Chapter 51 Ginger
Ginger
The ranch house is humming with what can only be described as a shit storm of activity. Wren ushers the boys and me into the kitchen and it’s a sight I’ll never forget. The large space feels cozy with all the bodies crammed in.
“Look who I found!” Wren calls out.
Finn stands at the island, leaned back against Hudson, whose got his hands under her belly, per usual lately, cradling it to take the weight off, and Paige jumps up from the table and rushes forward to grab both boys by the hands to take them out to the back yard.
Hayley, Norah, and Nat all chorus a hello, and Hank gives me a squeeze on the arm as he passes by to take the meat out to the grill, where Duke waits with the door propped open.
Emily beams at me as she takes something out of the oven.
My eyes light on everyone, but the one person I really want to see either isn’t here yet or is somewhere else in the house.
It seems suspicious, or I don’t know…strange to ask about him, considering I’ve already given most of the women here a reason to ask questions I don’t have the answers to multiple times, and I really don’t feel like doing that again.
I get busy helping Emily and Wren with the rest of dinner, and by the time it’s done, he still hasn’t turned up. Excusing myself under the guise of using the restroom, I detour back to the front entry and dig into my purse and pull out my phone.
I shoot off a text.
Ginger: Hey, foods ready. You on your way?
When he doesn’t immediately text back, I tuck the phone into my back pocket and head back into the kitchen.
I help the boys get their plates and grab some for myself before settling in at the table.
It’s loud and crowded, but I can’t help but smile as the family chats and laughs, ribbing each other over this or that.
No one mentions Hutch and I get the feeling maybe it’s not unusual for him to not be here.
But he invited me and the boys so it seems strange that he would skip out on it. Did something happen?
We’re halfway through the meal when my phone vibrates in my pocket. Pull it out under the table. Unfortunately, it’s an email notification.
I cast a glance around the table and then drop my eyes back to my phone on my lap. I get a sideways look from Wren, but then Hank asks her to pass the mashed potatoes.
Ginger: Everything ok?
Dots appear and bounce on the screen, then stop before starting up again. But no new text comes through, and soon the dots disappear altogether.
Considering all the times Hutch has texted me over the last couple of weeks, all flirty, sarcastic, or sometimes filthy and demanding like last night, his silence feels odd.
I chew on my lip. Maybe he’s sick? He seemed okay last night. Especially after fucking me senseless. Tucking my phone into my back pocket, I catch Wren’s eye.
She nods and pushes out of her chair, nudging me on the shoulder. “Wanna help me feed the girls?”
“Sure,” I say, even though the girls are both down for the evening naps.
I follow her out of the dining room, through the kitchen, and into the front entry.
“You look worried,” she says, touching my arm and pulling me further out of earshot from the dining room.
Glancing back that way, I pull out my phone and show her the text thread.
She reads it, her lips moving silently. When she’s finished, she looks up at me.
“Okay, what am I looking at?”
“Don’t you think it’s weird that he isn’t answering?”
She shrugs. “I mean, not really. Hutch comes around, but not a lot. This is pretty typical of him.”
I shake my head. “But he invited us here, then he doesn’t show?”
She worries her lip. “Maybe try calling him?”
I look down at the unanswered texts. I get that this may be typical behavior for Hutch.
And before the last few weeks I would have probably thought the same.
And sure, Wren knows we’ve been hooking up on some level, but she doesn’t know the extent of it.
She doesn’t know all the things we’ve shared, confessed to each other.
Something about how he was with me last night in his truck and him not showing today doesn’t sit right.
“Can you watch the boys for me for an hour or so?”
She nods. “Of course.” Then her gaze flicks to the hallway. “What do you want me to tell everyone?”
“Shit,” I say, pressing my thumb and finger into the corners of my eyes. “I don’t know.”
“You’re really worried about him, aren’t you?”
I nod.
“Then go. I’ll think of something,” Wren says, and I let out a sigh of relief. “Thanks, babe.”
I needed to be careful.
Hutch broke through my defenses without even trying—sure, it started with the way he looked at me, the way that damn bulge behind his zipper made me forget how to breathe. But it wasn’t just that.
It was the way he showed up. For me. For my boys. How he listened like every word I said mattered. How he challenged me, saw through me, and still stayed.
He was everything I never knew I needed. And with every minute we spent together, he might tear down the walls I’ve spent years building around my heart if I wasn't careful.
When I climb out of the car, the crack of an axe splitting wood echoes sharply through the clearing. There’s a gallon of milk and four beers on the hood of his truck.
My brow pulling tight, I follow the sound past the truck and the Vanagon to the clearing behind the shop.
Silhouetted against the dusk of the setting sun is Hutch, dressed in a light blue T-shirt and jeans, hair tangled and loose around his shoulders.
Not sick then, if the way he’s swinging that axe like the wood he’s splitting did something to offend him.
The evening is chilly, so I pull my sweater closed around me and head in his direction.
“Hey,” I call out.
He doesn’t stop.
Another swing. Crack. Another thud. Sweat plasters his shirt to his chest, and as I get closer, a smear of red on his right hand catches my eye.
What the hell happened?
The normally neat wood pile is a disaster: splinters everywhere, half-split logs. The chopping stump’s got axe marks all over it, like he’s missed repeatedly.
Is he…drunk and splitting wood?
I move closer, ten feet away now. Way too close for the determined and almost robotic way he brings down the axe, then bends for another piece of wood, setting it into place.
I swallow when I take in his hands, fully blistered and from what I can tell, bleeding in at least one spot.
“Hutch,” I say louder, over the rhythm of the axe and his labored breathing. “Your hands.”
That does it. His eyes lift, and the axe falters for a second before he lands one last swing.
“Baby,” I whisper, “what are you doing?”
His eyes are dark, unfocused. His chest rises and falls, labored.
“Keeping busy,” he mutters.
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t grab another log. He stands there, like he’s not sure what to do next.
God only knows how long he’s been out here.
“You’re bleeding.”
I glance down at his hands again. He looks down like he’s just noticing.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not. Come inside so I can look at them.”
He keeps his eyes down and swipes at the sweat on his forehead with his arm.
“I said I’m fine.”
Confusion and hurt at his tone cause something small to crack in my chest.
“What happened?” I ask.
He lifts his chin in the direction of the pile of firewood.
“You chopped all that…today?” I try to keep my voice even and keep the panic out.
He nods, grabbing another log.
“But…why? I thought we were meeting at the ranch?”
“Changed my mind.”
I blink. He’s not making any sense. “I texted. We missed you at dinner.”
“I doubt that.” His shoulders bunch as he lifts the ax again.
Crack.
I flinch, then step closer, just a few feet. “Hutch.”
His arms flex, and I can see it then—the twitch of muscles like he’s about to grab another log.
“Stop,” I say, firmer this time, though the tone holds a plea. “Please.”
I reach out and wrap my hand around his forearm. His skin is hot and slick with sweat, and I can feel the hammer of his pulse when I run my fingers over his wrist.
“Put it down.”
He blinks at me. And for a second, I think he won’t, but then he really seems to see me, and the handle slips from his grip, and the axe thuds against the ground.
“Come inside.”
He doesn’t argue, thankfully. Just lets me lead him away from the pile of wood and into the shop.
Once inside, I lead him to the couch and gently push him down onto the edge of it. He looks completely wrecked, shoulders slumped, and it’s freaking me out.
“Have you got a first aid kit?” I ask.
He lifts his chin in the direction of the bathroom. “Under the sink.”
“Be right back.”
I rummage through the little cabinet and find gauze, antiseptic wipes and a couple of band-aids that look like they’ve been in here a while. But it will have to do.
When I come back, he’s still in the same spot, same expression. His fists are clenched in his lap, the right one still bleeding.
“Gimme your hand,” I say softly, kneeling between his knees.
It looks bad. Knuckles raw, blisters on his palms broken open and weeping. The pads of his fingers are pink and angry-looking.
“Jesus, baby,” I whisper, wrapping his right hand—the worst one—in a length of gauze. “You could have really hurt yourself.”
He doesn’t speak, just watches me with that same defeated posture.
I stand up to toss the wrappers, but he catches my waist with both hands before I can move.
He tugs me back between his knees and straight into his lap, straddling him.
“Hutch—” I say, with a hand on his chest.
He surges up and kisses me. It’s hard and desperate, clashing teeth and a soft grunt.
I gasp against his mouth, and his hands clutch onto my waist, gripping my shirt in his fists like I’m the only thing keeping him anchored to himself.
He moves his mouth down, rough and open, sucking and tasting against the skin of my throat, then lower. He shoves my T-shirt up, kissing a line between my breasts and grinding me down on his lap like he can’t get me close enough.
There’s zero doubt in my mind now.
Hutch Hayes owns me.
Not just my body. He’s had that from the start. No one’s ever touched me like he does, made me feel like I’m the only thing that matters. But it’s so much more than that now.
He’s wild, broken, but I love him.
Seeing him like this—exhausted and exposed—like there’s an invisible weight he’s been carrying for so long, finally slipped through the cracks he’s been desperately trying to hide. I don’t know what made him break today, but this feels like the beginning of him unraveling.
There’s something desperate in the way he presses hot, wet kisses to the tops of my breasts, alternating with hard, sucking bites. There’s an edge to him tonight that scares me.
“Hey,” I whisper, pulling back just enough to brush my thumb along his jaw. “Look at me.”
His gaze flickers up to meet mine.
“Talk to me,” I say, searching his eyes.
He squeezes them shut for a moment, then pulls away slightly. His fingers still grip my shirt at my hips, but the space between us feels like the Grand Canyon.
“Please don’t shut me out,” I tell him, my voice cracking. “If you need to shut out the world, fine. Skip dinner at the ranch, do whatever you need. But don’t shut me out, baby.”
He swallows, and the movement looks painful.
I touch his chest, his heart pounding hard and fast under my palm. “Not when it’s us.”