Page 60 of Tempted By the Broken Cowboy
She studies me for a long moment, then softens, just barely. “Then do it. Pull yourself together. Be the man who deserves what you’re asking me for. Because I can’t—I won’t—settle for less.”
I reach for her hand, my thumb brushing her knuckles. “I will. I swear it. Just… stand by me while I do.”
Her hand squeezes mine back, hesitant but sure enough to make my chest ache. “I will, but don’t make me regret it.”
She leans lightly against me, her head brushing my shoulder, and the contact alone is enough to quiet the storm I’ve carriedall night. I don’t push for more—I just breathe her in, steady and grateful.
We sit in silence as the horizon breaks open, the kind of morning that makes you believe in fresh starts.
But beneath the peace, shame lingers. The memory of her voice confessing what I forgot, what I stole from her by not remembering, burns like a brand. I can’t undo the past, but I can damn well make sure she never questions her worth to me again.
Her fingers slide into mine, a simple, quiet claim. She doesn’t look at me, but she doesn’t let go. And that one small act is enough to tell me she hasn’t given up on us, so neither will I.
23
QUINN
The Morgan family kitchen is noisy in the best way—clinking plates, scraping chairs, and laughter echoing off the high ceiling. It smells of bacon, biscuits, and strong coffee, the kind that could wake the dead.
I’ve come to love mornings here, even if I’m still learning to elbow my way into the rhythm of a Morgan breakfast. Two months ago, I woke up here feeling like an intruder, an outsider trespassing on hallowed ground. Now, it feels like home.
“Pass the jam, Atwood,” Jace says with a smirk, his hand already halfway across the table.
I slide it toward him. “You know, you could say please.”
“Please,” he smirks, popping the lid.
“Don’t antagonize her,” Hank rumbles from the head of the table, voice grave but amused. “She’s the reason your brother hasn’t self-destructed yet. Give the girl some respect.”
Heat creeps up my neck at the unexpected praise. Hank Morgan doesn’t hand out compliments like candy.
From the corner of my eye, I see Beck grin as he tears into a biscuit. “Hear that, Jace? Dad likes her better than you.”
The table erupts in laughter. Even Ella, elegant in her simple sundress, hides her smile behind her coffee cup.
Jace rolls his eyes. “Don’t push it. She hasn’t lived here long enough to see you in one of your moods.”
“Oh, I’ve seen his moods,” I cut in, narrowing my eyes at Beck. “Trust me, I’m a seasoned expert.”
Beck leans back in his chair, hands lifted like he’s surrendering. “And yet, you’re still here. What does that say about you?”
“That I’m too stubborn to quit,” I shoot back before I can stop myself.
The room quiets for half a beat, and Hank’s gaze flickers between us. There’s a warmth there, something approving, before he goes back to buttering his toast.
Beck’s hand brushes against mine under the table, casual to anyone watching, but I feel it like a spark that runs straight up my arm. He doesn’t let go. He never does, not anymore. He’s all soft touches and steady warmth, as if to remind me that whatever front we put up for the world, we are real.
I let him twine our fingers together, and the corner of his mouth tips up—that crooked smile that makes my chest ache. He doesn’t even have to say the words; I can feel them in the way he looks at me, in how he never stops choosing me, every single day.
And maybe that’s what terrifies me most. Because I haven’t said it back. Not out loud. Not yet.
So I laugh at his jokes, tease him when he gets too smug, let myself lean into the way he presses a kiss to my temple as if it’s second nature. To the Morgans, we’re still fake engaged. To Beck, it’s something more. And to me, it’s starting to feel like the act has slipped away and all that’s left is the truth I’m too afraid to voice.
“Quinn,” Hank says suddenly, setting his knife down, “I don’t know what you did to that boy, but he’s different. Better. He’s got purpose again.”
The chatter softens around us, and I feel the weight of his words settle on my chest.
“I can’t take credit for Beck,” I murmur, suddenly shy under everyone’s attention. “He’s the one doing the work.”
