Page 51 of Tempted By the Broken Cowboy
Hank climbs out of the truck first, steady and stoic, his face unreadable but his presence commanding as always. Zanefollows right after with Ava at his side, one arm slung casually around her shoulders, grinning at some joke only she seems to find funny. They are getting married in a few days but still found time for this amidst all the wedding chaos, and it’s truly touching.
Then there’s Jace, with Daisy on his lap as he wheels himself toward the entrance. She’s clutching a little stuffed pony in one hand, her other hand gripping her daddy’s arm like it’s the only anchor she’ll ever need.
Ella swings her car door shut with her hip and immediately tosses a teasing jab at her brothers, earning a round of chuckles. She’s sharp, this one, with Beck’s same stubbornness, only with a quicker tongue.
And then there’s the man of the hour, my supposed fiancé, who shoulders two boxes at once and looks like he could carry the whole damn truck if someone asked him to. He catches me watching and smirks—he knows exactly what he’s doing.
Inside, the soup kitchen volunteers greet us warmly, grateful hands taking donations as people shuffle inside. The energy is lighter than I expected; laughter bounces off the scuffed tile floors. Now this is what community is supposed to be about.
And then I spot them—two older ladies from the jogging club, the ones who surprised me with their quiet loyalty when Beck thought no one had his back. They’re bustling around with aprons tied tight, already arranging bread baskets, and when they spot me, one of them waves enthusiastically, calling, “We saved you a spot, sugar!”
I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. For the first time, I know I’m not fighting this uphill battle alone.
Getting to work, I find myself at the donation table with Ella, who works with a kind of brisk efficiency.
“Keep up, future sister-in-law,” she teases under her breath, her smirk sharp but not unkind.
We were honest with the Morgans about our fake engagement. We saw no point in lying to them, and they are all in on supporting us.
Across the room, Zane heckles at Beck. “Hey, pretty boy! Careful with those cans—you might chip a nail!”
Beck doesn’t even look up from where he’s hauling a crate toward the pantry, his voice easy. “You just worry about not pulling something bending over, old man.”
Zane barks a laugh, Ava elbowing him in the ribs with a fond, long-suffering shake of her head. She’s glowing, balancing a plate of cookies on her protruding belly.
Jace sets Daisy on a chair near the bread baskets and hands her a plastic butter knife. “Your job, sweetheart, is to spread butter nice and even, okay?”
“Okay, Daddy!” she chirps, tongue poking out in concentration as she works. Every so often she glances up at me, checking to see if she’s doing it right. I make sure to nod encouragement every time, which earns me her delighted little grin.
Hank is stationed near the serving line, ladling stew into bowls with gravy. His voice rumbles low when he speaks to each person, steady and kind in a way that softens his hard edges.
And Beck—well, Beck is everywhere.
He’s teasing kids in line, crouching down so he’s eye level, ruffling hair until they giggle. He’s grabbing second helpings for the elderly when their hands tremble too much to carry both bowls. He’s got sweat glistening along his temples, his shirt clinging to his shoulders, and yet he never loses that crooked grin.
And people notice.
I catch snippets of whispers, hesitant voices at first.
“That’s Beckett Morgan, isn’t it?”
“Didn’t think he’d ever set foot here.”
“Maybe he’s not as bad as they say.”
The sting of doubt still hangs in the air, but it’s softer now, less certain.
I watch him from across the room, the way he carries himself—he seems lighter, like this: helping, serving, laughing, fits him in a way nothing else has. Beck is nothing like the reputation that’s been chained to his name, and I’m glad people are starting to see that.
The clatter of trays and the murmur of conversation fills the soup kitchen when the air shifts. It’s subtle at first, a ripple more than a wave, but I feel it in the stiffness of shoulders around me, in the way voices dip and eyes flick toward the door.
Then I see them.
My father sweeps in first, the weight of his title carried in the square set of his shoulders and the crisp press of his suit. His eyes scan the room with a politician’s detachment, not a man looking to help, but a mayor looking to be seen. My mother follows at his side, her expression already pinched, lips pursed as if she’s walked into a room that smells of rot instead of stew. And behind them, Rhett, hands shoved into his pockets, his smirk lazy and sharp as a knife.
The Morgans keep working, but the energy falters. I see Ella’s jaw tighten, Ava shift a little closer to Zane. Hank doesn’t falter with his ladle, but there’s a new stiffness in the way he fills each bowl.
“Playing saints today, are we?” my mother says, her voice carrying too far in the small room. “How… unexpected.”
