Page 98 of Josephine and Clay

I nod, because what else can I say? “I think so.”

He grins, but then he goes soft around the edges, gaze hazy and open in a way I haven’t seen before.

“You need anything, you text me,” he says, and even through the glow of post orgasmic aftershocks, I know he means it.

“Go to sleep, McCoy,” I whisper. He nods, all tired satisfaction.

“Night, Jo.” I end the call but keep the phone nestled in the crook of my arm, the last caught image of his stupid, beautiful face burned into my retinas.

Sleep doesn’t come easily after that.

I lie awake staring at the ceiling, replaying every second of the call while one thought keeps circling louder than the rest.

How much worse is this going to hurt when I finally tell him about the babies?

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Clay

JUNE 28TH

By the fourth day of pretending I’m useful, Rusty and I have developed a routine.

I limp somewhere. He follows. I drop something. He investigates it. I swear. He looks pleased with himself. It’s not exactly a partnership built on mutual respect, but it passes the time.

“Move,” I tell him as he plants himself directly in front of my crutch for the third time in ten minutes.

Rusty blinks up at me, tongue lolling out of his mouth, not moving an inch.

“You’re doing this on purpose.” His tail thumps once against the porch boards. “Traitor.”

He huffs.

The thing about being injured is no one tells you how loud the quiet gets.

At first, I thought the worst part would be the pain. Then I thought it’d be the cast, heavy, hot, and miserable, making every step some kind of punishment. Then I assumed it’d be the pills, leaving my head slow and strange, as if somebody stuffed cotton between my thoughts.

Turns out, the worst part is time. Too much of it. Time to think. Time to remember. Time to notice every place I don’t fit.

Boone’s up before dawn every day, moving through ranch work because the land itself gives him instructions. Dallas spends mornings in the office, with spreadsheets, schedules, and invoices that’d make me want to chew glass. Nash is split between the dude ranch and hovering around Tessa and Hailey, looking tired and happy in a way that makes my chest pinch if I stare too long.

Everybody’s busy. Everybody’s needed. And me… I hold things. Sometimes.

Dad used to joke that I’d either die famous or broke before thirty.

Everybody laughed when he said it.

Me too.

But I remember the way Boone always got taught the serious stuff. Ranch accounts, cattle contracts, land taxes. Dallas learned schedules and logistics. Nash got folded into the guest side of things.

Me?

I got told not to break my neck.

That’s my grand contribution to the McCoy legacy.

Clay McCoy: professional object holder. Former bull rider. Current porch decoration.