Chapter Four – Paisley
Chapter Four
Paisley
I swear, I just fell asleep.
Blinking, my eyes finally focus on my phone where the alarm is going off. Four-freaking-thirty. Am I actually considering getting out of bed and starting my day? I don’t think I’ve ever been up this early.
I groan and roll over, burying my face in the pillow that smells faintly of lavender and something else I can't quite place. Maybe authenticity? Is that what Miranda wanted? If so, I’m pretty sure being awake at this ungodly hour qualifies as the most authentic thing I’ve ever done.
My phone wails again, and I notice a text from Miranda sent last night: Hope you’re embracing the authentic ranch experience! Can’t wait to hear all about it.
“Embracing is a strong word,” I mutter, fumbling for the bedside lamp. The switch clicks, but nothing happens. Great. Either the power’s out, or I’ve somehow broken a lamp within twelve hours of arrival. Both seem equally possible at this point.
A thud from downstairs makes me freeze. Right. Cowboys. Real ones. Who apparently don’t believe in sleeping past what my body clock considers the middle of the night. The smell of coffee drifts up through the floorboards, and suddenly, Wes's words from last night make more sense. Coffee isn't just essential—it's survival.
I swing my legs out of bed, immediately regretting my choice of silk pajamas when the cold air hits. Note to self: add "practical sleepwear" to the growing list of things I should have packed instead of my collection of impractical shoes.
Something scratches at my door, followed by a soft meow. I'd remembered to lock it last night, heeding Wes's warning about a feline invasion, but now I'm tempted to let in whatever cat has decided to adopt me. At least cats don't judge your complete lack of ranching skills.
"Just a minute," I whisper-shout, groping blindly along the wall until my fingers land on a switch. I flick it on, squinting against the sudden wash of light. My eyes protest, but at least I can see now.
I fumble through my suitcase for something remotely appropriate for pre-dawn ranch life. My fingers land on denim—the new jeans I'd bought specifically for this adventure. They still have the tags on them because of course, they do. The old Paisley would have removed them, pre-washed them to perfect softness, and maybe even strategically distressed them for that authentic worn look.
The new Paisley—the one who's supposedly here to learn about real ranch life—just rips the tags off and hopes they don't chafe too badly.
I grab a long-sleeved flannel shirt from the top of the pile, one of the few practical things I'd packed in a fit of last-minute anxiety. I shrug it on over my camisole, grateful for the extra layer.
Another meow comes from the door, more insistent this time.
"Okay, okay," I mutter, hopping on one foot while trying to pull on my boots. "I'm coming. Though I hope you're not expecting actual conversation because my brain doesn't form coherent thoughts until at least my second cup of coffee."
I unlock the door to find not one but two cats waiting expectantly. The orange kitten from yesterday and a sleek black cat with judgmental green eyes—Trouble, if I remember correctly.
"I don't suppose either of you know how to make espresso?” I ask hopefully. They just stare at me, probably wondering why the human is talking to them at four-thirty in the morning instead of feeding them.
Pushing past them, the floorboard creaks under my feet as I edge down the stairs, finding Wes already in the kitchen, moving with the kind of easy confidence that makes my heart do completely inappropriate things for this hour of the morning. How is he even more devastating at the butt-crack of dawn than he was yesterday evening? It’s not fair. Not when my hair probably resembles a bird's nest, and the jeans I’m wearing practically squeak when I walk.
“Well, look who made it.”
Colt’s voice stops me cold as I note not just Wes in the kitchen but Colt and another cowboy I’ve yet to meet.
“Honestly, I didn’t expect to see you until noon.”
I try to summon something witty to say, but my brain is still processing the fact that there are three impossibly handsome cowboys in this kitchen at an hour when most of Manhattan is just stumbling home from clubs.
"Jake," the new brother introduces himself, his grin matching Colt's. "The better-looking Montgomery brother."
“Debatable," Colt counters, leaning against the counter with that easy grace all three seem to share. "But definitely the most delusional."
I glance between the three brothers, noting their similarities and differences. Where Colt's all lean muscle and easy smiles, Jake's got the rugged build of someone who spends more time wrestling cattle than training horses. His dark hair's slightly longer than his brothers', curling at the nape of his neck, and there's a small scar above his left eyebrow that probably has a story behind it.
Managing a weak wave, I reach for the coffee mug Wes is silently extending toward me. Our fingers brush, and I nearly drop the whole thing, distracted by how his work-roughened hands contrast with his sharp blue eyes—the same stormy shade all three brothers share. His, though, seems to cut right through me while his broad shoulders fill out his worn flannel shirt in a way that could make me drool down my shirt. "Hi. I'd say something clever, but my wit doesn't usually wake up until after six."
"She writes romance novels," Colt tells Jake, like this explains everything about my disheveled appearance and complete lack of morning coordination.
"Really?" Jake's eyes light up with the kind of mischief that probably got him into trouble growing up. "So, you're the expert on romance? Maybe you can explain why my dating profile isn't working. I thought 'ruggedly handsome cowboy seeks someone who doesn't mind the smell of cattle' would have them lining up."
"Your profile's not the problem," Wes cuts in, his voice carrying that blend of authority and exasperation I'm starting to recognize as his default with his brothers. "It's those selfies you keep posting."
"What's wrong with my selfies?"
"You're posing with that bull that hates you."
"Butch doesn't hate me. He's just... passionate about personal space."
"He charged you three times during that photoshoot."
"I was going for action shots! Nothing says romance like a little danger."
I take a long sip of coffee, trying to hide my smile as I watch the brothers banter. This is nothing like the polished, perfectly scripted cowboys in my books. These men are real, raw, and unexpectedly funny. Even Wes, who maintains his serious expression, has a glint in his eye that suggests he's enjoying this more than he lets on.
"So…" Jake turns back to me. "What's a Manhattan romance writer doing at Whispering Pines? Besides providing early morning entertainment with those"—he glances down at my brand-new boots—"interesting fashion choices."
"Research," I manage, clinging to my coffee mug like it's a lifeline. "My agent thinks I need more authenticity in my cowboys."
"Authenticity, huh?" Jake exchanges a look with Colt, which makes me nervous. "Well, you're in luck. We've got plenty of that. Starting with mucking out stalls in about..." He checks his watch. "Twenty minutes."
I choke on my coffee. "Twenty minutes? But it's not even five yet!"
"Welcome to ranch life," Wes says, and I swear there's almost a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Hope those boots are broken in."
They're not. They're so not. And judging by the knowing looks all three brothers are sharing, they're well aware of it.
"Don't worry," Jake adds with a wink. "The blisters only last the first week or so."
"I don't suppose there's any chance the authentic ranch experience includes a grace period?" I ask hopefully. "You know, for city girls who've never seen a sunrise that wasn't on Instagram?"
Three identical looks of amusement answer that question, and I'm struck again by their similarities—all tall enough to make me feel petite despite my not-insignificant height, all blessed with those Montgomery blue eyes and dark hair, though Wes's is cut shorter and more precisely than his brothers'. It's their expressions that set them apart: Jake's playful, Colt's good-natured, and Wes's carefully controlled but with that hint of humor he can't quite hide.
Great. Just great. Somehow in the span of twelve hours, I've gone from being a semi-successful romance author to being the comedic relief for three authentically handsome cowboys.
"Well." Colt pushes off from the counter he's been leaning against, setting down his coffee mug with a decisive thunk. “As much as I’d like to keep picking on our writer-in-residence, we really must put her to work so she can’t claim we didn’t give her a real ranch experience.”
Jake laughs heartily and stands, grabbing a handful of work gloves from a hook by the door. He tosses a pair at me that I barely catch. "Here. You'll want these."
"Are they heated?” I ask, examining the worn leather.
"Nope." He grins. "Just the ones with the fewest holes."
The air hits me like a slap of reality—crisp, sharp, and definitely not Manhattan as the cats follow us out the back door to the barn, where my impending humiliation awaits.
"Here." Wes hands me a flashlight, his fingers brushing mine again. In the beam of his own light, I catch that hint of amusement still playing at the corners of his mouth. "Try not to point it at the horses. They're not fans of unexpected spotlights."
"Right, because that would be the worst thing I could do out here." I sweep the beam across the ground, watching my step. "As opposed to, say, falling face-first into something I'd rather not identify."
Jake snorts from somewhere behind me. "Don't worry. You develop a sixth sense for that kind of thing eventually."
" Eventually being the keyword," Colt adds helpfully. "Give it a month or two."
The barn looms ahead, and even in the dark, it's beautiful in that weathered, authentic way my readers would love. Or at least, they'd love reading about it from the comfort of their perfectly climate-controlled homes. The reality—complete with mysterious sounds and equally mysterious smells—is something else entirely.
"Ladies first," Jake gestures toward the door with an exaggerated bow.
"Such a gentleman," I mutter, gripping my flashlight like it might protect me from whatever awaits inside. "I don't suppose there's a beginner's guide to mucking stalls? Something with pictures or maybe a warning label?"
"Yeah." Wes steps past me, his shoulder brushing mine as he reaches for the door. "Don't drop the pitchfork on your foot."
"That's it? That's the entire guide?"
"Well," Colt says thoughtfully, "you might want to watch out for?—"
A loud snort from inside the barn makes me jump, my flashlight beam jerking wildly across the ceiling.
"—the horses," he finishes with a grin. "They tend to be curious about newcomers."
"Curious is one word for it." I edge inside, trying to look confident despite my heart doing its best to escape my chest. "I prefer 'judgmental.' Look at that one—she's definitely judging my outfit."
"That's Athena,” Wes says, moving past me with a fluid grace that makes everything look easy. "And she judges everyone. You're in good company."
"Oh, good. At least the horse's standards are as high as my agent's."
The brothers push past me, moving around with practiced efficiency, flipping on lights and greeting horses like old friends. It's oddly beautiful, in a rustic, potentially tetanus-inducing way. The kind of beauty I try to capture in my books but always end up sanitizing for mass appeal.
"Here." Wes appears at my side, holding out a pitchfork like he's bestowing a sacred weapon. "Your first lesson in authentic ranch life begins now."
I take it gingerly, trying to channel every farm girl heroine I've ever written. None of them, I realize now, ever had to deal with actual manure. "Just so we're clear, if I pass out from the smell, someone will make sure the horses don't trample me, right?"