I shake my head and roll my eyes. “Yes, I’m the competition, but Cash practically dragged me here tonight to see the place.”
Colt’s brows shoot up, his expression flashing with surprise before it settles back into neutral. Meanwhile Cash is grinning like he knows something I don’t.
“Is that so?” Colt murmurs, and I immediately wonder why that’s such a shock.
“We’re going to work,” I say holding up my tablet as if that excuses why I’m here.
He hums thoughtfully then nods. “Alright, well, the mash tun is broken. So, guess what you’re doing tonight big brother?”
Cash groans, his head tipping back. “Motherf— you didn’t mentionthatin your text saying you needed some emergency help.”
Colt lets out a booming laugh, clapping his brother on the shoulder. “Didn’t think I had to.”
“And what the hell are youabout to go do?” Cash shoots back.
“Make love to my wife,” Colt says matter-of-factly, shrugging like he just announced he’s heading out to grab a coffee. “You ain’t got one of those, so no pass for you.”
Cash mutters under his breath, shaking his head. “I’m so sick of y’all using Regan and me as your fall people just ‘because we’re not booed up. I could go find a wife if it means not having to work tonight.” His words are teasing, but there’s an undercurrent of affection in them that makes it clear he doesn’t mind picking up the slack so his brother can go have sex.
Colt shrugs again, already walking toward the door. “We’re on a strict timeline. She texted me that she’s ovulating so I gotta get over there quick.” His boots clunk heavily on the floor as he exits.
Cash shouts after him, “That’s the lastthing I ever wanted to know about Molly!”
Colt chuckles loudly as the heavy front door swings shut behind him with a thud. I blink, totally confused.
“Um… what just happened?”
Cash’s grinning ear to ear, clearly unfazed. “You just met my little brother Colt and found out he and his fiancé are trying to get pregnant.”
I snort, shaking my head. “That’s an image I’d really like to erase before I see him again.”
Cash leans in closer as his hand presses lightly against the small of my back, sending a searing warmth through me. “You better not be thinking about my brother having sex,” he growls playfully, guiding me toward a glass door at the side of the room. His hand stays there—firm, steady, and far too comfortable—until we’re through the door and standing in the back room.When he drops it, I instantly feel colder despite how hot this place is.
“So,” he says, his voice echoing faintly off the walls, “the employees are all gone for the night.” He gestures toward two massive metal cylinders, their rhythmic hum filling the space and vibrating through the floor. “And this,” he points to one of the tanks, “is the mash tun. It’s supposed to have an automated paddle system to keep the grains separated, but it’s busted. So now I get to do it manually, at least until this batch is finished.”
“Damn,” I say, eyeing the giant machine that sounds a lot like a vacuum right now. “That sounds exhausting.”
He grins, like he doesn’t mind the hard work one bit. “It is. But it’s alright. Gotta keep things moving.” And if that isn’t the definition of Cash Marshall, I don’t know what is. Spends his whole day wrangling chickens, his evening with me and a bunch of town locals at the fairgrounds planning logistics, decorations and themes, and then—just for good measure—drops everything to help his brother at the distillery, doing something that looks physically exhausting though I’m not sure I understand it yet. And he never complains. Not really. When he does, it’s laced with teasing, like he’s in on some inside joke with the universe the rest of us missed because everything in his life brings him joy.
It’s confusing. Strange. Honestly? I don’t know what to make of it.
I’ve dated my fair share, and if there’s one common thread, it’s that most of those guys loved to complain. My work schedule, the weather, the bartender being too slow to pour their beer—it didn’t take much to get a complaint. And I think I became numb to it because maybe I’m guilty of it too.
Life’s messy. Imperfect. There’s always something cracked or off or not quite what it should be. And maybe I’ve trained myself to look for those imperfections, to expect them, which is why when I see them, there’s a sort of validation in it. But Cash walks through the world like he either doesn’t notice the cracks or doesn’t think they matter. And if he does see them, he sure as hell doesn’t feel the need to point them out.
As he walks over to the wall and grabs what looks like a giant wooden oar, I remember something he said earlier that I wanted to ask him about.
“What did you mean about you and Regan always picking up the slack for your family?”
He steps up onto a ladder that’s attached to the side of one of the cylinders and then lifts the top off with a practiced ease. The wave of heat that escapes is intense, filling the room with steam that clings to his skin and glistens against his corded forearms as he leans over the tank to look inside.
“Regan’s Colt’s twin,” he says, his voice muffled slightly by the rising steam. “Between her and me, it feels like we’re always bouncing around, doing whatever needs to be done for the family businesses. The brewery, the distillery—hell, sometimes she even comes out to help me with the egg farm.”
I watch as he dips the paddle that he retrieved into the bubbling tank, muscles straining slightly as he stirs the mixture with slow, deliberate movements. Despite the heat, the sweat and the sheer labor of it all, there’s something almost calming about the way he works—steady and sure, like he’s exactly where he belongs and knows what he’s doing.
“I see…”
His strong arms flex as he lifts the oar and plunges it deeper inside, stirring firmly. With each movement, his arms flex andmuscles strain against his shirt. It feels like my own brand of porno. Is there a label for this? A tag that I can search later tonight.