Page 8 of Lost in the Reins

"Just a minute," I whisper-shout, groping blindly along the wall until my fingers land on a switch. I flick it on, squinting against the sudden wash of light. My eyes protest, but at least I can see now.

I fumble through my suitcase for something remotely appropriate for pre-dawn ranch life. My fingers land on denim—the new jeans I'd bought specifically for this adventure. They still have the tags on them because of course, they do. The old Paisley would have removed them, pre-washed them to perfect softness, and maybe even strategically distressed them for that authentic worn look.

The new Paisley—the one who's supposedly here to learn about real ranch life—just rips the tags off and hopes they don't chafe too badly.

I grab a long-sleeved flannel shirt from the top of the pile, one of the few practical things I'd packed in a fit of last-minute anxiety. I shrug it on over my camisole, grateful for the extra layer.

Another meow comes from the door, more insistent this time.

"Okay, okay," I mutter, hopping on one foot while trying to pull on my boots. "I'm coming. Though I hope you're notexpecting actual conversation because my brain doesn't form coherent thoughts until at least my second cup of coffee."

I unlock the door to find not one but two cats waiting expectantly. The orange kitten from yesterday and a sleek black cat with judgmental green eyes—Trouble, if I remember correctly.

"I don't suppose either of you know how to make espresso?” I ask hopefully. They just stare at me, probably wondering why the human is talking to them at four-thirty in the morning instead of feeding them.

Pushing past them, the floorboard creaks under my feet as I edge down the stairs, finding Wes already in the kitchen, moving with the kind of easy confidence that makes my heart do completely inappropriate things for this hour of the morning. How is he even more devastating at the butt-crack of dawn than he was yesterday evening? It’s not fair. Not when my hair probably resembles a bird's nest, and the jeans I’m wearing practically squeak when I walk.

“Well, look who made it.”

Colt’s voice stops me cold as I note not just Wes in the kitchen but Colt and another cowboy I’ve yet to meet.

“Honestly, I didn’t expect to see you until noon.”

I try to summon something witty to say, but my brain is still processing the fact that there are three impossibly handsome cowboys in this kitchen at an hour when most of Manhattan is just stumbling home from clubs.

"Jake," the new brother introduces himself, his grin matching Colt's. "The better-looking Montgomery brother."

“Debatable," Colt counters, leaning against the counter with that easy grace all three seem to share. "But definitely the most delusional."

I glance between the three brothers, noting their similarities and differences. Where Colt's all lean muscle and easy smiles, Jake's got the rugged build of someone who spends more time wrestling cattle than training horses. His dark hair's slightly longer than his brothers', curling at the nape of his neck, and there's a small scar above his left eyebrow that probably has a story behind it.

Managing a weak wave, I reach for the coffee mug Wes is silently extending toward me. Our fingers brush, and I nearly drop the whole thing, distracted by how his work-roughened hands contrast with his sharp blue eyes—the same stormy shade all three brothers share. His, though, seems to cut right through me while his broad shoulders fill out his worn flannel shirt in a way that could make me drool down my shirt. "Hi. I'd say something clever, but my wit doesn't usually wake up until after six."

"She writes romance novels," Colt tells Jake, like this explains everything about my disheveled appearance and complete lack of morning coordination.

"Really?" Jake's eyes light up with the kind of mischief that probably got him into trouble growing up. "So, you're the expert on romance? Maybe you can explain why my dating profile isn't working. I thought 'ruggedly handsome cowboy seeks someone who doesn't mind the smell of cattle' would have them lining up."

"Your profile's not the problem," Wes cuts in, his voice carrying that blend of authority and exasperation I'm starting to recognize as his default with his brothers. "It's those selfies you keep posting."

"What's wrong with my selfies?"

"You're posing with that bull that hates you."

"Butch doesn't hate me. He's just... passionate about personal space."

"He charged you three times during that photoshoot."

"I was going for action shots! Nothing says romance like a little danger."

I take a long sip of coffee, trying to hide my smile as I watch the brothers banter. This is nothing like the polished, perfectly scripted cowboys in my books. These men are real, raw, and unexpectedly funny. Even Wes, who maintains his serious expression, has a glint in his eye that suggests he's enjoying this more than he lets on.

"So…" Jake turns back to me. "What's a Manhattan romance writer doing at Whispering Pines? Besides providing early morning entertainment with those"—he glances down at my brand-new boots—"interesting fashion choices."

"Research," I manage, clinging to my coffee mug like it's a lifeline. "My agent thinks I need more authenticity in my cowboys."

"Authenticity, huh?" Jake exchanges a look with Colt, which makes me nervous. "Well, you're in luck. We've got plenty of that. Starting with mucking out stalls in about..." He checks his watch. "Twenty minutes."

I choke on my coffee. "Twenty minutes? But it's not even five yet!"

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