Page 2 of The Farmer
I pause ten feet away because I know the second she sees me—really sees me—she’s gonna panic.
There’s a reason the mayor begs me to play Krampus every year at the winter festival. Big guy, sharp features, deep-set eyes that look like storm clouds, scary demeanor that sends children hiding behind their mothers. Even when I'm attempting to smile—which is rare enough—folks cross the street to avoid me. And I’m definitely not smiling now.
I could walk away, call one of the volunteers, and let someone else deal with the crying girl in my field. Someone smaller, friendlier. Someone who doesn't look like they stepped out of a horror movie.
"My plants. My beautiful, flowering plants," she hiccups between sobs, her voice carrying a city accent that's entirely out of place here. "About to die because their owner is stupid enough to come here and get lost in a corn maze like some clueless tourist."
I clear my throat, aiming for friendly—whatever that sounds like in my gravel-choked voice. “Excuse me. Are you okay?”
She looks up, and our gazes meet.
Just like that, the air gets punched right out of my lungs, and the earth swings from underneath me.
Hell.
Her blonde hair clings to damp cheeks, curling slightly at the ends. Blue eyes—bright, sharp, rimmed red from crying—lock onto mine, and I swear, my whole body clenches, dirty thoughts already drifting uninvited through my mind. Those eyes are huge in her heart-shaped face, framed by a scatter of freckles across her nose that shouldn't be as appealing as they are.
I have never seen a woman as beautiful as her. And right in my damn cornfield?
As usual, I brace myself for the fear, fully expecting her to run away screaming for help. It wouldn’t be the first time someone mistook me for a walking horror story in the dark.
But she doesn’t run away.
Her eyes widen, then she’s on her feet, sprinting toward me. That’s right. She’s running to me.
Before I can react, she barrels into me, her small frame colliding with my chest and punching the air out of my lungs for the second time in five minutes. I don’t even realize my arms have opened until my hands are already around her, one at her back, the other cradling her waist like I meant to catch her.
“I got lost,” she says into my shirt, breathless.
I can’t speak because I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that this beautiful, stunning woman chose to be in my arms, and she hasn’t even fully seen me yet.
She pulls back just enough to look up, eyes glassy and so damn blue. “I thought for sure I was gonna die out here. The sheriff would find my decaying body in the morning, and people would have to guess what my last meal was based on stomach contents.”
Well, fuck. That’s morbid. And oddly specific.
Words continue to elude me. Maybe because I can feel her warmth soaking into me, or maybe because her nearness is currently short-circuiting my brain.
I have simply lost the ability to speak and think.
Blood comes rushing into my ears, a pounding drumbeat that drowns out the quiet of the cornfield. Heat unfurls in my gut, spreading tendrils of warmth throughout my entire body. My senses awaken one by one, as if emerging from a deep slumber, each one bringing a new awareness of the woman pressed against me.
First comes the realization that her soft, supple curves are molded against the hard planes of my chest, her breasts rising and falling with each breath she takes. Then, the sensation of her lips, slightly parted and damp, brushing against the sensitive skin of my neck as she buries her face deeper into the crook.
Her hips are nestled against my stomach, the intimacy of the position sending a jolt through me, making my heart race even faster. My hands, seemingly of their own volition, have found their way to her ass, cupping the firm yet yielding flesh, holding her aloft as if she weighs nothing at all.
Shit. If I had known I was about to meet her, I would have at least showered or changed my clothes. I’m pretty sure I smell no better than a cow or a goat right now. The scent of earth and livestock clings to my worn flannel shirt, and there's probably hay stuck in my beard.
“Y-you’re not a killer, are you?”
The question comes out of left field, and I snort. Or maybe it does make sense. She did just launch herself to me, after all.
She pulls back just enough to look me in the eye. And that’s when I begin to spiral. Images of kissing her, devouring her mouth, shuffle through my mind. My breath catches, my fingers reflexively digging into her.
God, I want to kiss her. A thread of desire knots around me, tighter and tighter, until I’m fighting it on sheer willpower alone. My self-control hangs by a thread as thin as spider silk.
Something passes her features, and she blinks slowly. “Oh, hi. I’m Paris, by the way. Paris Page.”
It takes me about three seconds to remember my fucking name. “Parker. Parker Priest. I own the field.” And about two hundred acres surrounding it, but that detail seems irrelevant with her soft curves molded against my chest.
