Page 4 of The Farmer
I’m pouring water into the kettle when I hear her soft steps behind me.
“Hey,” she says, her voice quieter now.
I turn … and nearly swallow my tongue.
She’s standing in the doorway in my shirt, sleeves too long, pants rolled at the waist, her damp hair loose around her shoulders.She looks … God, like she’s a goddess gracing me with her presence.
She lifts her bundled wet clothes. “Where’s your dryer?”
I shake my head, setting the kettle down. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.”
When I come back from the laundry room, her wet clothes hanging over the drying rack, I freeze in the doorway.
She’s perched on the edge of my dining table, legs crossed, steam curling from two mugs in front of her. Mine and hers. Ours.
She's using the blue-and-white ceramic one. The one that belonged to my grandmother. The one I keep tucked at the very back of the cupboard and never offer to anyone. Well, usually. Paris can do whatever she wants.
“I figured you’d want coffee too,” she says softly, smiling.
That smile feels like a punch to the gut. “I do.”
We drink in silence for a while. The rain’s still falling outside, steady and slow now.
I glance toward the hallway and clear my throat. “I don’t have another bed. Used the other rooms for storage. So, uh, you can take mine.”
She looks up at me over her mug. “Only if you’re there with me.”
I blink. “W-what?”
She smiles, slow and shameless. “I won’t kick the homeowner out of his own bedroom.”
“It’s fine,” I say too quickly, shifting in my seat, wondering why I’m acting this awkward.
Paris lifts her brow. “Will your girlfriend or wife get mad?”
“What? No. I’m single.”
Her eyes flick up to mine. “Good.”
My brain malfunctions, and it seems like every drop of blood has rushed down south, tightening my loins. “What?”
“What?”
I stand too fast. My chair scrapes back, and I wince at the sound it makes.
Fucking smooth, Parker. Real smooth.
I don’t know what she’s doing to me—I really am too tired to dissect my feelings—but if I don’t walk away now, I might do something I can’t take back.
“Goodnight, Paris,” I say, already on my way to grab blankets and pillows for my couch, which I won’t fit in. I’ve already made peace with the fact that I’ll wake up with a sore back tomorrow.
She grins into her cup. “Goodnight, farmer.”
2
PARIS
Ican’t sleep. I’ve been lying on this super soft mattress for an hour—it’s so much more comfortable than the ratty one in my apartment, which my pinchpenny landlord refused to change—and I keep tossing and turning.
