Page 9 of The Farmer
By the time we make it to my bedroom, we’re stripped down to absolutely nothing, skin damp, lungs still heaving from the sprint. I pull the quilt back. She climbs in without hesitation, curling onto her side.
“Okay, I need to ask. Do you always bring strange, soaking wet women to your bed after midnight?” she teases, pulling the blanket up over her shoulder.
“Only the ones I find crying in cornfields and those who came on my tongue.”
She snorts. “So, how many?”
“One.”
I slide in beside her, still warm from the afterglow of almost, the static of what could’ve happened still buzzing under my skin. She’s right there, hair damp on the pillow, thigh brushing mine, eyes sleepy.
She smiles sleepily. “Am I special, then?”
Unable to stop myself, I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and kiss her softly on the mouth. “You have no idea.”
4
PARIS
Iwake up to sunlight warming the back of my neck and the faint sound of something clucking.
My eyes blink open slowly. The first thing that hits me is that Parker’s side of the bed is empty. The second thing is the quiet.
The silence in the room is only broken by birds chirping outside the window, a cow lowing in the distance, and something rhythmic and heavy, maybe boots on dirt or the creak of barn wood.
I sit up slowly, stretch beneath the quilt, and take a deep breath. Memories of last night flit through my mind, making me smile. It wasn’t like me to sleep with someone I just met. Literal sleeping, by the way. But everything about what happened felt right. I can still feel the ghost of his touch on me, making my core throb with need.
I remember his growls, and the sounds he made cause warm tendrils to grow inside of me.
I swing my legs over the side and spot a folded gray T-shirt on the dresser. It’s big enough that it hangs almost to my knees.
The moment I step into the kitchen, the smell of food hits me. Scrambled eggs, two pieces of toasted bread, and two perfect slices of avocado fanned neatly along the side. A still-warm carafe of coffee sits next to a mug.
I smile, biting my lip.
For a man who growls and glowers like he’d rather be left alone, he’s awfully good at taking care of people. Or maybe it’s just me.
I pour myself a cup, savor the first sip, then follow the distant thump of movement outside. With the mug still in my hand and wearing sandals way too big for me, I walk toward the barn, enjoying the view of the field. Under the sunlight, it sure doesn’t look too creepy and menacing. It also makes that little crying session yesterday all the more ridiculous and embarrassing.
The door is half open. Inside, he’s carrying a bale of hay across the floor like it weighs nothing. The muscles in his back shift under the thin cotton of his shirt. His forearms flex, and my mouth waters at the sight.
“You do this every morning?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe, sipping my coffee, thoroughly checking him out, and not even bothering to hide it.
He turns, eyes dragging over me, and I swear something flashes hot and sharp across his face.
“Since I was ten,” he says, setting the hay down. “Cows get real dramatic if you’re late.”
“Sounds like me without caffeine,” I say, taking another sip. “Though I don’t moo. Usually.”
The side of his mouth lifts. “No, you don’t, but you moan really well.”
The reminder of how unhinged I was last night makes my cheeks burn. “That’s very ungentlemanly of you to say that so casually.”
Parker tilts his head to the side. “What made you think I was a gentleman?”
“The way you rescued me and let me stay under your roof.”
“That’s being a decent human.”
