Page 95 of Mess With Me

“You want a barn? I’ll build you a barn, Angel.”

“Oh God, yes. Have you seen baby horses? Colts and fillies?”

I can’t help the laugh building in my chest. “Enough,” I grunt, leaning over her and covering her mouth with mine. I stay that way as I work us both to the end.

* * *

We lie across from each other in the bed, finally spent—or at least Sasha seems that way—as the sky begins to lighten outside.

“You okay, old man?” Sasha asks, smiling. She’s got my hand in both of hers, curled up against her chest.

“No. I’m not sure how I’m going to walk again in a few hours, let alone get out of this bed to head to New York.”

Her eyes, which had been going droopy, flick open. “I forgot you were leaving. How long will you be gone?”

“I could probably come back the day after tomorrow.” I want to come back the same day, but I know Lionel will need a little more time. I also have to wrap things up with the project I abandoned Ford with.

“Won’t that be rushing things?”

She says it like she can see the thoughts running across my face. I’m not used to that. I don’t know if it’s her being extra insightful or me loosening up around her. Maybe both.

“Two nights would be better,” I admit. A week would be ideal, but there’s no way in hell I’m leaving her for that long.

“Last night I asked my sisters if you could stay with them. They both said of course.”

Sasha smiles, looking touched, then yawns. “Thank you. But I’ll be good here, right?”

“You don’t have to decide right now.”

“Good,” she says, still yawning. How is it that she looks beautiful even with her face scrunched up and her mouth open wide enough to see her tonsils? Can someone have perfect tonsils?

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I wait until she’s breathing softly before I let myself rest.

I sleep like a rock with her next to me. I don’t know for how long, just that I wake with a ping to a soft banging sound.

The clock says it’s nine a.m. Despite only a few hours of sleep, I’m instantly alert, my heart thumping.

But really, there’s only one person it could be.

I slip to the door, opening it just a crack.

Sure enough, a tooth-optional man with white hair and a straw hat has his hands cupped around my patio door.

I let out a breath—and a curse. Fuck.

A few minutes later, I’m sliding the door open, slipping out and closing it behind me. “Chester, what are you doing?”

“I knew you were still here. Thought you might be sick or something. Never once seen you not up with the sun.”

He’s holding out a mason jar filled with a cloudy yellow liquid. Chicken noodle soup.

I smile, then scowl, taking the jar and setting it down on the arm of the Adirondack. “Chester, you don’t need to be giving away food. Besides, I’m not sick. Just had a late night.”

Chester’s eyebrows dance, and he leans back, hands on his hips. “So you finally worked up the nerve, didja?”

I set my jaw. “Don’t start.”

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