Page 19 of The Farmer
I don’t even try to hide my grin as she turns beet red, her mouth opening and closing like a short-circuited robot.
I beam at her sweetly and mouth, “Bye.”
EPILOGUE
PARKER
After a year of living with Paris, I can confidently say I know her in and out. Like how much whipped cream she likes on her coffee (the answer is a lot), how extroverted she is and always finds the need to speak her thoughts (she knows everyone at the farmers’ market now), how actually good she is at poker (Mrs. Allen jokingly said she would be uninvited on the next poker night if she cleared all their money), how she gets spooked so easily because she had been used to living alone.
With that last part, we eventually found a way to announce my presence, and Otis’s and Doris’s. Both dogs wore bells now, while I have to say “Hi, baby” each time I enter the room. Especially when she’s a hundred percent focused on writing and can barely hear anything, I need to wait at least a full minute to make sure she knows I’m around.
So far, it’s been quite amazing with her.
She found a remote job as a writer, moved out of her apartment, moved into the farmhouse, and only had to submit around ten articles per month.
As for the rest of her days, she loved to walk around the property, Doris and Otis following her closely behind. She does have a tendency to enter the maze and get lost, so Otis has taken it upon himself to steer her in the right direction. They’re very protective of my girl.
Right now, she’s talking to her boss, a fifty-something woman who’s so different from the asshole Brad.
Paris ends the video call with a groan and collapses on the old mustard-colored sofa. I wipe my hands on a dish towel, watching from the kitchen doorway as she sprawls across the cushions we argued over for a full ten minutes at that estate sale last month. She thought it looked charming, and I argued that there was no way it didn’t have at least one demonic soul who made it its permanent home.
To be honest, I still think it’s possessed.
Every time we sit on that thing together, I swear it groans with more than age. Like someone’s great-aunt Lucille or great-uncle Lucifer is still hanging on for dear life. I’m always hesitant to make out with Paris on that couch because I swear I feel a third entity watching us.
But, whatever. She likes it, so I may just learn to like it in the future. And by future, I mean maybe in twenty years.
Paris tugs her hair out of its messy bun and sighs, eyes fluttering shut.
My eyes are drawn to her as always, and it’s moments like this—quiet, relaxed, completely unspectacular—where something in my chest tightens.
It’s no secret that I’m deeply, unconditionally, irrevocably in love with her. So much so, I’m willing to risk my soul by sitting on that damn haunted couch.
“Sit beside me?” she says, wiggling to make space and patting the cushion beside her.
She cracks one eye open when she notices I haven’t sat down yet.
“Is everything okay?” she asks, brow creased.
I huff out a nervous breath, feeling beads of sweat dot my forehead, above my top lip, and on my back. Damn. This is so much harder and scarier than I thought. “Not exactly.”
Before she can say more, I drop to one knee. Both Doris and Otis think I’m about to play with them, and they launch themselves into my arms.
I laughingly brush their backs to calm them down, but when I swing my gaze back to Paris, her hands are on her mouth, eyes wide and shining with tears.
Her breath catches, and I stop breathing altogether.
And suddenly, the house—the whole damn world—feels painfully still.
“Paris,” I say, my voice low, almost unsteady. “You came here by accident. Got lost in my cornfield, soaked in the rain, and changed everything without even trying. You did all that in less than twenty-four hours.”
She sits upright slowly, not taking her eyes off me, not even blinking.
“I used to think peace was something I’d earn after enough hard work. Something I’d find when the field was perfect, or the shed was clean, or the barn stopped leaking. But I was wrong. The first time I found genuine peace was when I slept with you in my arms. The morning after is an entirely different story, however.”
She lets out a watery laugh, and I grin through the tightness in my chest.
“I don’t know much about the rest of the world,” I continue, reaching into my back pocket, “but I know I want this. You. Us. The haunted couch and the morning coffee and your cold feet in the sheets and the burnt hash browns that feel like drywall in my throat and put me at risk for choking, but I’ll still eat them every single day for you.”
