Page 11 of Harvest His Heart
She gathers the root vegetables in a brown, covered casserole dish to roast in the oven. “What else can I help with?”
“Maybe that twenty-dollar kale salad?” I tease, nodding toward the ingredients spread out on the counter.
Delicious smells fill the cabin as we both work silently, a greater intimacy growing in the quiet spaces. The domestic places I didn’t even know I craved until now. Roasted garlic, savory meat, herbs and butter, the warm, sweet, yeasty fragrance of warmed bread.
I fill plates, bringing them to the dining room table, where lit candles cast a warm glow over the rustic wooden table. It’s a long table, built for a family, not a bachelor.
Lacey insists I sit at the head; I insist she take the corner next to me. Our eyes meet, and time stops. Breath stops. My heart stops.
She inhales sharply, gaze flickering away as if she can only stand so much intimacy. I’m plotting ways to kill whoever hurt her as I work to temper my voice, asking, “Strawberry wine? Cider?”
Her face looks torn. “As much as I want to say cider, I have to try this strawberry wine I’ve heard so much about. Not that I’m much of a drinker.”
“That’s what we talked about on the phone,” I say, rubbing my hand over my heart absent-mindedly as I head back into the kitchen, uncork a bottle, and pour it into two unmatched, handcrafted glasses.
“The one call you humored me with,” she says, an annoyed edge to her voice.
“Not much of a phone talker,” I excuse.
“So I learned.”
“Much prefer face to face.” I cross the distance to the table, handing her a glass, though I could set it down. I have to feel her. Even if only in the slightest way. Our fingers brush. Pure fucking fire.
Fire that flickers behind her gaze as I sit down, grabbing the loaf of bread and ripping into it. I catch myself, apologizing, “Sorry, maybe you would prefer me to use a knife?”
“Not at all,” she says, licking her lips. “It’s just … your hands look like they were made to do that.”
I chuckle at the bizarre compliment, pleased by the sensuality weighting her words.No, these hands were made for you.I hand her a chunk, hard-crusted on the outside, soft and almost cake-like in the center. Then, I push the butter keeper toward her.
She slathers her slice, and I appreciate the hell out of her enthusiasm. “Is this a product of the ranch?” she asks.
“Nope, but it’s locally sourced from the next-door neighbors.”
“Next-door neighbors?” she asks. “I got the impression you’re the only thing for…”
I chuckle. “Next-door neighbors about a quarter of an hour that-a-way,” I say, motioning.
She takes a bite of the bread and moans, eyes closed. For a second, every noise in the cabin disappears. The fire’s crackle, the ticking clock—gone. Only that sound, and the sight of her lips wrapped around a piece of bread, exists.
I shift in my chair, barely able to breathe. “Good?” I croak.
“Pure heaven.”
Not even close. But if heaven’s what she’s after, I could take her there. “Try it with the wine.”
She takes a sip, her face awash in pleasure. I could make her happy. That single thought changes everything.
“You’ll like the food, too,” I say, fighting to keep my head above water. But I’m drowning. Almost beyond hope.
I search my brain for something not related to my big hands and her even bigger pleasure. Got to keep it together. Show her respect and admiration … that I want this to be about far more than a farm-to-table cuisine book or hours spent on stolen pleasure hidden in the cornfield.
“Farming,” I manage, voice tight with the last remnants of my self-control, “is about more than survival. It’s about healing. Coming together. Building community. Building a life. Being a part of something greater than yourself.”
Her eyes flicker to mine, swirling with emotion. “That’s what writing does for me,” she admits softly. “It has helped me recreate the sense of connection that I somehow lost in every other part of my life.” Her voice trails off, bittersweet.
“Connection. It’s everything.”
She nods.
