"So," Colt continues, turning to look at me with that crooked grin that makes my stomach flip every time, "now that we've got our emotional reunion out of the way, the question remains: who does Lucy choose to go home with?"
The question hangs in the air between us, and I can feel all three men waiting for my answer. Gabriel with his steadypatience. Colt with his hopeful uncertainty. Beau with his quiet intensity that makes my skin tingle with awareness.
But the answer is so obvious, so clear, that I'm amazed they even have to ask.
"I choose Gabriel," I say, watching relief flicker across his features like sunrise.
"I choose Colt." His grin widens until it threatens to split his face in two.
"I choose Beau." Something soft and warm unfurls in his gray eyes like smoke.
"I choose us."
The silence that follows is different from all the other silences we've shared. Not tense or loaded with unspoken challenges, but peaceful. Content. Like we've finally found our way to where we were always supposed to be.
32
Lucy
"A penny for your thoughts," Emma says from across Mrs. Henderson's overstuffed living room, her voice cutting through the cheerful chatter of the Briarhaven Roundup Days Committee meeting.
I look up from the clipboard where I've been organizing vendor assignments, realizing I've been staring at the same line for the past five minutes with what must be an absolutely ridiculous smile plastered across my face.
Around us, a dozen women of various ages are scattered across floral-printed furniture that probably came from the same catalog in 1985, coffee cups balanced on delicate china saucers that tinkle every time someone gestures too enthusiastically.
"Just thinking about how much has changed," I say, which is the truth, even if it's nowhere near the whole truth.
Because the whole truth is that I've been floating in a haze of contentment for the past weeks that feels almosttoo good to be real. Like I'm living someone else's life. Someone who gets to be happy and loved and safe all at the same time.
Weeks have passed since that emotional showdown in the clinic when everything finally clicked into place. Weeks of learning what it feels like to belong somewhere, to someone, to multiple someones who all want me exactly as I am.
And Lord help me, they do want me.
I think about Colt first, because thinking about Colt always makes heat pool low in my belly. Three nights ago, sprawled in the bed of his pickup truck under a blanket of stars, my sundress hiked up around my waist and his calloused hands mapping every inch of my skin like he was branding me from the inside out.
"You're perfect, shortie," he'd growled against my throat, his voice rough with satisfaction as he moved inside me, slow and deep and perfect. "Absolutely perfect."
Then there's Beau, steady and quiet and so much deeper than most people realize. Last week, after a long day helping with the spring branding, we'd ended up slow dancing in his barn to music only we could hear. Both of us dusty and tired and probably smelling like cattle, but I'd never felt more beautiful than I did swaying in his arms while the sun set through the open barn doors, painting everything gold.
"Stay," he'd whispered against my hair, his voice carrying that note of vulnerability he only lets me hear. "Just like this, a little longer."
And Gabriel. Controlled and protective in ways that should probably worry me but somehow don't. Two weeks ago, I'd had a completely irrational crying fit over a commercial about rescue dogs, and instead of telling me I was being ridiculous, he'd simply held me on his couch until the tears stopped, his hands stroking my hair with infinite patience.
"You don't have to hold it together with me," he'd murmured. "You don't have to be anything except exactly what you are."
The most surprising thing about these past weeks isn't that it's working. It's that it's working so well.
I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, for jealousy or possessiveness to tear apart what we've built.
Instead, I find myself alternating staying at their houses, with all of them somehow managing the arrangement without bloodshed.
There have been moments of tension, sure. Like when Colt got a little too handsy at the diner and Gabriel had to remind him we were in public with a look that could have frozen summer. But even those moments feel more like growing pains than real problems.
"The rodeo setup is confirmed," I say now, consulting my notes and trying to focus on committee business insteadof the delicious ache between my thighs that's become a permanent reminder of exactly how well-loved I am. "Joe Martinez will have the arena fencing in place by noon, and the sound system should be tested by three."
"What about parking?" asks Mrs. Patterson, a woman in her sixties with steel-gray hair and the sharp eyes of someone who's organized more church socials and town events than the rest of us combined.
"I've arranged for overflow parking in Beau Blackwell's north pasture," I say, proud of how smoothly the logistics are falling into place. "He's providing shuttle service from there to the main event area."
