Chapter 8
Finn
I ’m fucking beat by the time I bound up the steps to my house. It’s a little after six, the sun is still blazing in the sky, and I’m in desperate need of a shower and a cold beer. It’s Ash’s first day watching Tucker, so I’m also eager to get inside and find out how everything went.
As I open the front door, the first thing I notice is the smell. My stomach grumbles as I breathe in the delicious scent of…something. I’m not sure what. Pot roast, maybe. Kicking off my shoes, I wander deeper into the house. The next thing I notice is the music. It’s not coming from the record player in the living room and it’s not anything I would ever listen to—some sort of rock or metal song—but as I step into the kitchen, my gaze lands on my son, and a smile cracks wide on my face. He’s holding on to Bubba’s front paws as they dance around the space, head thrown back as he giggles. Bubba’s tongue hangs out the side of his mouth as he, too, smiles.
A calming sense of ease washes over me as I watch them for a moment. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little nervous about how today was going to go. No matter how good somebody sounds on paper, there’s always a chance something could go wrong. But as I take in the contagious smile on my son’s face and the carefree way he’s moving around the kitchen, all those nerves from earlier dissipate.
Ash is pulling what looks to be biscuits out of the oven, and when he places them down on a potholder, he glances back at Tucker and Bubba, but his eyes immediately lift to meet mine.
“Oh, hey.” His cheeks turn a shade of pink as his smile crinkles the lines around his eyes. “Didn’t hear you come in.”
Tossing my hat on the counter, I say, “Your taste in music sucks.”
He snorts, gesturing toward my son and the dog. “Pretty sure you’re the only one who thinks that.”
I bite back a grin as I watch the two of them still dancing around the kitchen. Gaze finding Ash’s, I notice his eyes are two different colors. One’s blue, the other green. I don’t think his sisters are like that. “How’d today go?” I ask him, forcing myself to look away from his two-toned eyes.
“We had a great day,” he says. “Didn’t we, T?”
Tucker jumps up, letting go of Bubba’s paws as he throws his arms in the air. “Yeah!”
“Are you hungry?” Ash asks. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
“You didn’t have to cook dinner.”
“I know, but I enjoy cooking.” He shrugs. “And it’s nice to cook for more than just myself. Really, I don’t mind.” Then he freezes. “Unless you don’t want me to.”
I wave him off before running my fingers through the sweaty strands atop my head. “I don’t mind. I just don’t want you to feel like you have to.”
His dark brows furrow. “I don’t. And Tucker was a big help.” He fixes his gaze on my son as he practically preens under the compliment. “He tossed the carrots and potatoes into the crock-pot once I cut them.”
“It was fun, Daddy!”
“Good job, bug.” I ruffle up the hair on his head before turning to Ash. “Do I have time to take a quick shower?”
Nodding, a smile tugs on his lips. “Yup. Everything will be ready in about fifteen minutes or so.”
As I stand under the hot stream, I replay my day, much like I do every evening after work. Except tonight, the part of the day I can’t stop thinking about is Ash, and the way he was cooking in my kitchen. The way he seems to have already—after only one day—bonded with my kid in a way that took Cassie at least a week.
And Cassie never cooked dinner for us either.
I mean, it wasn’t her job, so I didn’t expect her to. Like I didn’t expect Ash to. But it’s…nice. It’s nice to get home from a long day in the hot sun, my body aching and tired, and have the house smell of an amazing home-cooked meal, and not have to do anything for it.
Once I’m finished, I dry off and dress in a pair of sleep pants and a plain white t-shirt, meeting Ash and Tucker in the dining room, where dinner is already finished. Dishing up, the three of us sit at the table, and my stomach grumbles.
“This smells delicious,” I compliment as I slather some butter on a biscuit. I was right earlier; it’s a pot roast.
“Thanks.” Ash’s cheeks pinken again. “I used to enjoy cooking with my mom when I was a teenager. This was one of the first recipes she taught me.”
“I used to cook with my dad,” I offer, realizing we have that in common. “Funnily enough, the first thing I ever made with him was smoked brisket.”
Ash chuckles, brow cocked as he meets my gaze. “Kind of an overachieving first meal to learn, don’t you think?”
My chest rumbles with a laugh. “Yeah, suppose it is. That’s Gentry Moore for ya, though.”
“The first thing I learned to make was a grilled cheese,” Ash teases. “And halfway through my twenties, I still have yet to work a smoker.”
“Well, maybe one day you’ll have a chance to learn.”
The food tastes as good as it smells, if not better. Tucker spends the entirety of dinner alternating between shoveling food into his mouth and giving me a play-by-play about their day together, right down to what they ate for breakfast and lunch. Apparently, Ash makes a “stellar”—his word—ham and cheese sandwich.
No idea where he learned that one.
Tucker is talking a mile a minute as he tells me about the painting, the bike riding, how they played with the chickens and Bubba, and even how Ash showed him some music he’s never heard before. It’s “so cool,” according to my son.
After we finish eating, Ash insists on cleaning up the dinner dishes as I give Tucker a bath and get him ready for bed. Bedtime is the same every single night; Tucker makes his rounds with the chickens, ensuring they all go back into their home for the night, and then we sit on his bed as I read him three different bedtime stories. The same stories every single night. You’d think he’d get tired of them; I know I have.
A little after eight, and he’s out like a light. Heading out to the living room, I dim the lights, pick a record and put it on, before pouring myself three fingers of Foxx Bourbon, and sitting in the recliner by the window. A sliver of daylight still clings to the horizon, and as I slowly sip the smoky, rich liquor, I watch as it disappears.
The older I get, the rougher ranchin’ is on my body. I’m not even thirty yet, but my muscles ache like I’m nearing sixty. I don’t know how my father does it. Or how his father did it. This line of work is fulfilling, and I wouldn’t have it any other way, but my gosh, there are sacrifices you must make in order to do it, and this is one of them.
I’ve zoned out, running through my to-do list for tomorrow, when footsteps from down the hall reach my ears. Turning my head, my gaze lands on Ash as he pads into the living room, a pair of athletic shorts and a hoodie on. He stops mid-step when our eyes meet, an unsure smile tugging on one side of his mouth.
“Is it okay if I join you?” he asks softly, gesturing to the couch.
I nod, bringing the glass up to my lips and taking a pull from the amber liquid. “You live here too,” I tell him. “You don’t have to ask to sit in the living room.”
He doesn’t sit right away like I figured he would. Instead, he walks over to my collection of records, carefully thumbing through as he inspects them. His thick, dark eyebrows pinch together and he’s chewing on his bottom lip, clearly deep in concentration.
“You’ve got quite the collection,” he finally murmurs, not bothering to look over at me. “Interesting taste.”
I snort. “Says you.”
Ash turns his head, lips curling into a grin. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I haven’t forgotten about your terrible music that was blaring when I got home.”
“There’s something seriously wrong with you if you think Rain City Drive is terrible.” A chuckle bubbles past his lips as he drops down onto the couch. The sound of it scratches something inside my mind, but I don’t understand why. It’s deep yet airy, and it makes the hairs on my arm stand on end.
“I don’t even know who that is,” I drawl, finishing up what’s left in my glass before pushing to a stand. “Would you like a drink?” I offer.
His mismatched eyes look from the glass in my hand up to my face before he smiles. “Sure. I’ll have what you’re drinking.”
I hand him the drink, meeting his gaze for a moment before returning to my chair. Ash watches me over the top of his glass as he takes a sip, a slight wince twisting his face as he swallows. “So, why exactly do you listen to the same type of music my Great Grandpa Earl listens to?” he asks, taking me by surprise.
Choking out a laugh, I rub my hand over the stubble that lines my jaw. “I like the classics,” I tell him. “Johnny, Willie, Dolly, Hank. It’s what I grew up on. That’s not all I listen to, though. I also enjoy more recent country music.”
“No rock?” Ash arches a brow as he regards me. “No metal?”
I shake my head.
“Wow.” Huffing out a chuckle, he adds, “You really are a cowboy, through and through, aren’t you?”
“My choice in music is what defines me bein’ a cowboy to you?”
“Well, yeah.” He shrugs, giving me a blank expression. “What else is there?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the fact that I work on a literal cattle ranch.”
Ash smirks, and I know he’s fucking with me. “It’s alright,” he murmurs. “I’ll fix your lack of musical range in no time.”
Turning his head, he focuses on the wall behind the record player. Pictures fill the space, both from my childhood and adolescence, but also of Tucker throughout the years. From his side profile, I can see the resemblance between him and his sister, but they’re also very different at the same time. Where her features are soft, his are sharp. Her nose is more button-like, while his is strong and straight, slightly down-turned at the tip. A silver hoop runs through his nostril, glinting under the dim lighting, and his lashes…they’re so long and dark, I can see them from all the way over here.
Realizing that I’ve been staring at the guy for entirely too long to be deemed appropriate, I shake my head, looking straight ahead as I take a swallow from my bourbon.
That was weird.
“Do you think Tucker will grow up and work on the ranch too?” Ash asks, turning his gaze on me, but I don’t look at him.
I nod my head once. “Yup. It’s what my father did, what I did, and what the next generation will do too.”
“What if he doesn’t want to?”
That gets me to meet his gaze. “Why wouldn’t he want to? It’s the family business. It’s what’s expected of him, and any other Moore.”
Ash has no trouble holding eye contact, I’m gathering. “Well, yeah. But what if that’s not what he wants? What if he grows up and decides he’d rather be a doctor or a lawyer or a rock star?”
I cock a brow. “A rock star?”
A smile splits his face, and he shrugs. “You never know. Would you support him if his dreams weren’t here at this ranch? If he wanted something different than what was expected of him?”
“Course, I would.” My answer is instant, which, to be honest, takes me by surprise since it’s not something I’ve ever considered before. The Moore men have always worked the ranch. We’ve all grown up here, followed after our fathers and grandfathers before us. There was never a question of if that was what we were going to do, and I guess I never even thought twice about it when it came to Tucker.
“How long has this place been in your family?”
Ash takes a pull from the bourbon, but never takes his eyes off me. There’s something intense in his gaze, but I can’t put my finger on why that is.
“For seven generations.”
“Damn, that’s a long time.”
I nod, looking away. “Sure is.”
We fall into a comfortable silence after that, listening to the music as we sip our drinks. I’m the first one to get up and announce I’m going to bed, and as I go through the motions before sliding between my sheets, I can’t help but replay the entire evening. His curiosity, the way he looked at me as I spoke, how I didn’t mind his questions even though I typically prefer the quiet when I’m trying to relax and wind down at night.
Maybe he’s not as bad as I originally thought.
Maybe hiring him won’t turn out to be a mistake.
And hell, if he’s going to be spending every day with my kid, I may as well make an effort to get along with him…right?