Chapter 16
Diggin’ holes and taking names
Layla
It’s been three days since Tina’s call blindsided me with the new deadline, and I’m still reeling.
The draft, my baby, my blood, sweat, and way too many late-night tears is due the first week of September now.
I came out here to this quiet corner of nowhere specifically to finish it.
Fresh air, open sky, no distractions. Inspiration was supposed to hit like a freight train, and honestly? It did. Just not in the way I planned.
Because the inspiration has a name. Cole Marshall.
Grumpy, broad-shouldered, calloused-hands cowboy who’s been sneaking over to the guest house every single night like it’s his personal mission to ruin me for anyone else.
We’ve fucked every night—slow and teasing one minute, frantic and desperate the next.
He pins me to the mattress, growls my name against my throat, and makes me come so hard I forget my own plot points for a solid ten minutes afterward.
It’s the best stress relief I’ve ever found.
Writing spicy scenes all day has me wound so tight that by the time he knocks, I’m already wet just thinking about him walking through the door. He knows it too—the smug bastard.
And then there’s mornings. He shows up before the sun’s fully up, smelling like coffee and pine, carrying a plate of eggs, bacon, thick-cut toast slathered in butter, sometimes pancakes if he’s feeling extra.
“Helps the brain stay fresh,” he grumbles, setting it beside my laptop like it’s no big deal.
In Seattle I’d chug black coffee and maybe choke down a stale muffin from the corner bakery. Here? I’m eating like a queen while he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me like I’m the most interesting thing he’s seen all week. It’s dangerously domestic. Dangerously good.
I keep asking him what the hell he’s doing out in that field. From my writing desk there’s this massive picture window—practically a movie screen to the world outside—and for days now I’ve watched tractors, backhoes, and half the ranch crew digging like they’re burying treasure. Or unearthing it.
Cole just smirks when I ask, says, “You’ll see soon enough,” and changes the subject by kissing me stupid against the kitchen counter.
Today, though, he promised I’d finally figure it out. A few more hours, he said. Whatever it is, it’s blocked off with caution tape and stakes so I can’t sneak a peek. The man’s a gentleman—grumpy as hell, but thoughtful in ways that sneak past my defenses.
I wonder if he’ll ever realize this book is…
well, us. Not exactly, not word-for-word, but the bones of it?
They’re carved from late-night talks on the porch, from the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention, from the rough scrape of his stubble between my thighs.
The only part that’s pure fiction is the ending—the girl stays.
She doesn’t pack her suitcase in August and fly back to Seattle for book tours and launch parties and the life she built brick by brick.
In my story, she chooses the ranch. The quiet. Him.
Me? I have to leave. I have deadlines and an agent and a tiny apartment with a view of other people’s brick walls.
I’m a city girl, right? That’s what he calls me every time I complain about the lack of decent takeout or ask why there isn’t a single decent boutique within fifty miles.
“City girl,” he teases, voice low and warm, right before he fucks me against the nearest wall.
But this place—this sprawling, dusty, beautiful ranch, this little town where everyone knows your name and your business—it’s starting to feel like home in the most terrifying way.
I don’t want to leave. Not really. I want the book tour, the signings, the champagne toasts, sure.
But I also want more mornings with Cole’s breakfast and his quiet company, more nights where he pulls me into his lap on the couch and we watch the stars instead of Netflix. It’s messing with my head.
I’m such a try-hard sometimes. Always chasing approval, always wanting to be liked—loved, even.
I pace the guest house now, barefoot on the cool hardwood, scribbling furious notes on sticky pads for the next three chapters.
The heroine’s about to make a choice she can’t take back.
I know how I want her to choose. I’m just not sure I have the courage to write it the way my heart wants.
A knock at the door jolts me out of my spiral.
I open it to find John and Nancy standing there, holding the cutest little wicker basket overflowing with strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, jewel-bright and smelling like summer.
“Hey sweetheart,” Nancy says, voice soft and warm like fresh biscuits. “We know you’re working hard on that book of yours, but we wanted to bring you some fresh berries from the farm.”
I gasp, genuinely delighted. “Aww, you two are the absolute best!” I take the basket, fingers brushing the fruit, plump, perfect.
“Wow, these look amazing. Thank you so much.”
John nods, that quiet smile of his crinkling the corners of his eyes. “You’re welcome, hun. Enjoy.”
As they turn to leave, I call after them, “I’ll see y’all for dinner?”
“You better!” John hollers back without turning around.
I close the door and lean against it for a second, smiling like an idiot.
John and Nancy are so sweet it hurts. And Cole must be blind if he still thinks Nancy’s just the family cook.
The way John looks at her—like she hung the moon and then personally polished it—there’s no way they’re not together.
Not your place to meddle, Layla. Not your circus, not your monkeys.
But God, I’m nosy. Always have been. I want the tea, the details, the full story. Can’t help it.
I take a strawberry from the basket, bite into it.
Sweetness explodes on my tongue, warm from the sun, perfectly ripe.
I melt back into my chair at the desk, laptop open, cursor blinking.
The window frames that mysterious dug-up field perfectly.
Whatever Cole’s building out there, I’ll find out soon.
I head into the house, the smell of food wafting through the air, roast beef, garlic, warm biscuits, that rich, homey scent that hits you right in the chest. I walk into the dining room and the whole family is already there, plates clinking, low chatter filling the space.
No huge greeting anymore, no awkward “welcome to the table” moment.
Just a few smiles, a nod from John, Nancy sliding an extra roll my way like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
Everyone treats me like family now, like I belong here.
It’s getting to the point where it feels effortless.
And honestly? It kind of scares me a little.
I’m getting used to this place, these people.
I’m starting not to miss Seattle as much as I thought I would.
The constant buzz, the rain, the way the city never quite lets you breathe easy, it’s fading, and in its place is this quiet, steady rhythm that’s starting to feel like home.
That realization sits heavy in my stomach, warm and terrifying all at once.
“My brother still out there?” Maggie asks while I’m sitting down, sliding into the chair that’s somehow become mine without anyone saying it.
“Yes, he’s finishing up whatever project he’s working on. He said after dinner I could finally see. Do you guys know exactly what it is he’s doing out there?”
Luke laughs, low, knowing. John keeps his eyes on his plate, methodically eating like he’s trying not to smile. Nancy giggles behind her napkin. Maggie looks at me over the rim of her sweet tea, takes a slow sip, and sets the glass down with a soft clink.
“Girl, if you ain’t figured it out yet, I don’t know how to help you.” She laughs, full and bright.
“What do you mean?” I say, genuinely curious, fork halfway to my mouth.
“What I mean is, I know what it is. We all do. You got to know what he’s building. It’s for you, Layla.”
I’m taking bites while I’m thinking, chewing slowly. “For me?” I say with my mouth full. “What would he be—”
And then it hits me. I go quiet. Swallow hard. The food suddenly tastes like nothing.
He’s building me a pool. Cole Marshall is building me a fucking pool.
“She figured it out,” Luke says, grinning like he’s won something.
“That man,” I say, blushing hard, smiling so wide it hurts my cheeks.
“He’s pretty taken with you, Layla,” John says quietly, voice steady and kind, the way he always is.
And that just makes me blush even more. My face feels like it’s on fire.
Cole and I discussed this. Friends. No getting attached.
Just having fun. This is supposed to be just having fun, and the man I’m supposed to be just having fun with is building me a fucking pool.
I mean, of course I love the pool—who wouldn’t love a pool?
It’s thoughtful, ridiculous, extravagant in the best way.
It makes me want to cry because no man has ever done anything remotely this nice for me.
Ever. But also he’s a total grump for twelve out of the twenty-four hours in a day, growling about chores and teasing me about being a city girl.
And yet no man has ever fucked me the way Cole Marshall has—deep, rough, slow when he wants to torture me, fast when he can’t hold back.
He knows exactly how to touch me, how to make me shake and beg and come so hard I see stars.
I’m feeling all the feels right now while also holding back tears, throat tight, eyes stinging.
“No man has ever done anything remotely as nice as this for me ever,” I say out loud, in front of everyone. My voice comes out softer than I mean it to, a little cracked.
The table goes quiet for a beat, just the sound of forks on plates, someone clearing their throat. No one teases. No one pushes. They just let it sit there, warm and real.