23. QUINN
QUINN
The Morgan family kitchen is noisy in the best way—clinking plates, scraping chairs, and laughter echoing off the high ceiling. It smells of bacon, biscuits, and strong coffee, the kind that could wake the dead.
I’ve come to love mornings here, even if I’m still learning to elbow my way into the rhythm of a Morgan breakfast. Two months ago, I woke up here feeling like an intruder, an outsider trespassing on hallowed ground. Now, it feels like home.
“Pass the jam, Atwood,” Jace says with a smirk, his hand already halfway across the table.
I slide it toward him. “You know, you could say please.”
“Please,” he smirks, popping the lid.
“Don’t antagonize her,” Hank rumbles from the head of the table, voice grave but amused. “She’s the reason your brother hasn’t self-destructed yet. Give the girl some respect.”
Heat creeps up my neck at the unexpected praise. Hank Morgan doesn’t hand out compliments like candy.
From the corner of my eye, I see Beck grin as he tears into a biscuit. “Hear that, Jace? Dad likes her better than you.”
The table erupts in laughter. Even Ella, elegant in her simple sundress, hides her smile behind her coffee cup.
Jace rolls his eyes. “Don’t push it. She hasn’t lived here long enough to see you in one of your moods.”
“Oh, I’ve seen his moods,” I cut in, narrowing my eyes at Beck. “Trust me, I’m a seasoned expert.”
Beck leans back in his chair, hands lifted like he’s surrendering. “And yet, you’re still here. What does that say about you?”
“That I’m too stubborn to quit,” I shoot back before I can stop myself.
The room quiets for half a beat, and Hank’s gaze flickers between us. There’s a warmth there, something approving, before he goes back to buttering his toast.
Beck’s hand brushes against mine under the table, casual to anyone watching, but I feel it like a spark that runs straight up my arm. He doesn’t let go. He never does, not anymore. He’s all soft touches and steady warmth, as if to remind me that whatever front we put up for the world, we are real.
I let him twine our fingers together, and the corner of his mouth tips up—that crooked smile that makes my chest ache. He doesn’t even have to say the words; I can feel them in the way he looks at me, in how he never stops choosing me, every single day.
And maybe that’s what terrifies me most. Because I haven’t said it back. Not out loud. Not yet.
So I laugh at his jokes, tease him when he gets too smug, let myself lean into the way he presses a kiss to my temple as if it’s second nature.
To the Morgans, we’re still fake engaged.
To Beck, it’s something more. And to me, it’s starting to feel like the act has slipped away and all that’s left is the truth I’m too afraid to voice.
“Quinn,” Hank says suddenly, setting his knife down, “I don’t know what you did to that boy, but he’s different. Better. He’s got purpose again.”
The chatter softens around us, and I feel the weight of his words settle on my chest.
“I can’t take credit for Beck,” I murmur, suddenly shy under everyone’s attention. “He’s the one doing the work.”
“Maybe,” Hank says, “but he needed someone to believe in him first.”
My throat tightens. Beck is watching me like I’m the only person in the room, and I can’t breathe for a second.
Then Jace breaks the silence, popping a grape into his mouth. “Well, before this turns into a Hallmark movie, can we remember that I’m coughing up fifty million dollars for his transformation?”
Groans circle the table. Ella shakes her head. “Jace, you’d talk business at a funeral.”
“It’s called efficiency.”
“It’s called insufferable,” Beck mutters, earning another ripple of laughter.
And just like that, the heaviness lifts. The Morgans go back to teasing, trading stories, filling the kitchen with warmth. I smile into my coffee, feeling that dangerous spark again—the one that whispers this isn’t just a job anymore. This is a life I could want.
And that realization both thrills and terrifies me.
“Careful, Quinn,” Ella says, sliding the fruit bowl toward me with a grin. “If you survive too many of these breakfasts, you might never want to leave.”
“Maybe that’s the plan,” Beck drawls, waggling his eyebrows at me.
“Smooth, little brother,” Jace says dryly. “Real smooth.”
I bite back a laugh, trying to focus on spooning melon onto my plate instead of how warm my cheeks feel.
“Don’t listen to them,” Hank chimes in, his deep voice cutting through the chatter. “We could use more level-headed folks around here. Someone’s gotta balance out these clowns.”
“Hey!” Jace protests.
“Accurate,” Beck says at the same time, earning himself a glare from his brother.
The table bursts into laughter again. I find myself laughing too, easier than I have in a long time.
It’s strange how quickly this family has folded me into their orbit.
I came here to keep Beck from imploding, to make sure the Morgans didn’t lose their precious heir to scandal, but somewhere along the way, it’s become more than that.
The meal winds down in a haze of chatter—Ella excusing herself to handle ranch calls, Jace leaving with a muttered promise to “save the ranch from itself,” and Hank heading out to check on the hands since Zane, the foreman, is away on his honeymoon, dragging Beck along with him.
He blows me a kiss on the way out, following it with a wink that leaves me a blushing mess.
One by one, the Morgans scatter, until the kitchen is quiet again, the last of the laughter fading into the morning air.
And that’s when it hits me. The quiet feels heavier than the noise.
I sit alone, fingers curled around my coffee cup, staring at the empty chairs. Two months. Two months of living here, of watching Beck transform from the reckless man everyone had written off into… this. A man who looks at me like I matter.
Our engagement is still technically fake, a convenient story spun to salvage my reputation with the committee.
But sitting here, in the afterglow of breakfast and Hank’s rare praise, I can’t help but imagine what it would be like if it were real.
If this family really became mine. If Beck wasn’t just a man I was hired to help, but the man I chose.
The thought makes my chest ache—equal parts joy and fear. Because love, real love, means risk. And I’ve never been one to gamble with my heart.
Still, as I hear Beck’s boots on the porch and feel that pull in my chest again, I know one thing for certain: I’m already in deeper than I planned. And there’s no turning back now.
I can still feel the weight of his words in my chest. I love you. He said it without hesitation or fear, like he had been waiting eons to let it loose. And the way he looked at me—God, I’ve never seen anyone so sure of something.
I wish I could be that brave.
Because I do love him. Every bone in my body knows it, every heartbeat gives me away. But the words sit like glass in my throat—sharp and dangerous, ready to cut me open if I let them out.
It isn’t him I doubt. Not anymore. Beck has proven himself to me a thousand times over, in the little things and the big ones.
The man who once seemed reckless and selfish now wakes up early just to make me coffee, or takes the long way back from the stables because he knows I love the view.
He doesn’t hide from the hard conversations, not with his family or with me.
He’s the most present version of himself I’ve ever seen.
No, it’s me I don’t trust. Me, and this gnawing fear that if I give in fully, I’ll lose myself.
Love has never been safe. It’s messy, unpredictable, and it strips you bare.
And I’ve spent so long building walls, carefully stacking brick after brick, that tearing them down feels like inviting disaster.
I’ve always been career-oriented, never thinking about love or marriage, until Beck.
So instead of saying it back, I love him quietly. In the way I linger too long in his arms, the way I memorize the curve of his smile when he thinks I’m not looking, and the way my whole body softens when he calls me darlin’.
Maybe one day I’ll be brave enough to tell him. To risk everything for the chance to finally be free of the fear that keeps me silent.
But for now, I keep the words locked tight behind my teeth, even as my heart screams them every time he touches me.
I press a hand to my chest, trying to steady the thrum that still hasn’t calmed since breakfast. My life feels full. Happier than I ever imagined it could be. And maybe that’s why the unease twisting in my stomach catches me off guard.
It isn’t sharp, not painful—just a dull flutter of discomfort that refuses to settle.
I push back from the table, moving toward the open window to breathe in the ranch air.
The scent of hay, sun-warmed earth, and distant horses usually clears my head, but today my body feels heavy, a strange fatigue tugging at my bones.
“Too much coffee,” I mutter to myself, forcing a small laugh. Or maybe it’s the butterflies Beck plants in me, relentless and unkind in the best way. Either excuse works, keeping me from thinking too hard.
I shake it off, because I won’t let anything sour this. Not now. Not when Beck is trying so hard, not when the Morgans are finally looking at me like I belong.
I smooth my palms over my jeans and straighten my shoulders, schooling my expression back into something light, something unbothered. Whatever this is—fatigue, nerves, butterflies—I can handle it.
Because the truth is, I’ve handled worse.
And this? This is nothing compared to the fire I feel when Beck looks at me like I’m the only thing that matters.
So I tuck the discomfort away, deep down where it can’t steal from me, and step back into the rhythm of the day.