Chapter 16 Grant
GRANT
Noelle’s room smells faintly of pine and, underneath it, the unmistakable musk of sex.
The two scents have tangled themselves together, sweet and sharp, clinging to the sheets, the air, the skin.
Every time I breathe in, it pulls me right back to last night—the weight of bodies moving against each other, the tangle of limbs and the sound of her name leaving all our mouths like a prayer as our pleasure all crashed together.
Across the room, the vent knocks once, the sound a hollow echo, before sighing out a rush of warm air into the small space.
The heat makes the air feel hazy. I lie still, blinking against the soft light leaking through the slats of the blinds.
For a few seconds, I forget where I am. I could almost believe I’m back in my own bed at the ranch, the familiar smell of cedar and coffee lingering in the corner of the room.
Then I move just enough for my shoulder to brush against the cold wall and reality snaps into place.
Right.
Her father’s house.
Suddenly I’m wide awake.
The room feels smaller now, claustrophobic even.
I shift slightly, careful not to wake anyone, and take in the woman in my arms.
Noelle’s chestnut curls are scattered on her pillow like a halo, her face soft and peaceful in a way that makes my throat ache.
She’s lying on her side, facing the window, her hand curled near her mouth, the other tucked under her chin.
There’s a faint flush on her cheeks, the same one that lingered long after her last gasp faded into the dark last night.
She’s tucked close against me, her back warm against my chest.
The soft rhythm of her breathing syncs with mine without even trying.
My arm is curved around her middle, fingers resting just under her sternum where I can feel the faint beats of her heart.
Dean’s arm drapes lazily around her waist, his hand overlapping mine.
His breathing is slow and even.
One of his legs is tangled with hers, anchoring her between us like even in sleep he’s not ready to let her drift too far.
Seeing her like this—safe, soft, and utterly unguarded—is a jarring contrast to the way she was last night.
Not even twelve hours ago, she had been a storm, unrelenting in her fire and need for us once we were all safely locked inside.
She’d pressed herself between us with a kind of desperation that was more than just lust needing an outlet, it was release.
Of what, I still wasn’t sure.
But every tremor in her body, every sound she made, felt like a plea and a confession all at once.
We’d taken turns being the gravity that held her tethered and when she finally shattered, she’d pulled us all down with her.
Now in the stillness of the morning after, all those raw feelings have bled into something softer.
Something that feels closer to peace than I’ve ever experienced.
I watch her chest rise and fall with each inhale, the faint movement of her lips when she exhales makes it hard not to lean over and press mine against hers.
There’s a faint mark near her collarbone—mine—and another one that’s lower that’s barely visible where her shoulder meets her arm, Callum’s.
My stomach tightens at the sight of them.
The territorial part of me, the one I keep buried, likes seeing proof of what we did, of where we’ve been. But right on its heels comes something else: guilt.
Because it isn’t lost on me how complicated this all is and keeps getting the longer we stick around.
The more time we spend trying to untangle the mess of the past, the deeper we’re falling into a new one.
Soon I’m not sure any of us will be able to crawl out of it without some kind of retribution needing to be made.
Downstairs her father’s probably already awake making coffee and reading the paper, blissfully unaware that three men are upstairs tangled up with his daughter.
I sigh into my hand.
We weren’t supposed to spend the night.
We’d gotten carried away pulling her in this room and now we were all going to suffer the consequences.
I shift again and Noelle stirs.
Her brow furrows faintly, lips parting with a soft sigh. The sound hits something deep inside me.
Dean’s arm tightens instinctively, his hand flattening over her stomach, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles against her skin. He’s not fully awake, but he’s aware enough to keep her close.
I should get up, I know I should.
But I don’t. I can’t.
Instead, I let myself stay there for a moment longer, leaning down to bury my face in the curve of her neck, inhaling the faint scent of her shampoo and the traces of sweat and sex still on her skin.
There’s movement over by the door, then it creaks open. For a moment, I freeze instinctually.
When there’s no horrified gasp, I slowly lift my head up.
Thankfully, it’s only Callum standing in the doorway. He’s already dressed, wearing his clothes from last night.
“You awake?” he murmurs after a moment, voice quiet.
I nod and slowly sit up. Dean stirs, voice muffled as he says something I can’t quite make out.
“We should get up. Richard’s not home yet, but it’s probably best we aren’t all caught up here when he does,” Callum says.
Dean grumbles something about ten more minutes, his arm tightening around Noelle as if to prove a point.
She shifts again, her eyes fluttering open.
She blinks, dazed, then turns her head slightly, her gaze finding mine.
The confusion lasts only a second before her lips curve into a slow, sleepy smile. “Morning.”
“Morning,” I murmur back, brushing my thumb along her side. “Sleep okay?”
Her smile grows. “Yeah. Better than I have in weeks.”
Dean hums against her shoulder. “You’re welcome.”
She laughs softly.
For a heartbeat, the world outside this room doesn’t exist.
It’s just us tangled up in these sheets, the fading smell of all of us still lingering in the air, the way her skin glows faintly in the early light.
The way we all fit together too perfectly…
But it can’t last.
I know it.
The longer we stay here, the higher the chance that someone, Richard namely, figures out what’s been happening behind closed doors when he’s not around.
And I don’t know if she’s ready to face that fallout if that were to ever come out.
Hell, I don’t know if I am.
She exhales like the thought has just caught up to her too. “Yeah. We should probably get up before…”
“Yeah,” I say, even though none of us move.
“I’ll make coffee. Unless your dad still drinks that decaf nonsense,” Dean mutters, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he finally groans and drags himself upright.
Noelle laughs, pulling the blanket tighter around herself. “He does. But you can make the real stuff. I think we’re all gonna need it.”
He pecks her lips before sliding off the bed. “You got it.”
As Dean pulls his shirt over his head and pads quietly out of the room, the floorboards creak softly beneath his bare feet.
Callum follows after him, moving with that unhurried steadiness of his.
When the door finally closes behind them, I stay there for another few seconds, watching the woman who’s been haunting my dreams for six years.
The woman who, somehow against every bit of good sense I have left, still feels like the only thing in the world that makes sense.
If I had any sense left, I’d get up, put my jeans on, slip quietly out the door and keep walking down the hall until all traces of her have burned off my skin.
I’d remind myself that this isn’t mine.
That she isn’t, if she ever was to begin with. That the life she’s built with her child isn’t something I have any rights to claim no matter how badly I want to.
Yet, I don’t move because right now I find I’m having a hard time caring.
Not about the fallout, or about the lies we’ll have to tell if her father ever suspects anything.
All I care about is her and the little boy down the hall who might be mine.
She turns to me then, her eyes soft and a little serious. “Grant…”
I know what she’s about to say before she does. Don’t read into it. Don’t let it mean more than it should. Don’t make promises neither of us can actually keep.
She’s said the same things before in a dozen different ways, always trying to draw boundaries around something that refuses to stay contained no matter how hard any of us tries.
We always come back to this same line that’s been drawn into the sand, and every time we end up crossing over it.
She sits up, pulling the sheets around her shoulders. I already know what she’s about to say before the words come out of her mouth.
“This can’t happen again,” she says softly.
I nod once, giving her a small smile. “I know.”
But even as I say it, I don’t actually want to agree.
Why would I when the world feels right the second she’s in my arms again?
She looks at me for a long moment like she’s trying to decide if she believes me or not. She lets out a slow exhale, giving up on pushing the issue any further. “I’ll meet you downstairs. I’ve got to get Eli up.”
I nod, even though my chest feels like someone’s reaching inside and twisting my heart.
I force myself to stand.
My shirt is a wrinkled mess somewhere near the foot of the bed and my jeans hang half off the dresser in the corner.
I move slow, collecting each piece to buy time, like maybe if I draw it out long enough, she’ll say anything to make me stop.
Every instinct I have tells me to look at her, to memorize this scene because this may be the last time we ever do something like this.
But I don’t because I know myself too well.
If I let my eyes linger on the way her dark curls spill down her back, or the bare skin of her shoulder peeks out from under the sheets, or her lips slightly parting to draw in deep inhales to steady herself, I won’t be able to walk out of here.
I’ll cave.
I’ll beg her to reconsider to stop pretending this is something she can keep compartmentalized and lock away when we all know that what we want the most is standing right here in front of us.
I’m halfway to the door when her voice finally breaks the silence.
“You don’t have to make this harder than it already is,” she says softly.
She’s watching me when I turn to look at her.
There’s something in her eyes that freezes me mid-step.
Her bottom lip trembles and for a second I think she’s actually going to tell me to stay.
That maybe, just this once, she’s done pretending she doesn’t want the same thing all of us do.
But then she looks away and the moment breaks.
“I’m not the one making it hard,” I murmur.
The words come out before I can stop them, defensive and careless, and so much sharper than I mean for them to.
She flinches like I’ve struck her.
Her hand tightens around the sheets, pulling them higher around her body as if it can shield her from what I just said.
The look on her face is small and hurt, and I hate myself for causing it in the first place.
Regret slams into me instantly.
“Hey,” I start, taking a step closer to her but she shakes her head before I can even reach her.
“It’s fine,” she says, though the crack in her voice betrays her. “Just…go, Grant. Please.”
I stand there for another second wanting to take it back, to say something that will undo the damage, but there’s nothing that won’t sound like another misstep.
Nothing will change reality or the fact that what I’ve said is true.
This, loving her, has been the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
And I wish it were different.
I wish…our circumstances could be different.
I let out a slow breath and nod. “Okay.”
She doesn’t look up as I open the door.
The hinges squeak quietly, breaking the silence between us once more.
From the hallway, I glance back once more.
The light catches her profile and for a split second, I see all of it: the love, the pain, that this has caused her.
I want to tell her that she’s worth the inevitable struggle that will ensue if the truth were to come out.
That she and Eli are worth the risk, worth every painful bruise, that will come with trying to fit our broken pieces together to be a family.
Except the words stick in my throat.
So instead I close the door behind me and leave her with everything we should’ve never let happen.