Chapter 19
In retrospect, they probably should’ve known they’d never get away with this completely scot-free.
Wishful thinking doesn’t even cover that kind of ignorance—it was always a statistical certainty that the ranch hands were going to, in some way, shape, or form, give them a rash of shit for becoming…
involved. The day after their escapade in the mud that turned into a whirlwind of mind-altering orgasms and quiet confessions, things had been suspiciously normal.
They’d returned to the summer pasture without ceremony, offering little in the way of explanation for where they’d been, and no one had questioned them.
There’d been looks, yes—Cooper had even whistled as they’d ambled up to camp together right in time for breakfast. They’d earned a few smiles, an approving nod from Forty, but nothing more than that. It was like they were already old hat.
But that evening, after the fire has died down to embers, whatever lid they’d been keeping sealed on their urges to crack jokes pops off. Completely. Like a teakettle sat on a burner for too long and needing to finally sing.
It starts when everyone is beginning to scatter toward their own tents, but Crew stays seated, only moving to grab Grace’s hand and halt her departing steps. He stands, giving her a quick nod in the direction of his tent, to which she bites her lip and smiles.
This action, evidently, is the catalyst.
The undeniable, too-cute confirmation that—yeah. They’re fucking.
Grace knows it’s more than just that, knows feeling anything casual toward Crew was never going to be possible, but from the outside looking in—
If the roaring desire in Crew’s eyes is a mirror of her own, it probably looks like they want to eat each other alive.
Cooper’s voice cracks through their silent moment, and it’s a bucket of ice water dumped on both of their heads.
The graceless popping of a delicate bubble.
“Jesus Christ, you two,” he bemoans from where he stands at the campfire, stomping the remaining embers into dull, lifeless ash.
“That’s gotta be some kinda HR violation. ”
Crew’s nostrils flare. “I’m HR on this ranch, Coop.” He steps closer to Grace without a single shred of regard for his brother’s or anyone else’s opinion. “And since when is looking at a beautiful woman considered a violation?” He keeps looking; his eyes are unapologetically tethered to hers.
“Well, I feel violated,” Cooper grumbles.
The floodgates open after that, as though Cooper broke through a rusty latch and gave everyone the permission they needed to express their own thoughts.
“Say, Crew,” Mikey says. He’s shirtless, rubbing aloe vera onto his sunburned chest, a shit-eating grin plastered onto his lips. “Does this mean we get to pack it up early this year?”
Still undaunted by their seemingly growing audience, Crew keeps looking at Grace. He’s drifted closer, an unconscious sway into her space. “Why would we?” he asks, reaching out to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear.
“Well, first—so we don’t have to all be subjected to watching this puppy love,” Mikey replies, and though the words themselves may be cutting, there’s nothing but mirth in his eyes as he says them.
“And second, because these have thin walls,” he adds, gesturing with the bottle of aloe toward the tent behind him.
“Unless you’re okay with giving everyone a show. ”
At this, finally, Crew sighs. It’s a raspy, irritated sound.
He looks away from Grace, and it’s like he has to physically force his eyes to move from her face.
Like he is ripping them away against his will.
He seems to contemplate Mikey’s statement, chewing on the inside of his cheek and glaring at him.
Eventually, his eyes flit around the campsite, finding an audience that neither he nor Grace had noticed until this moment.
Everyone’s faces show some variation of amusement, all waiting with bated breath for Crew’s response.
“If you idiots can’t keep it together for a couple more nights, you can sleep with the cows. What I do—” He stops, glances at Grace, and then affixes his pinning eyes back on Mikey. “What we do in private is none of your business. We pack up on Friday.”
Mikey’s shoulders slump a little in disappointment, like a chastised adolescent.
Grace doesn’t feel bad for him—he knew what he was getting into by playing with the fire that is Crew Caldwell.
But she does understand his plight; the time leading up to the end of their stay at the summer pasture, to going back to the air-conditioned bunkhouse where they can shower and sleep on actual beds, has seemed to stretch on for eons.
“I, for one, think it’s cute,” a female voice chimes in.
Grace looks to her right to see June walking up to camp, clad in only a bra, shorts, and a button-down shirt tied around her waist. “It’s about time Grace found her a cowboy who can actually satisfy a woman.
” She looks around the circle with faux disdain. “Lord knows none of you could.”
Caleb’s mouth drops open, indignant. “Hey!” he shouts, throwing his arms up. “You don’t know that. You can’t just assume.”
June chuckles. “I can and I will,” she argues. Walking past them to get to her own tent, she winks at Grace and says, “Don’t pay them any mind, honey.”
Appreciating the reassurance, Grace nods. Crew watches the interaction, seemingly happy to focus on something—anything—else other than the hecklers still gawking at them.
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
Though it becomes increasingly difficult to keep their hands off each other, Grace and Crew keep it together for the next four days.
Rationally, Grace had known sleeping in his tent would only lead to stripping down and losing themselves in each other night after night—maybe during the day, too—and inevitably giving the group more reasons to giggle and poke fun at them at every opportunity.
So, she’d bitten the bullet and decided for both of them that she’d stay in her own tent, even if walking away from him at the end of every night was torturous—leaving her unquenched and starving for his touch.
They spend their remaining time in the summer pasture buttoning up everything they can, and in the evenings, they play drinking games, sing along with the guitar, and stuff themselves full of s’mores.
Grace finds she might be in love with s’mores made out of Reese’s cups instead of the standard chocolate bar, and unashamedly eats four in one sitting.
When she comes up for air with chocolate at the corners of her mouth and marshmallow-tipped fingers, she finds Crew across the circle staring at her with a soft, amused smirk on his lips.
He looks impressed and maybe a little horrified, but above all—he looks adoring.
Grace wipes her mouth and smiles back, wishing she could walk right over and sit on his lap.
But neither of them moves, and even though he leaves lingering kisses on each corner of her mouth while saying good night to her, they still walk into their own tents alone.
By Thursday evening, their last night before they pack up and head back, Grace can feel the anticipation buzzing beneath her skin.
The idea of going back to the main ranch grounds, of returning to Crew’s house for the first time since that night—it makes a shiver of hot anticipation run down her spine.
It tugs at the unresolved tension that’s been hanging over both of them, leaving Grace in a constant state of dulled arousal.
Just thinking about that night makes her itch with the urge to re-create it—to hear the groan Crew let out when he pushed inside her for the first time, to feel the mattress beneath her back as he fucked her into it, to see the look on his face when he came inside her, a beautiful mix of bliss and shock and unadulterated satisfaction.
Crew, who’d miraculously managed to stay away from Grace for most of the day, doesn’t shy away from being near her in the evening.
He sits next to her at dinner, then at the campfire, and he must be feeling the same level of antsiness she is, because when all eyes zone in on his hand as it lands atop her thigh during a particularly terrible rendition of “California Dreaming,” he doesn’t move away.
He doesn’t give anyone the satisfaction of acknowledging their stares—simply squeezes lightly with his all-encompassing grip and settles back into his chair.
Grace stops herself from placing her own hand on his and dragging it up and up.
With a shuddering, frustrated exhale, she remains still, letting herself be comforted by the fact that he’s touching her at all.
She decides to distract herself with more s’mores, figuring it’s as good a time as any to try a Snickers version.
Sugary, chocolate goodness smothered in charred marshmallows can’t make anything worse.
She returns to her seat with a feast on a paper plate ten minutes later, fully pleased with herself and her creations.
Four s’mores of varying sizes, made up of Reese’s, Snickers, a good old-fashioned Hershey’s bar, and—purely for experimental purposes—a Butterfinger.
The group continues to sing around her as she devours them all, barely noticing when Crew’s hand comes to rest at the back of her chair.
When she’s done, she makes a valiant effort to wipe at the corners of her mouth, hoping she’s removed any excess chocolate, especially because Crew is leaning over to her now, that same sparkle of awe and amusement in his eyes as when he first saw her house a family-size serving of campfire treats.
Under his breath, he asks, “Wanna go somewhere?”