Page 31 of Branded By the Cowboy

I nearly choke on my cornbread. Ben snorts into his beer. Henry shakes his head with a long-suffering sigh.

Angus mutters, “I knew I should’ve eaten outside.”

But no one moves. No one leaves.

Shay toasts us with sweet tea and insists I’ll regret not eloping with someone less emotionally constipated.

Angus doesn’t argue. He just watches me with a look that says:You’re not going anywhere. And neither am I.

“Beer?” Tom offers, holding out a bottle toward me.

I shake my head. “No thanks. Never found a beer a like.”

“Remind me to take you to The Honey Pot,” Angus says. “Never met anyone who doesn’t like their beer. Brewed on the premises using some secret family recipe.”

“Are you asking me on a date, Mr. Sutton,” I tease.

His blue eyes darken. “Figure since you’re stuck with me, I might as well make it interesting.”

Shay hands me a slice of pie the size of my head before I can reply, insisting it’s tradition. Henry warns her the baby can’t taste it as she tucks into her own head-sized piece. She tells him the baby enjoys the sugar rushspiritually.

Tom tapes a paper sign over the doorway that reads “Just Hitched” in black marker and goat stickers.

Laughter ripples around the table, easy and full, and for a second, the whole world feels like it fits inside this kitchen.

* * *

When we finally head to bed that night, Angus leans against my door frame for a moment like he’s unsure if he should come in. He doesn’t move. He watches me like he’s waiting for something—permission, maybe. Or for me to vanish.

So I reach out, palm open. And just like that, he crosses the room

Angus takes my hand and sits on the edge of the bed, his thumb grazing over my palm like he’s memorizing the shape of it. The room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the bedside lamp and the distant sound of frogs singing somewhere past the fields.

Neither of us speaks. We don’t need to. Because the silence between us tonight isn’t heavy or awkward—it’s full of potential. Full ofwant.

Everything changed last night in the barn and making it legal today only cements what I already know. What began as an arrangement on paper has turned into something else entirely. Something quiet and steady and impossible to ignore.

He cups my cheek, his thumb rough against my skin where it lingers beneath my eye. His voice is low, a little hoarse. “You’re not just doing this to fix my mess, are you?”

I shake my head slowly. “I’m doing this because I want you. All of you. Even the hard parts.”

Still, he watches me, waitinglike he’s been left before and half-expects it to happen again.

So I close the gap.

And I kiss him.

Soft at first—tentative, tasting, a question wrapped in heat. But when his hand slides to the back of my neck and he groans low in his throat, everything tilts. The room. My heart. My whole lonely life.

His mouth claims mine with something more than hunger. It’sneed. Deep and aching and years in the making, even if we’ve only known each other a week.

I thread my fingers into his hair and tug gently. He deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding against mine with purpose as if he’s memorizing me from the inside out.

The quilt cushions me as he presses me onto the bed, his body braced above mine, solid and warm. I reach for the buttons on his shirt and tug them loose one by one, revealing scarred skin and muscles that move like a promise of pleasure to come beneath my hands.

My fingers pause over one puckered scar that looks like a bullet wound beneath his collarbone.

I want to ask:What happened? Did it hurt? Are there more?

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