Page 21 of Harvest His Heart
“It’s good,” I admit, licking a crumb from my thumb. “Maybe a touch tart.”
His mouth quirks. “You’ll get used to the bite.” A faint grin seizes his mouth, chiseled face wary. I can’t tell if it’s from awkwardness or worry. His face exudes fatigue, too, like he barely slept. After Willow’s story, I’m not surprised. “You keeping your grandma’s secret?” he teases.
“Love,” I say quietly. “That’s the missing ingredient.”
His expression stills—not hurt, just thoughtful, like the word struck bone.
Hoursat the ovens should distract me, but the word “love” still hums under my skin. Like the heat of his kiss and the sweetness of yesterday’s forbidden fruit, golden canopy, blue skies, droning bees, and hearts unfurled.
“More are cool enough to decorate!” Ro exclaims, clapping her hands together.
I stride towards her, picking one up, testing the temperature. More than once today, she’s impatiently sworn a batch was ready to frost, still hot enough to melt powdered sugar.
“Well?” Laura asks, big, blue eyes quizzical. I’ve gathered from the way she and Eldon inhabit the kitchen together that they’re an item. Her soft, rounded face is the perfect foil to his rugged, angular edges. Opposites yet somehow complementary.
“Yep, these are ready.”
We ice and decorate, sprinkle and pipe thin frosting outlines until the kitchen’s spacious countertops heave with sweet treats.
“You ever get any of those scones?” Eldon asks gruffly, coming up behind Laura and wrapping his thick, corded armsaround her. My throat tightens, jealous of the relaxed comfort between them.
“No. Like you said. Cowboys devoured every last crumb.”
Laura sinks back into the big man, her face tranquil, secure. “A shame. His apple-cinnamon scones are to die for.”
He kisses her cheek, a low chuckle coming from his chest. Nothing is more inspiring or painful than seeing two people in perfect sync. Wonder if that’s attainable for someone like me?
My mind flashes to the orchard. Sandalwood, heated breaths, the kind of kiss that still makes my toes curl. I swallow hard, shoving a cookie into my mouth to assuage the desire crackling down my spine.
“Hey, you didn’t even frost that one first,” Ro scolds, putting her hands on her hips.
“Burned edges. No good for decorating,” I tease with a wink towards Laura and Eldon. They smile.
The chef drawls, “Been meaning to ask. Got a whole bushel of apples here ready to go bad. Far more than I could possibly use. Would you like some for pies or preserves?”
I shrug, a bit confused by the random question.
A mischievous smile covers Willow’s face, her head bent over the cookie she meticulously decorates. “Apple pie. Anson’s favorite.”
“Really?” I ask, voice dripping with curiosity I can’t explain.
She lifts her head. “You know, the kind with the fancy lattices? A total sucker for it. His Achilles’ Tendon. But don’t quote me on that.”
My eyes narrow, body tightens. Like I can’t stand any other woman knowing more about him than me. A stupid, irrational feeling considering how high I’ve kept my guard around him.
“I could take some. Enough for half a dozen pies.” I swallow hard, not sure what I want to prove. Or why I want Anson’s true weak spot to be me. “To thank everyone for their hospitality.”
“No need,” Eldon says. “The pleasure’s ours.” He pauses, grimaces. “Half a dozen, you said? Guessing you’ll need sixteen to eighteen pounds. I’ll drop them by the cabin after we’re done here.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Anson will, too,” Willow says, eyes darting to Laura’s as though they’re in cahoots.
The afternoon fades into quiet laughter, small-town gossip—never mean, just cozy, like this ranch. I can’t remember the last time I felt this secure, this welcomed, this a part of something bigger than myself. And still, my thoughts drift back to Anson—the man who makes belonging feel like home.
Back at his golden, glowing cabin, I breathe in sandalwood and spice, the sweetness of the fragrant apples in a box on the counter. I put on slow-crooning country music. Something I’d never listen to in Seattle, but can’t seem to get away from here. Passing his chair, I find an orange and black flannel shirt cast haphazardly over the back.
I grab it, snuggle it against my cheek, breathe it in, wishing it was him. His lips, so soft, so kissable. Desire humming through his body like I was the only woman who exists for him.
