"He has a ranch?" I knew he was a rancher from our conversation at The Gingerbread House, but somehow the reality of it hadn't quite sunk in properly.
"Small operation. Two hundred acres outside town—attached to our property, technically. Keeps him busy when he's not writing those romance novels." There's affection in Nash's voice. Pride. "Got about twenty head of cattle, some chickens, a couple horses. Nothing huge, but enough to be real work. He does most of it himself with some help from a part-time hand during busy seasons."
The image of Grayson—sweet, blushing Grayson who reads romance novels and orders pancakes with extra whipped cream—doing ranch work makes me smile. Hauling fence posts and tending cattle and getting his hands dirty. I bet he looks good in cowboy boots and worn jeans.
The quiet competence he must have, caring for animals and land.
"Does he like it? Ranching, I mean."
"Loves it." Nash navigates through town, passing familiar storefronts decorated for Christmas. "Says it keeps him grounded. Gives him something physical to do when his brain gets too stuck in fictional worlds. Hard to overthink your plot when you're fixing a fence in freezing weather."
"What about Theo?"
"Trains three times a week," Nash explains, turning onto the main road. "Sometimes at the fitness center here in Oakridge Hollow, but the next town has a bigger facility with more equipment. Heavy weights, specialized machines. He makes the trek down there when he needs a serious workout."
Makes sense.
Theo has that military build—all controlled power and deadly precision. He probably needs equipment that can handle the kind of training regimen soldiers maintain. I can picture him in a gym, focused and intense, pushing himself to limits that would make most people quit.
"What do you do?" I ask. "For work, I mean. I know you love bikes, but wanted to know the lore around it."
Nash glances at me, then back at the road. We're heading out-of-town now—passing the last few shops and houses before the landscape opens up to farmland and forest.
"I fix bikes," he says. "Motorcycles. Started as a hobby but turned into a side business."
"Really? How'd you get into that?"
He's quiet for a moment, navigating a curve in the road.
Trees line both sides now—bare branches reaching toward the gray November sky like skeletal fingers.
"Started messing around with engines when I was a teenager," he says finally. "My old man had a garage, taught me the basics before he passed. Carburetors, transmissions, electrical systems. When I got older…maybe nineteen or twenty…I bought a beat-up Harley for five hundred bucks and rebuilt it from scratch. Took me eight months. Fell in love with the entire process. Something zen about taking apart an engine and putting it back together."
I can picture it—young Nash with grease on his hands and determination in his eyes, completely focused on transformingthat beat-up motorcycle into something beautiful. The same intense focus I saw when he was reading the contract at breakfast, weighing every word.
"That Harley still runs," he continues with a hint of pride. "Got it in the garage. Custom paint job, rebuilt transmission, purrs like a kitten."
"I'd love to see it sometime."
"Yeah?" He sounds pleased. "Most Omegas aren't interested in motorcycles."
"Most Omegas probably weren't raised by a grandfather who restored classic cars in his spare time," I counter. "I grew up around engines and tools. Used to hand him wrenches when he was working under the hood."
It’s the first time I’ve shared that with anyone in a long time. Normally I stop myself from sharing about my life before my ex-pack and the mayhem that delivered over the years. My online persona as the giddy friendly Booktoker social enthusiast isn’t one to share about personal stuff either.
Nash glances at me, something warm in his expression.
"Your grandfather sounds like he was a good man."
"He was." The past tense still hurts even though it's been five years. "Best man I ever knew."
We're quiet for a moment, both lost in memories of people we've lost.
"You know…" Nash continues, clearing his throat. "After I rebuilt that first Harley, I started doing it for other people. Word got around that I was good with bikes. Then I got into what I thought was a motorcycle club."
His jaw tightens slightly—just enough that I notice.
"Thought it was a club?"
