Page 19 of Harvest His Heart
I polish it on my flannel, take a first bite. Juice runs down my wrist, tracing the line of the old scar like memory come alive. I reach for another, but she eyes mine, ravenous. My arm stretches, and she takes it, fingers brushing, wildfire igniting.
Lacey lines it up, bites over the exact same spot where my mouth left its mark, like she needs to taste me the way I need to taste her. Yearning bursts within, insatiable, out of control. My breath is ragged, can’t drag my eyes from her face, those plump lips.
“Tart,” she murmurs.
“You get used to the bite,” I growl, noticing the juice shiny on her mouth, right where I have to claim her.
The nutty odor of dried, crushed grass fills my nostrils as I step forward, crushing her back against a gnarled, scarred tree trunk—like my body. Like her inner world.
I cup her jaw. She leans closer, dragging me under as our mouths meet—hungry, unguarded. Sweet from the apples, sharp with iron—unyielding desire beneath the taste of something looming. Bigger, more dangerous than both of us.
Her lips part on a sigh, and I sweep into her, possess her mouth, slow and steady at first. She fists the front of my shirt, pulls me closer, mouth devouring, tongue meeting mine.
My hands roam. Neck, shoulders, waist, hips. Her heart pounds, soft chest locked against my hard muscle. I can’t get enough of her, a starving man at his first meal. Teeth clanging, tongues tangling, drowning together until my hands shake, desire coiling inside, ready to spring free.
“I can’t,” she gasps. But then her lips are on mine, drinking me in, drawing me hard against her. Teeth raking over my lips and then my throat, hips arching towards me. Yearning, inviting.
The bitten apple drops between us, bruised but still sweet—a small echo of every forbidden thing. She pulls back again. Face conflicted, lips burning with my kiss. “I can’t do this to you.”
“Do what?” Tension twists inside, tight, ready to explode.
“I can’t do this to you when you came here for peace and healing. I’m not those things. I’m danger and pain. It’s inevitable.”
I cage her against the thick trunk. Forehead dropping to hers, savoring how our hot breaths mingle, all spice and vanilla, apple blossoms and smoke. “Trust me, Lace. Tell me what’s going on. I swear, I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Tears pool in her eyes, bottom lip quivering. She wants me. It’s etched in her face. But she gasps, turns away. “No, you deserve better than my ghosts.”
I let her go, and she beelines for the ATV and the path we strolled up less than fifteen minutes ago. The half-devoured apple glistens in the dying glow of sunset, cast in a neon glow. I could push past this—pretend I didn’t hear “stop,” pretend hunger is enough. The longing is there, pinking her cheeks. But wanting isn’t consent. Not for her. Not for me.
“I’m not gonna push you, Lace,” I whisper, voice gravel-thick, every nerve taut, every inch of me aching with the choice.
Later, after I drop her back at my cabin and head to the bunkhouse, I sit alone by the fire. Licking my wounds. Every part of me still aching, on fire. Smoke and bourbon coil in the air, mixing with metal and oil as I polish the rifle we used earlier. The firelight glances off the scar on my forearm, making it shimmer—showing my brokenness.
I won’t sleep tonight, nerves burning. But it’s not unsatisfied desire. Lacey’s got shadows chasing her. I can feel them movingcloser. Out here, you listen when the wind changes. Tonight, it’s whispering trouble.
My scarf still smells like apples and vanilla, threaded through my hoodie like a promise I haven’t earned.
Chapter
Eight
LACEY
Ican’t hide in Anson’s cabin forever—not when the smell of bacon and blueberry muffins drifts across the yard like a promise.
Eldon’s breakfasts live up to the rumors: crisp bacon, scrambled eggs, fresh-pressed orange juice, coffee strong enough to wake the dead.
I grab a chipped mug and pour some of the black brew, pretending not to notice Anson watching from across the room. Steady, unreadable, the way a sunrise holds its breath before the day begins.
Plate piled high, I add a thick slab of homemade bread, slathering it in butter and pausing before a selection of brightly colored, labeled jars. Strawberry, cherry, blackberry, raspberry—every jam imaginable. Applesauce and apple butter, too. Chef Eldon stands behind the counter, eyes proudly assessing the scene.
“Hi, I’m Lacey Worthington, here researching a book on farm-to-table cuisine.”
He nods, dark blue eyes bottomless, like the coffee at my favorite Seattle breakfast joint. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”
“Are the jams homemade?” I ask.
“Housemade,” Eldon corrects with a grin. “And that apple butter’s Anson’s fall experiment. I keep telling him to jar it for sale, but he swears it’s missing something.”
