Page 39 of That One Night
“I’m really good at avoiding calls,” Emery pointed out. Her friend knew her way too well. She’d done the easy things. Heck, even the tattoo seemed easy compared to the other items. She didn’t want to ride on the back of a motorcycle, dance on a bar, or find somebody to stay up talking to.
And she definitely didn’t want to kiss a random man.
Okay, she did. But she couldn’t. And she was almost certain he wouldn’t want to kiss her back.
“I’ll track you down one way or another,” Maisie promised. And Emery knew it was true.
“Okay,” she sighed. “I’ll try. But you’re not changing number seven back.”
“How’s the tattoo?” Hendrix called out to her from the middle of the dirt road a couple of days later. It was early evening. Her mom had gone into town to meet up with a friend for dinner, and Jed and the farmhands had gone home, leaving her blissfully alone for the first time in days.
She’d checked on the chickens and poured herself a glass of iced tea, and was sitting on the deck while she went through her emails. There was one from the realtor, suggesting he come over next week to value the farm, pending putting it on sale when the lien was released.
Though she hadn’t given him the details, she’d hinted that it should all be sorted within a month. That is if Trenton held up to his side of the deal.
Hendrix was sitting on his motorcycle, having just ridden back from his day job at his uncle’s farm. His jeans and t-shirt were covered in a coating of dry earth.
“It’s still a bit itchy,” she shouted, lifting her leg to show him her fresh tattoo. He kicked the stand on his bike and walked over to the fence that separated her mom’s farm from the road, leaning on it.
“Let me look at it.”
She felt that familiar pull, the one she was trying really hard to pretend didn’t exist. But she stood up anyway, walking to where he was standing. “You can come in,” she told him. “My mom isn’t here.”
“Didn’t she teach you not to invite strangers in?” he asked her, grinning. But he still walked over to the gate and unlatched it, striding to where she was standing.
“Hard day?” she asked.
“Had a couple of sheep escape. Spent most of it riding around the farm looking for them.”
“Has Frank been talking to them?” She grinned.
“I wouldn’t put it past him.” He tipped his head to the side, his gaze sliding down to her ankle, where the firefly was etched into her skin. “You been putting the ointment on it?”
“Yes, Dad.”
He laughed softly. “Let me look at it,” he murmured, as he dropped to his haunches. She looked down at the top of his head, curling her hands because she had this desire to drag her fingers against his scalp.
“Can I touch it?” he asked her, looking up through eyelashes so thick any woman would kill to have them.
“Sure.” She nodded, trying to keep her voice even.
But then his rough finger pads grazed her skin, and dammit, she started to wobble.
“Steady,” he said softly, like she was an animal reacting to his touch. He slid his hands down her calves, reaching her ankle, tipping his head to the side like he was assessing every inch of her.
Thank God she’d shaved her legs this morning.
“The redness has gone.” His voice was still gentle. She liked it way too much. “There’s some flaking. The scab is peeling off. That’s what’s making it itchy.” He looked up at her again. “Have you been scratching it?”
“Been trying not to.”
“Good girl.”
She hated the way she reacted to that. Her body felt heavy and light at the same time.
He slid his hands back up her legs, his lips parted. His fingers lingered on her calves, and for a second there was complete silence.
“Can I ride your motorcycle?” she blurted out.
