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The clinking of cutlery against plates and the hum of conversation provided the perfect backdrop for these little moments of connection. When Eryn laughed at one of my dry jokes—a rare event—I felt a sense of accomplishment that was embarrassingly satisfying. And when she leaned in close to ask me more about the ranch, her breath fanning across my cheek, I fought the urge to close the distance between us.
“Gray, you remember that time when Mason dared you to ride Old Red bareback?” Damon's voice boomed across the table, his broad shoulders shaking with mirth.
I grunted, the corners of my mouth betraying me as they lifted into a smile at the memory.
“Nearly broke your neck,” he added, laughing.
“Only 'cause you spooked him,” I shot back, the rare ease of childhood camaraderie warming me from the inside out.
Sutton chimed in with her softer laugh, her gray eyes shining. “Remember when we tried to ride ol' Bessie? That was a total fail.”
“She tossed us both into the mud,” I said, my deep voice rumbling through the air. I leaned back in my chair, letting myself relax as we shared stories and jokes.
“We were wilder than the mustangs,” Mason told Eryn, his face alight with his trademark grin.
Even as the conversation flowed around me, my attention kept snagging on Eryn, her laugh easy, her eyes lighting up as she took in every detail of these childhood stories.
“Tell us, dear,” Gran piped up, leaning towards Eryn with a look of genuine interest, “what's it like being an influencer? Quite different from ranch life, I'd wager. It sounds oh so glamorous.”
Eryn's laugh was like wind chimes, light and melodious. “It's an adventure, for sure. I’ve been lucky that nowadays I get to do the kinds of things I feel are of value. Like, yoga and traveling. And showcasing small businesses, which is something I’ve really become passionate about lately. What’s been nice is you meet so many people, from all walks of life.” Her gaze flitted to mine, holding it just a moment too long—the kind of moment that gets under your skin and stays there.
“And your family must be proud,” Mama said, always one to dig a little deeper without seeming to. Eryn hesitated, her spoon pausing mid-air.
“Um, well,” she began, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear—something I’d noticed was a habit of hers—“my father has . . . different expectations. But I'm happy with the path I've chosen.” Her voice was steady, poised. She recovered well. But something flickered in those amber depths—a shadow of something unsaid.
I leaned back in my chair, studying her. It was easy to write off someone like Eryn Blake—beautiful, rich, successful, a social media sensation. But seated here, in the heart of my family's home, she seemed . . . real. She was real. Vulnerable, even. I knew the real her and the more I knew, the more I wanted to know.
“Guess we're all just trying to make our own way,” I muttered, more to myself than anyone else. But Eryn heard. She turned to me, a smile dancing on her lips, and for a heartbeat, the room fell away. Just me and her, two souls strangely in sync.
“Exactly,” she said softly, and I could swear there was something like admiration in her gaze. My chest tightened, and I nudged her pinkie with mine.
Mitch cleared his throat, commanding the attention of the room with the ease of a seasoned storyteller. I glanced over at him as he leaned back in his chair, a mischievous glint in his eye that belied his weathered features. He adjusted his silver bolo tie and nodded. The old-timer at the ranch was never one to shy away from a captive audience.
“Y'know,” Mitch started, his voice rich and gravelly, “this land wasn't always what you see today. Jack, Gray's father, he had a vision for Red Downs Ranch that went beyond what anyone thought possible.”
I found myself nodding along. Dad had been larger than life, his dreams as wild and untamed as the mustangs we bred. Mitch painted a picture of the early days, when the ranch was barely skating by after my Grandad’s death. He turned stubborn soil and stubborn men into a thriving business again.
His recollections were a patchwork quilt of hardship and triumph, each memory stitched with the kind of respect that time bestows upon legends.
“Jack was a force, all right. But it was the sweat and blood of everyone who believed in him that raised these barns and fences.” Mitch gestured broadly, to the land outside this house.
Mama and Gran had tears in their eyes, but fond smiles, as they held hands. Both strong women who loved their husbands and lost them far too soon. I’d known it, of course, but this was an unnerving reminder that life was short.
Maybe I should have listened to my family sooner and started living for more than just work. But as I looked at Eryn again, I couldn’t help but feel the timing worked out for the best.
Pulling me out of my thoughts, Abby came bouncing into the room, her six-year-old energy a stark contrast to the nostalgia hanging in the air. Mason's daughter had the same dark hair as her dad, but her eyes sparkled with a curiosity that was all her own.
“Miss Eryn!” she exclaimed, her small frame in a fancy party dress wiggled with excitement. “I saw you on TV!”
Eryn, bless her, didn't miss a beat. She turned towards Abby with a smile that could outshine the sun. “Did you now? What did you think?”
“Grannie says you teach people how to stand on their heads!” Abby declared, looking up at Eryn with awe.
I couldn't help but soften at the sight, feeling a chuckle escape me. This was a side of Eryn I loved—a natural warmth that drew even the most reserved among us out of our shells. And damn if it didn't suit her.
“Maybe one day I'll teach you, too,” Eryn promised, winking at Abby.
The little girl beamed, her joy uncontainable, and something in me shifted. It was like watching the first break of dawn over the horizon, witnessing the darkness give way to light. There was something about Eryn's easy rapport with Abby that cut through my defenses. And damned if I wasn’t picturing Eryn and me with a gaggle of babies around her one day.
