Page 46 of All I Need

Home.

This is home now.

Never felt at home at Gary’s in his 90’s porn bedroom, that’s for sure.

“She won’t mind?”

“Of course not. But we better get going. If we time it right, we’ll finish up checking the cows in time for Mrs. Sanders’s pot roast.”

“What? I’m missing pot roast?” Grayson shouts from somewhere in the clinic. How he heard that, I’ll never know.

“You took the entire pie!” Walker shouts back.

He pokes his head into the room. “Because you left. What was I supposed to do? Not eat pie? That’s dumb. No one would blame me.”

Walker rolls his eyes. “Letting her use your mom’s boots.”

Grayson shrugs and mutters, “Whatever,” then walks away.

I can’t tell if he’s still mad because he’s not getting the infamous Mrs. Sanders’s pot roast or if he truly just doesn’t care one way or the other if I wear his mom’s boots. Chances are, a little of both.

I grab my purse from under the desk and walk toward the door. “We’ll see you tomorrow, Linda,” Walker says before he guides me through the back door, grabbing a pair of bright green, tall rubber boots as he goes. He hands them to me and I clutch them to my chest. “I think those will work. Looks like about the same size, anyway. You might have to throw on an extra pair of socks if they’re a little too big. You’re kinda tiny.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

He places a hand on my lower back. I’ve always read about that move, and seen it in movies, but none of the men I’ve been with have ever done it. I didn’t realize how incredibly sexy it is until this moment. It makes no sense. It’s a hand and a back. But it’s the action that leaves me unable to speak.

My tongue is glued to my mouth and I can barely squeak out a good bye to Linda.

His thumb moves in a small circle and my skin heats up even with the material of my dress as a barrier. I chance a peek up at him as we walk to my car.

His facial hair has grown in a little more than it was yesterday and my fingers itch to feel it. The hand that’s still resting on my back flexes and I wonder if he can tell that I’m staring at him. Chances are he can, especially since he’s right next to me and I’m not doing a very good job at hiding it.

We stop by my car and he leans down just slightly, moving his hand from my back to my hip in a move that feels so natural, so effortless, it’s like he’s touched me this way millions of times before.

“You…”

“Me?”

He shakes his head and leans in even closer. “It’s gonna be tough.”

“What is?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t respond right away, his eyes moving over my face as if he’s cataloging all my features. He squeezes my hip once and licks his lips. “You know.”

I feel like I’ve run a marathon, or maybe around the block. Because I don’t run. But my point—I’m breathing heavy and can’t stop myself when I lean a little closer as well. Because I do. I know exactly what he’s talking about. And he’s right.

It’s going to be very tough.

And hard too.

Hopefully.

Oh geesh.

I can’t even think normal.

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