Page 25 of Auctioned to the Cowboy

Catching my breath, I press kisses to her forehead, cheeks, and eyelids. After a few minutes, I move onto my side, tucking her against me. Shay stretches luxuriously as I spread her fiery hair over my chest. I fucking love her hair, love the subtle scent of coconut that clings to the silky-soft strands. Hell, I love everything about her. No use denying it anymore.

We stay like that for a while, wrapped in each other and the quiet glow of the room. The fire crackles softly, the fairy lights casting a warm, golden hue over us. It feels like the world has shrunk to just this—just us.

Eventually, Shay pulls back, her eyes searching mine. “So, what now?”

“Now,” I say, tilting her chin up so our gazes lock, “we make this marriage real, in and out of the bedroom.”

Her smile widens, and she nods.

The weight of that commitment settles over me, heavy and light all at once. It’s not something I thought I’d ever want again, but with Shay, it’s the only thing that makes sense.

I hold her close as she rests her head on my shoulder, tracing idle patterns along her arm.

“You know,” Shay says after a while, her voice soft, “I’ve always hated Christmas.”

I glance down at her, surprised. “Yeah?”

She nods, her eyes fixed on the flickering flames. “Growing up, it was always a mess. My dad drank too much, my mom pretended everything was fine, and I waited for it to all explode. It never felt magical, just… tense.”

I kiss her forehead, a silent promise that she’ll never have to feel that way again. “This Christmas is going to be different.”

“It already is,” she says, looking up at me with a smile that makes my chest ache in the best way.

Tomorrow will bring challenges: the ranch, the storm, the uncertainty of what lies ahead.

But tonight, with Shay beside me, I know we can face it all.

Chapter 10

Shay

The fresh scent of pine needles from the Christmas tree mingles with the hint of cinnamon from the kitchen, weaving through the air as I stir the pot on the stove. The power came back on in the early hours, and I’m cooking like the end of the world is nigh.

It’s Christmas Day, and somehow, despite the odds, holiday cheer has seeped into the old bones of this ranch house.

I’ve been up since dawn, peeling potatoes and making a feast to feed five on the off-chance Ben and the boys make it back from town. The rhythmic bubble of simmering gravy and the sizzle of bacon-wrapped green beans fill the kitchen, the sounds as festive as any Christmas carol.

“Easy there, girls,” I hear Henry say as he opens the door, letting in a gust of cold air and three overly excited dogs that barrel toward me.

The door slams behind him, and the chill lingers for a moment before it evaporates in the warmth of the kitchen. I laugh as the dogs skid to a stop, sniffing the air eagerly.

“Smells good, Shay,” Henry says, hanging his hat by the door and taking off his coat. His cheeks are flushed from the cold, and his dark hair has a dusting of snow that makes him look almost boyish.

“Thanks. It’ll taste even better, assuming I don’t burn anything.” I nod at the stove, my smile firmly in place as I juggle pots like an amateur circus performer.

Henry grunts—his usual way of agreeing with whatever I say—and his gaze drifts toward the window. I catch him doing it several times, staring past the melted snow on the glass. His expression is distant, the lines of his face deeper than usual.

“Hey, you keep looking out the window like it owes you money. What’s going on?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light. The truth is, I know what’s gnawing at him. His family.

He shakes his head, a lock of dark hair falling over his forehead. “Nothing. Just wondering how the roads are,” he mumbles, almost convincing. Almost.

“Uh-huh. You’re worried about your dad and brothers, aren’t you?” I lean against the counter, arms crossed, giving him that “I’m not buying it” look.

He nods slowly, his gray eyes not meeting mine. “Phones are back on, but no calls or messages.”

“They’re probably out having a merry old time,” I say, reaching out to touch his arm. “Someone would call if something was wrong, wouldn’t they?”

“Right,” he agrees, but I see the lines of worry etched deeper into his face than any winter frost could manage.

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