Page 19 of Some Like 'Em Burly
“You’re looking very smug.”
I grin, grabbing a sponge off the edge. “I’m feeling it, too. This has been a good day.”
“Yes,” Rhys agrees quietly. “It has.”
And peeking at my blacksmith out of the corner of my eye, I know there are many more good days ahead. Days of teasing and blackberry picking and getting fucked over a flat surface until I’m cross-eyed.
Lucky me.
Rhys
Five years later
Autumn is a busy time of year for my wife. It’s the last push, the final stretch before the winter slowdown. When we saw this patch of land five years ago, searching through the mountains for a place to settle, the first thing Gwen said was: “Oh, apickingfarm.” Then, her tone rueful: “I’ll be so busy.”
Because she’s made a kingdom of it. A Pick-Your-Own paradise, with strawberries and apple trees and blackberry bushes and pumpkin patches and more, the offerings changing with the seasons. Any time I glance out of the windows in my forge, I see dozens of visitors strolling through our fields with big wicker baskets.
They give me a wide berth, stumbling back wide eyed when they find me sweat-soaked and hammering. Like they’ve found a wild mountain cryptid.
Doesn’t matter. Gwen isn’t scared of me, and that’s all I need.
That, and our frizzy-haired terror. The little girl currently toddling up and down the blackberry rows, her rubber boots the same shade of cherry red as her mother’s. I watch them both through the window, swiping the sweat from my neck with a cloth, and I feel a thousand times lighter when I place my hammer on the workbench. I’m done for the day.
Thirty minutes later, I’ve cleared up and showered, my beard and hair still damp as I stride down aisles of bushes ladenwith fruit. Gwen senses me coming. She always does, turning around to greet me with a smile, a stack of empty wicker baskets balanced against her hip.
Her blonde hair is piled on her head, stray locks dancing in the breeze, and her periwinkle blue eyes crinkle up at me.
“Good day?” I ask.
She nods, waving around us at the farm. “Busy. People love blackberry picking.”
The memories slam into me, and fuck, I could eat her alive. I could lay her down and devour her whole right now. “Yes, they do.”
Gwen’s mouth twitches, and Iknowshe knows what I’m thinking about. She changes the subject, deft as ever. “Catrin likes it too.”
Our daughter takes after her mother in all the best ways. “I’m glad to hear it. This will all be hers one day if she wants it.”
“If she wants it,” Gwen repeats, so stern with us both. “Only if she wants it.”
“Yes. Only then.”
Gwen is determined not to make the same mistakes as her parents, but there’s never been a risk of that. She’s too sweet, too loving, too kind-hearted and open to the world. Gwen has space in her heart for everyone and everything—but I jealously guard my share.
“Come inside the forge.”
She splutters a laugh. “We’re not closed yet.”
“Come for ten minutes. I’ll have you begging in five.”
“What about Catrin?”
I nod at our daughter across the field where she’s propped on our elderly neighbor’s hip. We found more community here in a week than in years in our home valleys. “She’s fine. Happy and safe.”
Gwen bites her lip, and I know she’s considering it. There are assistants who can help with visitors; Catrin is with someone we trust. And when she waves at our neighbor, gesturing that she’ll be back in a moment, I hide my grin.
Every day with my wife is a good day, but when I steal extra time with her alone…
I’m on top of the mountain.
