5. Leah
Leah
Waking up here feels wrong. The chaos of morning chores. Our old rooster screaming his heart out at the sun as it breaches the horizon. Goats bleating as they bounce around their pen. Vibrancy and life imbued in every moment, that is normal… Morning in this purgatory is lifeless.
Shuffling to the kitchen, I grab my cast-iron skillet and get to work.
I’m no Martha Stewart, but I make a pretty mean breakfast. Complementary meals are part of our amenities here, but the food sucks, putting it as nicely as possible.
The guys are bound to love this since I believe in seasoning.
Does cooking for my trainer and stable hand make me a suck-up?
As if I care. Eating alone is boring.
How much does a behemoth eat? Grady definitely put away two servings of chicken and waffles at Carrie’s with ease, so that’s a decent enough gauge for now.
I grew up with some corn-fed brothers, but he towers over them.
Hell, NFL linebackers would probably be intimidated by his size. I bet he played in school.
90s country fills the air. Freshly chopped bell peppers sizzle in the pan alongside shredded potatoes.
While they crisp, I whisk together about a dozen eggs.
Dancing along to the music, I make the executive decision to add one more into my mixing bowl—just in case Grumpy is extra hungry.
Into the skillet they go to get nice and scrambled.
A topping of shredded cheddar, a drizzle of my homemade salsa, and man, is she pretty. If these boys have never had a cowboy breakfast, they’re in for a treat.
Transferring the meal into a large container, I place it in my picnic basket.
Plates, forks, and napkins packed, I chew over the drink options in my fridge.
I’m not sure if they’re juice or sweet tea fans, but the cardboard carton is infinitely more convenient to transport.
Tucking three cups into the basket, I clasp it shut.
My training session isn’t until this afternoon, so instead of getting geared up, I slip on one of my absolute favorite dresses.
Mint-green with little daisies all over it, the cinched waist hugs my curves.
I also adore the short, fluttery sleeves.
Hair tied in a side braid, spring in my step, I grab the food on my way out the door.
Sun rays peek through the trees, casting a golden glow over the immaculately mowed fields.
As I stroll down the driveway, it dawns on me that I have no idea where to find Grady, but I’m willing to bet Parker does.
It’s a short walk to his cabin, and based on the stillness of the morning, he’s definitely home.
Knuckles hovering a hair from the door, I falter. Patting my hair down to make sure I haven’t somehow messed it up on the way over, I shake off the inexplicable nerves, opting to ring the doorbell instead.
Several minutes pass—silent, doubt-inducing. Maybe I’m out of line? Hand flexing at my side, I debate whether to press the little silver button again, but the lock clicks before I get the chance. Every greeting I had practiced vanishes when the door opens.
Shielding his eyes from the morning light, Parker stands in the doorway wearing nothing but a well-fitting pair of boxer-briefs. “Oh, well, good morning.” A crooked grin tugs at his lips—devilish, tempting, problematic.
This shouldn’t feel so… illicit. But Parker, being almost nude and completely unbothered, is an unexpected development. He put a shirt on when I asked before, but the sex-starved part of me doesn’t want him to cover up now. Defined abs, a sharp V line, chiseled thighs, the man is picture-perfect.
Breathe, Leah. You’re stronger than this.
His dark hair is mussed from sleep, voice equally rough to match. I swallow hard and keep my eyes above his shoulders, forcing a smile in return while his gaze trails down my body. “I made breakfast.” I wiggle my basket. “I didn’t know where to find Grady, so I started here. Sorry if I woke you.”
He blinks a few times before his face lights up. “You hear that, Hulk?” Twisting, he calls toward the sofa. “Pinkie brought us breakfast.”
I follow him inside, ill-prepared for what awaits.
Rustling draws my attention to the couch.
The sight almost makes me drop my basket.
Grady is also shirtless, wearing low-hanging sweats that leave nothing to the imagination.
Where Parker is all defined edges, Grady is bulky—broad shoulders, chest decorated with a scattering of hair.
He doesn’t have visible abs, but still showcases a V that disappears into his waistband.
What’s worse is that he’s also completely nonchalant about walking around like an underwear model.
Inhaling, I collect myself and start laying out the spread I brought. When they join me at the table, still half asleep, I can’t help but smile. This feels oddly right. Their eyes skate over the egg skillet, and Grady’s stomach rumbles loudly.
Patting him on the shoulder, Parker chuckles. “Same, man. We’re some lucky bastards.”
Grady nods, lips twitching—the closest thing I’ll ever get to genuine appreciation from him. I’ll take it.
I pull out the plates and cups, along with my jug of orange juice. “Do y’all want some?” Shit, I sounded very me just now. This accent business is tricky.
“You don’t have to serve us,” Parker responds, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
“But I want to. This is almost like home, except you’re not my brothers.”
“I’d sure hope not. If you undress your brothers with your eyes like you do to us, that’d be concerning.” He smirks, sending a chill down my spine.
“You’re practically naked already!” I squeak out in a poor effort to deflect.
“Hey, you showed up unannounced. What if we were fucking?” He tilts his head, face flat.
Nearly dropping the jug in my hand, I go still, brain misfiring. Have I misunderstood their “friendship”? If so, good for them. But Parker flirts to no end, there’s no way I’ve misread him… Right? Blinking rapidly, words fail to form. That is, until Grady’s shoulders shake from silent laughter.
“I got her good, huh?” Parker slaps him on the back, chortling. “He stays over a lot because it’s boring here, we don’t fuck. But still, you can’t just come over and be upset that we’re comfortable.”
“I-I’m not upset. I just wasn’t expecting all of this.” I wave my hands around, gesturing to the excessive amounts of bare skin surrounding the table.
Parker leans back in his chair, stretching his arms out. “Well, if it makes you uncomfortable, we can cover up. You did bring us breakfast, after all.”
“No, it’s alright. I’m sorry if my slutty little eyeballs made you feel weird,” I offer, hopeful that my tone is convincing.
“You’re adorable.” He beams. “Feel free to ogle me any time. Hulk probably isn’t used to it, but if he cared, he would have already put a shirt on.”
Grady shrugs, brows lifting. There’s a sparkle in his eye, which is new and intriguing.
I pinch my brows together. “You’re the exact type of guy that the girls back home would throw their panties at.”
Head jerking back, he straightens.
Parker nudges him. “Sounds like he should have moved to Mississippi.”
“Maybe so,” I agree and return to dishing out food.
Instead of digging in the second they have their plates in front of them, they wait patiently for me to claim my seat.
Groans of approval accompany their first tastes, even from Grady.
My simple breakfast earned one of his rare sounds.
My bones vibrate with giddiness in ways I’m not used to.
I’m captivated, watching them devour each bite, barely touching my own food.
Admiring their appreciation stirs warmth deep inside of me—kinship that has been greatly missed.
I’ve cooked for plenty of people. Most of the time, it’s taken for granted or simply feels like an expectation. This is different. Rewarding.
Grady stops mid-bite, attention falling to my plate. He scowls at the barely-touched scramble, gaze gliding up to my face. He doesn’t make a peep, but the question in his eyes is clear.
“I’m fine, just enjoying the show. Glad you like it.” My cheeks are warm, definitely too red.
Nodding, he resumes shoveling bite after bite into his mouth.
Parker swallows a large gulp of juice, wiping his face with a napkin. “I was dreading having to deal with Bridget first thing this morning, but this has made my day. That salsa was divine, just enough kick to really get the blood pumping.”
“It’s homemade.” I beam.
“Better be careful, I might try and keep you.” He laughs.
Heat travels up my spine. I can’t help but giggle in return.
Grady’s eyes dart to Parker, then to my reddened cheeks, down to glare at his empty plate.
Interesting.
“Well, I’d better let you two get ready for the day, then. If you need me, I’ll be giving Tally her morning snuggles.” Gathering the dishes, I wipe them down and pack them up.
“We’ll see you this afternoon, thanks for breakfast, Mom,” Parker pokes, waving me off as I roll my eyes.
Quick as that, we’re back to platonic jokes, which is for the best.
Tally is cranky today. She’s snorting at Bridget, who is standing at the threshold of Champ’s stall while Grady tacks him up.
The prickles climbing my spine tell me she’s gawking.
I’m sure it’s for a combination of reasons.
Tally tosses her head up and down as I finish unbraiding her mane.
Reaching into the pocket of my dress, I unwrap a peppermint.
She snags it in a heartbeat, immediately forgetting about Bridget.
That is, until she speaks up.
“What is taking so long? Can’t you do anything right?” She huffs, pitch elevated, dripping with annoyance.
Surely she’s not talking to Grady like that…
I shift in the stall, peeking out the corner of my eye. Too invested in things that don’t concern me. Foolish.
She taps her foot, hands planted on her hips. “I’ve told Mother time and time again that you’re useless. If only she would kick you to the curb already. I begged her to assign you to another stable, but for some reason, Parker fought to keep you here.”
“You know it takes ten to fifteen minutes to properly tack up a horse, right? He’s been at it for five. Cut him some slack,” I spit.
Damn it, mouth.
This isn’t my battle. He doesn’t even like me.
Sneering my way, she snips, “Should have known a nobody hussy like you would have a soft spot for the disabled charity case.”
Okay, fuck her.
Breathing deep through my nose, I respond, “He’s not disabled.”
Is he? The lack of conviction in my voice isn’t very helpful.
“Oh, you don’t know?” she asks with a sharp chuckle. “Who am I kidding. Of course you don’t. Grady would rather hide and avoid his problems than face them like a man.”
“I don’t give a hoot. He does a great job. You’re being a bitch for no reason. Maybe if you knew the first thing about horsemanship, you’d understand the importance of properly tacking up your horse,” I seethe, face burning.
Bridget gasps with a scandalized expression on her face. “You… you heathen! How dare you speak to me in such a manner!”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all before, you pretentious twat.
Go cry to Mother about it.” I wave her off and return my attention to Tally.
Horses can’t smirk, but the way she wiggles her upper lip and snorts is close enough.
Bridget can eat dirt as far as I care. Nobody deserves to be spoken to like that.
I busy myself with menial tasks to calm my nerves. Grady finishes with Champ and helps Bridget fumble into her saddle, watching her teeter atop Champ as they ride out of the stable.
Maybe I didn’t have to stick around, but my conscience demanded it—as if Grady needs me to stand up for him.
Two hours of downtime await me. Painting will help shake off this tension.
But, much to my confusion, Grady blocks my exit.
Standing in the doorway to the stall, his expression is unreadable.
His chest rises and falls rapidly, eyes darting around as he battles with his thoughts.
I’m burning alive under his intense inspection, unsure what to expect.
When he stalks my way, eyes holding mine prisoner, I stand my ground, ready for his retaliation. Mama didn’t raise a wimp, and I don’t think he’ll hurt me… Please let me be right.
Stepping into my space, he dips his chin to look at me, a reminder of exactly how imposing—how impressive—he is.
The weight of his presence steals my breath.
His gaze dances across my face, filled with uncertain, frenzied emotions.
Staring straight through me, he leans closer, bodies nearly pressed together.
Oh, have I misunderstood?
Catching the scent of his cologne, my senses come alive.
Through my lashes, the glimmer in his eyes is evident.
Nose nearly brushing mine, flaring with each exhale.
The tip of his tongue peeks out, wetting his lips, breath fluttering against my skin.
I’m almost certain what he’s about to do.
I won’t—I can’t—stop him. For a fleeting second, I tingle, imagining his lips on mine.
And then he turns and stomps off.