Chapter 38
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Marshall
Monday
I tell myself I’m here for the advice.
That’s the story I stick with as Sawyer and I sit at the corner table, two beers in, the low hum of The Silver Bit filling in the spaces where I don’t quite know what to say.
Sawyer’s got that easy calm about him tonight, loose shoulders, relaxed grin, the look of a man who’s figured something out and isn’t in a hurry to explain it.
Which is exactly why I asked him to meet me.
He’s one of Dakota’s men. He’s lived this thing I can’t stop circling. If anyone can tell me how to keep my footing while the ground shifts under me, it’s him.
But how can I get advice when the woman at the center of my storm is right here?
Abilene is near the bar, angled toward a woman I don’t recognize. The woman’s laughing, hand wrapped around a cocktail, posture relaxed in a way that suggests she belongs here, or at least knows how to pretend she does.
Abilene’s listening more than talking, shoulders a little tight, eyes flicking around the room, finding exits and people and noise levels all at once.
And she’s looking right at me.
This is stupid. I didn’t come here for her. I came here to talk to Sawyer. I came here to think.
My heart doesn’t care.
“You gonna talk, or what?” Sawyer says, dry and amused.
I drag my gaze away from Abilene.
“She’s here,” I mutter.
He doesn’t need clarification. Sawyer glances once over my shoulder, then back at me, mouth quirking.
“Ah.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking it.”
“Correct.”
I take a long pull from my beer. It does nothing to slow my pulse.
“Okay,” I say, forcing my attention back where it belongs. “You said honesty matters. That you talk things through. How does that actually work when…” I pause, searching for the right words, “when it’s not one person. When it’s more.”
“We start with clarity,” he says. “Nobody’s guessing. Nobody’s assuming. And nobody’s pretending they’re fine when they’re not.”
I nod. “And jealousy?”
“That too,” he says easily. “We don’t treat it like a failure. We treat it like information.”
I absorb that. Roll it around.
Behind him, Abilene laughs.
My focus shatters.
Sawyer follows my line of sight again, then sighs. “You’re not actually here, are you?”
“I am,” I say. “I just—”
“She’s got you rattled.”
That’s an understatement.
The woman with Abilene leans in, says something that makes Abilene shake her head, smiling despite herself. There’s affection there, but also distance. They’re circling each other carefully.
“Who’s she with?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Sawyer shrugs. “Don’t know. Haven’t heard yet.”
That bothers me more than it should.
A minute later, Carrie Jo appears beside Sawyer with a fresh drink for him and a grin aimed squarely at me.
“Well,” she says brightly, “if it isn’t the broodiest man in Colter Creek.”
I grunt.
She follows my gaze instantly. Of course she does. “Ohhh. That’s Abilene’s aunt.”
I blink. “Her what?”
“Aunt. Just got into town today. Mara, I think? Sweet as pie. Flirts like it’s cardio.”
I glance back toward the bar. That explains some things.
Abilene shifts then, glancing my way. Our eyes meet once more.
And my heart does a stupid, hopeful thing.
Sawyer clears his throat. “So,” he says pointedly as Carrie Jo wanders off, “about that clarity.”
I drag my attention back to him with effort. “Yeah. Right. Sorry.”
He smiles, not unkind. “You don’t have to figure it out tonight.”
“I know.”
“But?”
“But I want to.”
Another laugh from the bar. Abilene’s aunt is flirting with the bartender now, animated and unapologetic. Abilene watches her with fond disbelief.
“She looks like she’s carrying a lot,” Sawyer says quietly.
“She always is,” I reply.
He taps his bottle against the table, thoughtful. “You want the part nobody advertises?”
“I asked you here,” I say. “I can take it.”
He nods once. “It’s work. The kind where you don’t get to assume you’re right just because you feel strongly.”
That sounds uncomfortably familiar.
“With Dakota,” he continues, “the rule is we don’t let things fester. Clint’s instinct is to protect. Reid’s is to joke it away. Mine is to analyze it to death.” His mouth quirks. “If we let those instincts run unchecked, we’d tear each other apart.”
“And you don’t,” I say.
“No,” he agrees. “Because we name it. Clint says when he’s feeling territorial. Reid admits when he’s scared of being the least necessary. I say when I’m spiraling in my head instead of trusting what’s in front of me.”
I exhale slowly.
“That doesn’t make it easy,” Sawyer adds. “It makes it honest.”
I stare at the condensation ring my beer has left on the table. “What if one of you wants more than the others?”
Sawyer doesn’t dodge it. “Then we talk about that too. Wanting more isn’t the same as taking more. And love isn’t pie. Nobody’s getting a smaller slice just because someone else is hungry.”
That hits harder than I expect.
“Clint worried at first that he’d lose authority,” Sawyer goes on. “He’s used to being the one people lean on. Turns out, letting go of being the only pillar didn’t make him weaker. It let him breathe.”
“And Reid?” I ask.
Sawyer smiles. “Reid needed to know he wasn’t just there for fun. That when things got heavy, we still wanted him. Dakota made that clear. Repeatedly.”
“And you?”
He shrugs. “I needed proof that stability wasn’t boring. That choosing the same people every day could still feel like discovery.”
I glance toward the bar again without meaning to. Abilene’s posture is looser now, one shoulder dropped, laughter easier.
Still processing. Always processing.
“What if she gets overwhelmed?” I ask quietly.
Sawyer follows my gaze this time, softer. “Then you slow down. This only works if she feels safe enough to say no. Or not yet. Or I need something different today.”
“That doesn’t sound like a lot of control,” I mutter.
“It isn’t,” he agrees. “That’s the point.”
Silence settles between us, thick but not uncomfortable.
“Marshall,” Sawyer says finally, “you’re not afraid of sharing her.”
I look at him.
“You’re afraid of hurting her,” he finishes. “Of losing her like…”
My jaw tightens as he trails off, not mentioning Luke, much to my relief.
“And that,” he says gently, “is actually a good place to start.”
A few minutes later, I see Abilene slip outside, likely in search of air. My body reacts before my brain signs off on it.
I stand.
Sawyer doesn’t stop me. He just nods. “Go.”
I find her near the side of the building, arms folded, gaze tipped up toward the stars.
“Hey,” I say.
She turns, smiles. That quiet one.
“Hey.”
We stand there, the space between us deliberate. Careful.
“I was supposed to get advice tonight,” I admit.
She arches a brow. “How’s that going?”
“Poorly.”
That earns a soft laugh.
“I didn’t know your aunt was in town,” I add.
“She just arrived,” Abilene says. “We’re… catching up.”
There’s a lot in that sentence.
“And are you getting anything from her?”
Her lips purse, and she offers me a one-shouldered shrug.
“Some things,” she says. “Mostly distractions.”
I nod. “She looks good at those.”
That pulls a small smile from her.
The cool night presses in around us, cooler than inside, carrying the smell of dust and spilled beer and summer grass. Somewhere behind the building, a truck passes on the road, headlights briefly cutting across the gravel lot.
“She seems… warm,” I add.
“She is,” Abilene says. “Which almost makes it harder.”
I don’t pretend not to understand. Warm doesn’t mean truthful. Warm doesn’t mean steady.
We stand there, shoulders angled toward each other now, the distance shrinking without either of us acknowledging it. I can feel the pull, low and constant. A tide I’ve been trying not to name all night.
“I didn’t expect to see you tonight,” she admits.
“Me neither,” I say. “But I’m glad I did.”
She draws in a breath, folds her arms tighter, then lets them drop again. She’s decided against hiding. “This week’s been… a lot.”
“I know,” I say, and mean more than one thing.
Her gaze flicks to my mouth. Back to my eyes.
There it is.
The moment where everything tilts.
“I don’t want to rush you,” I say quietly. “I just…” I stop, because honesty means not dressing things up. “I wanted you to know that we meant what we said. All of us. About taking this at your pace.”
She steps a fraction closer.
Not enough to touch, but enough that I can feel her heat, feel the shift between us as a held breath.
The space tightens. Electric. Alive with everything we haven’t said and everything we’re trying not to do too fast.
Her hand lifts, hesitates, then settles against my forearm as if she’s testing whether I’m real.
“Marshall,” she says, soft enough that it feels meant just for me.
That’s all it takes.
I lean in, stopping just short of her mouth. Close enough to feel her breath, to see the way her lips part instinctively. I give her the space. The choice.
She takes it.
Her mouth meets mine, unhurried but certain, and the kiss lands low and deep. Her lips are warm, soft, familiar in a way that makes my chest tighten.
My hand comes to her waist, firm now, anchoring us, letting her feel exactly how steady I am.
She exhales into the kiss, a quiet sound that slips past my control and cracks my insides open.
I deepen it, just enough. Enough to tell her how long I’ve been holding back. Enough to let her feel the promise in it without crossing the line.
She responds immediately, pressing closer, mouth moving with intention.
For a heartbeat, the world narrows to the brush of lips, the slide of breath, the awareness of how easily this could turn dangerous if we let it.
When we finally break apart, we don’t move away.
Foreheads hover close, breathing uneven. My thumb presses lightly at her waist, a question I’m not asking out loud.
Her eyes are dark when she looks at me. And I know, absolutely know, that this isn’t confusion.
It’s anticipation.
“There’s something you should know.”
Her lashes flutter. “That sounds dangerous.”
“Maybe,” I admit.
She waits. That alone does things to my chest.
“All of us,” I say. “Wyatt. Jesse. Me.” I pause, letting it land. “We want to see you again.”
Her breath catches.
It’s subtle, but I see it. The way her shoulders ease instead of tensing. The way her lips part, not in surprise, but interest.
Her pulse jumps under my thumb. It recognizes the truth before her brain finishes processing it.
“All of you?” she repeats softly.
“Yes.”
There’s unmistakable emotion sparking in her eyes.
Excitement.
Good.
I smile, slow and knowing. “You don’t have to decide anything right now.”
She swallows. “But you’re asking.”
“I’m inviting,” I correct. “Only if you want it.”
Her hand tightens briefly on my arm. “And if I do?”
I lean in again, close enough that my words brush her mouth. “Then come by later. When it’s quieter. When you don’t have an audience or an aunt watching your every move.”
That earns a breathless laugh.
“You’re very sure,” she murmurs.
“I’m careful,” I say. “There’s a difference.”
She studies my face for a long second, searching for more. Pressure, expectation, ownership.
She doesn’t find it.
Instead, she smiles.
“Later,” she says.
I nod once. “Later.”
I let her go then. Not because I want to, but because restraint is part of what makes this work. She slips back toward the door, glancing over her shoulder once before disappearing inside.
I stay where I am, heart steady, blood warm, knowing exactly one thing:
This isn’t going to cool down.
It’s just getting started.