Page 69 of Claimed By the Cowboys

July

The Harvest Bash is a month away. Which means that I’m one week late for my period. And I am one hundred percent too scared to take a pregnancy test.

My water heater has been fixed for about a week, but I haven’t gone home full-time. I’m still sleeping in the same room as one of the guys each night. We have… quite a bit of sex.

I don’t think that any of them have noticed yet that I’m not… out of commission. They’ve made it clear that none of them mind having sex when it’s that time of the month for me, but I’m definitely a little weirded out by it, so they’ve respectfully agreed not to go there when it’s time.

However. I highly doubt any of them know enough about my body to know that I’m a week late. I, though, absolutely know. And I think I’m going to go crazy.

The guys are all out for the day. Each one of them has something to do with their business. The video of Dalton doing his whole horse-whisperer routine did, in fact, go pretty viral, so I’m anticipating a very good turnout at the Harvest Bash. Enough, certainly, to drum up the type of investors and marketthat the guys are looking for. We’re going out to dinner in town tonight, a rare thing since Tate is super judgy about the food, but it will be nice to celebrate.

There’s a lot to celebrate, especially when it comes to the marketing. I’m proud of the guys, and proud of myself.

My own farm has been doing well, too. I’ve actually had a custom order for the cherries that I’m in the process of canning right now, and my whole day is working on them. The guys brought all my canning stuff from my house to theirs, despite my insistence that it’s a messy process that I shouldn’t be gumming up their kitchen with.

Tate just laughed and said he would be researching outdoor cooking all day. And he bought me a new set of jars. Which means my whole day is just pitting fruit and thinking.

Part of what I’ve always loved about canning is that it’s kind of a meditative process for me. I know that some of my college friends really love actual meditating. They can sit for hours in a yoga class, totally zoning out, and let their minds wander.

I don’t know what’s broken in me, but I’ve never been able to do that. Unless I’m following a recipe, or some kind of guide. Canning does that. My grandmother taught me how. She tried to teach both Blaire and me, but Blaire took it as a personal insult that she had to sit and pay attention to Grandmother while she did this. I, however, wanted Grandmother to get rid of the angry wrinkle in her lips, so I sat right next to her and learned everything that I could.

It takes me roughly two hours to get through twenty pounds of cherries. I used to do all the pits with a straw, punching holes in the fruit to squeeze the center stone out, but getting an actual cherry pitting tool has made the process ten times easier.

It’s mindless. Grab the fruit. Get rid of the pit. Sort it. Over and over, until suddenly, twenty-pound boxes become empty, and I’m ready for the next step.

I love how scientific canning is. It’s one of those things that can really go horrifically wrong. But if you stick to the script, everything is going to come out fine.

In contrast to my very, very messy life, canning cherries seems like a breeze.

I have the first batch of jars sitting in the water, coming to a rolling boil, when Blaire calls. Wiping the heavy syrup that I used to can the fruit in from my hands, I pick up.

“Hi, B.”

“Piper. I thought you’d never call. What the fuck have you been doing?” Blaire demands.

I stiffen. “Wow. Coming in a little hot?”

“Uh, yeah. It gets like that when my only sister doesn’t contact me for days.”

I sigh, cradling the phone against my shoulder. “Blaire. That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think? I called you on Sunday.”

“Last Sunday, Piper. That was easily a week and a half ago.”

Hmm. She’s right, but I’ve been so preoccupied with wondering if I’ll get my period or not that I did, in fact, forget how much time has passed.

I sigh. “Sorry. I just was really caught up.”

“In doing the marketing for the guys?”

I bite my lip. “Mostly.”

“Piper,” Blaire chides. “What else have you been doing?”

“Um…”

“Oh, my god. You’ve been having sex!”

Darn it. How does she know this? I put the lid on the canning pot and walk away. “Yes, okay? I’ve been having sex.”

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