Page 25 of Mud & Moxie
Matthew’s voice cuts through the market noise, laden with unspoken understanding. “Funny how fast gossip runs,” he remarks, stepping beside us—protective, watchful.
My smile falters, but I recover quickly.
That’s the game—pretending is the only way to withstand the scrutiny.
But now, the stakes feel higher than ever.
***
The farmhouse kitchen is warm with late afternoon light, casting long shadows as I prepare dinner. My hands move almost on autopilot, slicing vegetables, when Dylan enters, the door creaking in his wake.
“Need a hand?” he asks, leaning casually against the counter. There’s a teasing glint in his eyes that instantly puts me on edge.
“Do you even know how to cook?” I tease back, arching an eyebrow while suppressing a smile.
He feigns offense, crossing his arms. “I’m more of a grill master, you know?”
I laugh, the sound mingling with the clatter of utensils. “Oh, right. You’re the guy who thinks everything tastes better with a side of smoke.”
“Smoky flavor is authentic,” he counters, stepping closer until we’re working side by side. Our elbows brush, a casual touch that sends a warm thrill spiraling through me.
As I reach for the seasoning, his hand covers mine, lingering just a moment too long. Our eyes lock, and a playful challenge dances in his gaze. “You’re not afraid of a little heat, are you?”
“Bring it on,” I reply, though the air between us sizzles with unspoken promise. It’s the kind of banter we used to have, easy and charged with a familiarity that’s both comforting and dangerous.
Our fingers stay entwined for a split second longer before I pull away, laughing to mask the flutter in my chest.
The moment lingers in the air, a tantalizing mix of tension and sweetness.
***
After dinner, the air between us is taut as a wire, the tension like an unstrung bow.
Dylan stands in the doorway, his eyes storm-dark with words he holds back. I see it—the way his mouth opens, then closes, the words dying unsaid as Matthew’s footsteps approach on the porch.
“We should get some sleep,” I suggest, forcing a smile and sweeping receipts into a neat pile. “Long day tomorrow.”
Dylan’s gaze lingers, storm-dark, threatening to unravel everything if given the chance.
But he only nods once before turning away.
Matthew fills the doorway, arms crossed, a silent protector. “Dylan, we’ve got to talk about the fence line.”
I climb the stairs, heart heavy with all that remains unspoken. The house feels small, the air too charged. Each step away fromDylan feels like pulling against a tether stretched thin, and I can't help but wonder how much longer before it snaps.
***
Laying in bed, I find myself wide awake, restless thoughts refusing to quiet.
I slip downstairs, the farmhouse silent around me, and make my way to the kitchen for a glass of water.
I’m not expecting to find Dylan there, leaning against the counter as if waiting. He’s in a plain t-shirt and jeans, looking effortlessly at home, and the sight sends my heart skipping a beat.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” he says softly, his voice breaking the stillness with a warmth that wraps around me.
“Too much on my mind,” I admit, crossing the kitchen to join him. The moonlight casts a glow through the window, transforming the room into a world of shadows and possibilities.
We stand together in the quiet, words unspoken but understood. The distance between us feels charged, like the last spark before a flame, and I’m keenly aware of the magnetic pull drawing us closer.
