Page 70 of Delicious

I looked at him standing there in his faded work shirt with a smudge of dirt on his cheek, avoiding eye contact as he handed over vegetables he’d grown specifically because I might like them. All while pretending it was nothing special.

The same man who’d lectured me about proper fencing techniques for forty-five minutes last month. Who’d stayed up all night with me during that storm when my barn roof threatened to give way. Who argued with every new farming method I tried and then quietly implemented the successful ones on his own land.

A voice snuck into my head.This man is the love of your life.

And the voice resonated inside me with such clarity that I almost laughed out loud. Of course it was David. It would always be David. No one else had ever made my heart pound the way he did.

“You okay?” he’d asked, frowning at my sudden stillness.

“Never better,” I’d replied, trying to suppress my smile so I didn’t spook the guy. I felt like I’d just discovered gold in my backyard. Which, in a way, I guess I had.

That memory still makes me smile as David and I explore our new home, seeing all the signs of our merged lives. His worn armchair beside my designer reading lamp, his practical wooden coffee table perfectly centered on my wildly colorful Turkish rug that David initially called a hazard to navigation.

We wander through the first floor, my hand trailing along the walls as David, ever the practical farmer, checks the window latches.

We end up back in the kitchen.

“Should we test the water pressure?” I ask, nodding toward the sink, but my smirk means something else entirely.

David gives me that look where he’s pretending to be exasperated but can’t quite hide the smile pulling at his lips. “We haven’t even unpacked a single box.”

“Practicalities later,” I say, stepping closer to trace the line of his jaw with my fingertip. “I want to know if that shower fits two comfortably.”

He catches my wrist, his thumb brushing over my pulse point in a way that sends electricity racing up my arm.

“Seems like important information for new homeowners to discover,” he concedes, eyes darkening.

I tug him toward the stairs, and he follows willingly. Three years together, and my heart still races at the feel of his hand in mine, at the knowledge that this grumpy, wonderful man is mine.

In our bedroom, the late afternoon sun slants through windows that frame the distant hills. His farm is to the left, mine to the right, and this house bridging them together. Perfect symmetry.

David’s arms wrap around me from behind as we gaze at our land. His lips find that spot just below my ear that makes me shiver.

“We’ve got a lot of rooms,” he reminds me, his words a murmur against my skin.

I turn in his arms, my fingers already working on his shirt buttons. “Then we better get started on christening the first one.”

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