “You trust them not to burn the place down?”
“Absolutely not,” I reply. “Which is why this is as far from them as the three of us are going.”
“See, this is why it’s good to have an older woman around, ain’t it, Law?”
I narrow my eyes at Beau, even though we both know there’s no real heat behind the expression. “Keep it up, and there will be no dinner for you.”
Lawson chuckles against my temple before kissing there softly. Beau reaches up, fingers gentle as he brushes a loose strand of hair back from my face. His touch is light, and it sends a completely different kind of shiver through me. Softer. Slower. Like he’s taking his time learning me.
Every one of them touches me differently, and it says everything about who they are.
Lawson’s hands are steady. Certain. When he holds me, it’s never rushed or hesitant.
His arm around my waist feels like a promise made without words, like he’s already decided I’m something he intends to protect.
Like he wants to keep me close, always. His touch is grounding, anchoring me in the present, reminding me I’m safe here.
And that if the world tilts too hard, he’ll be the one bracing me without ever making it feel like a burden.
Lincoln, I’ve learned, is quieter about it than his brother.
He’s more careful. As if he’s constantly measuring what he’s allowed to want against what he thinks he should do.
When his fingers brush my wrist or linger at my back, there’s still restraint there—but it’s loaded.
Intensity packed tight beneath control. His touch feels deliberate, reverent even.
He’s memorizing me instead of claiming me.
Like every second of contact matters because he doesn’t take a single one for granted.
And Jasper—god. Jasper touches me like he lives in the moment between every heartbeat.
Like if he doesn’t reach for me then and there, he might never get the chance again.
His hands are warm and sure, but a little reckless, guided by instinct more than thought.
And when he kisses me, it’s urgency and heat and want all tangled together in a beautiful and chaotic web.
It’s entirely all-consuming. Jasper’s touch feels like choice—like he’s choosing this, choosing me. Every single time.
Even Beau, who pretends he’s the most laid-back of them all touches me like he’s listening.
Like he’s paying attention to every breath I take, every shift of my body.
His fingers are gentle, exploratory, never assuming.
And when he tucks my hair behind my ear or brushes his thumb along my cheek, it feels intimate in a way that sneaks up on me.
It’s slow and intentional, like he’s learning me piece by piece and enjoying the process far too much to rush it. I guess that’s why he hasn’t.
Beau tilts his glass toward me. “Want some?”
My eyes find my glass of wine I left by the stove as I hesitate for a second before taking a sip of the amber liquid, the burn blooming warm in my chest. As I lower the glass, I catch the look Beau and Lawson exchange.
It’s brief, but loaded. A silent conversation I’m not privy to but one that deeply affects me anyway.
Heat coils deeper in my stomach.