7. Brady

7

brADY

T he days after Claire first stays over blend together, one flowing seamlessly into the next. We fall into an easy rhythm that shouldn’t work, but somehow does. She still shows up early each morning to help with feeding, but now she often brings coffee for both of us—mine black, no sugar, just the way I like it. Sometimes she stays over at night, sometimes she heads home. We don’t discuss it, just let it happen naturally.

The ranch work gets done—better than ever, if I’m being honest. There’s something about working alongside Claire that makes the days flow smoother. She’s got a way with the horses that rivals my own, especially with that skittish new gelding. Just yesterday, I watched her coax him into accepting a blanket for the first time, her voice low and steady, her patience unwavering. All the while, I was grinning like an idiot, just watching her work.

At night, when she stays, we share simple meals in my kitchen. Nothing fancy, just nourishing food and good conversation. But it’s the quiet moments that really get to me—the way she absentmindedly runs her fingers through her hair while reading one of my horse care books, how she hums under her breath while doing dishes, the soft sounds she makes in her sleep. She’s even started leaving a coffee mug in my cupboard, and her favorite blanket on my couch.

God, I love the little pieces of her scattered through my space.

As for the physical side of things.…Christ. Every time I think I’ve got a handle on how crazy attracted I am to her, she’ll give me this look or brush against me just so, and I’m done for. With every day that passes, my need for her burns hotter than ever, and she answers my fire with her own. Last night, I buried my cock deep inside her while she unabashedly rubbed her clit, the moonlight illuminating all of her curves. We came together like it was the most natural thing in the world, her pussy squeezing me tight while I exploded inside her.

But there’s always that underlying question, the one neither of us seems ready to voice: What the hell are we doing? Where is this headed? Some days it feels like we’re building something real. Other days I catch myself wondering if we’re just setting ourselves up for a world of hurt.

As December creeps in, bringing shorter days and colder winds, my thoughts turn to Christmas. Logan and Sierra are hosting this year—even with their hands full with the twins, they insisted on it. I should be focused on that, on being a father and grandfather. Instead, I keep thinking about Claire. I keep wondering what it would be like to wake up with her on Christmas morning, to watch her face light up as she opens the gift I picked out for her—a pair of gold stud earrings I know she’ll love.

But it’s complicated. She’s got her grandmother to think about, just like I’ve got my family. And even though Logan and Sierra know about us, Claire and I haven’t exactly defined what “us” means.

The subject is still weighing heavy on my mind when Logan and I head out to fix the heating system in the barn. The weather is turning nasty, and the last thing we need is frozen pipes with a barn full of horses.

“Pass me that wrench,” Logan says, his voice muffled from where he’s wedged behind the unit. I hand it over, watching my son work.

“Been thinking about Christmas,” I say, and clear my throat. “Might be nice to have Claire and her grandmother join us. If you and Sierra wouldn’t mind.”

Logan pauses, then emerges from behind the unit. There’s a knowing look in his eyes that reminds me he’s not a kid anymore. “That so?”

I shrug, suddenly feeling like I’m the one being figured out. “Just a thought.”

“Dad.” He wipes his hands on a rag, giving me his full attention. “What’s really on your mind?”

The question hangs there between us. I take my time answering, running a hand over my jaw.

“It’s Claire,” I admit finally. “This thing between us…I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“What’s got you worried?” Logan asks, settling back against the wall. “The age difference?”

“That’s part of it.” I pick up a pair of pliers, turning them over in my hands just to have something to do. “She’s far closer to your age than mine. Sometimes I look at her and think, Christ, what am I thinking? She’s got her whole life ahead of her.”

“And?”

“And she works for me. Every management book out there would call this a disaster waiting to happen.” I set the pliers down with more force than necessary. “What if it goes wrong? This ranch is her dream job—she’s told me that herself. I don’t want to be the reason she loses that.”

Logan considers this. “Can I be honest with you?”

“Rather you would be.”

“Those sound like excuses to me.” When I start to protest, he holds up a hand. “Hear me out. Yes, she’s significantly younger than you. But she’s a grown woman. She knows her own mind. And, sure, the work situation isn’t ideal. But, Dad, I see how you look at her. How she looks at you. That’s real.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Is it ever?” Logan picks up the wrench again. “Let me ask you something. When’s the last time you were this happy?”

The question stops me short. Because he’s right—I am happy. Happier than I’ve been in years.

“Look,” Logan continues, his voice gentle. “Life’s too short to let fear make your decisions. And for what it’s worth? Claire’s good for you. She makes you laugh. Gets you out of your head. Sierra and I see it every day.”

“You do?”

“Are you kidding me? It’s so obvious that you guys are good together.” He smiles. “And we’d love to have Claire and her grandmother over for Christmas. The more the merrier, right?”

Something in my chest loosens at his words. At the easy way he includes Claire in our family’s plans. “Thanks, son.”

When I extend the invitation to Claire later that day, her whole face lights up. She’s working with one of the mares, brushing out her winter coat, but she stops mid-stroke. “Really? You want us there?”

“Wouldn’t ask if I didn’t mean it.”

She bites her lip, trying to contain her smile. “I’ll have to ask Gran, but…oh, Brady. I would love to spend Christmas with you.”

The snow starts innocently enough—just a few flakes drifting down as Claire and I finish our last chores. But by morning, the flurries have turned steady, and the weather report is using words like blizzard and hazardous .

“Maybe it won’t be as bad as they’re forecasting,” Claire says, but I can hear the worry in her voice.

Soon, it gets worse. The snow falls faster, heavier, driven by an increasingly bitter wind. By nightfall, the ranch is blanketed in white, and the forecast is calling for another several feet of snow by morning.

I stand at my window, watching it come down. Each falling flake feels like another nail in the coffin of our Christmas plans. The road to town can be unreliable in good weather—in this, it would be idiotic to attempt it.

Claire calls the next morning, and I know what she’s going to say before she says it.

“There’s no way we can make it out there,” she says, her voice heavy with disappointment. “Gran can barely get down her front steps.”

“Don’t even think about trying,” I tell her, even though the words taste bitter. “It’s not worth the risk.”

Christmas morning is bright and cold, the sun turning the snow into a sea of diamonds. The twins are still too young to understand the holiday, but their wide-eyed wonder at the lights and all of the wrapped gifts makes everyone smile. Sierra outdoes herself with breakfast, and Logan makes a batch of hot chocolate from scratch.

I should be content. This is my family—my son, his wife, my grandchildren. We’re warm, we’re safe, we’re together. But there’s an ache in my chest that won’t ease, a sense of incompleteness I can’t shake.

It’s not even noon before I’m calling to check on Claire and her grandmother.

“We’re fine, you worrywart,” Claire says, laughing. “Gran’s got enough food stored up to survive an apocalypse, and the power’s still on. Stop fussing.”

“I don’t fuss,” I growl, but there’s no heat in it.

“You’re sweet,” she says softly. “I wish we were there, too.”

After we hang up, I find myself standing at the window, staring out at Claire’s flower bed. It’s buried deep under the snow, but I know exactly where it begins and ends. The stark whiteness blanketing it feels like some kind of sign, one that doesn’t feel good.

These past weeks with Claire have been good. Better than good. The way we work together, how she fits into my life, into my home—it all feels right in a way I can’t deny.

But standing here, watching the worst snowstorm we’ve ever had, doubt creeps into my mind.

Maybe this storm is trying to tell us something. The snow has created an impassable barrier between us. Maybe it’s a warning that no matter how good things have felt, it’s not meant to last.

Behind me, I can hear the sounds of Christmas continuing—the twins’ happy babbles, my son and daughter-in-law’s laughter, the rustle of wrapping paper. There’s joy here. It’s not like I’m alone or lacking meaning in my life.

Still, my eyes are drawn to the snow-covered flower bed, to all that lies buried and waiting. To all that I want to have…if I can.

I let out a long, slow breath, watching the snow continue to fall. I want to believe that what Claire and I have is the real deal, that it’s strong enough to weather life’s figurative and literal storms.

But right now it feels like everything’s up in the damn air.