Page 25 of Wishing Hearts

I kick off from the pen where a few sheep are busy eating their meal of pellets and hay. “Are you safe to drive?” I check.

His lips twist slightly, and he zips his bag closed. “I’ll be fine. I’m not that tired.”

“All right,” I mumble, walking closer. “Good.”

Harrison lets go of his gear bag, watching me as I close the gap between us. I’m not sure what my intention is, but as soon as I’m near enough to touch, I reach for Harrison’s side. He doesn’t stop me, but there’s a wariness in his expression I don’t like.

I want him to look at me the way he did before. With a smile. Or a laugh hanging at the corner of his mouth. With those blissed-out, sated eyes that sparkled blue in the low light of the shed.

I twist my fingers in Harrison’s shirt, and he sighs, eyes fluttering half-shut.

“Sam,” he says quietly.

I don’t reply. I just bring my lips to his, knocking Harrison’s hat up and off his head in the process. There’s no hesitance as he kisses me back, as if whatever trepidation he might have been feeling before snapped away the moment my mouth met his. He’s warm, and he’s soft, and I’m goddamn hungry for him. I want to devour him. I want to kiss him until our mouths are raw. I want to fuck away whatever troubles he has, until all he can think about, until all he knows, is me.

For a brief moment, I think he might let me. I think I might get my chance, right here, right now.

But then Harrison tears his mouth away, turning his head as he sucks in air. “Sam.” My name is a croak.

“Whatever you need,” I remind him, bringing my lips to his jaw. His throat. The sliver of neck available above the collar of his shirt.

He groans, hands tightening on my shoulder blades. “I need to go home,” he rasps.

My lips stop still on his skin. Damn.

Inhaling through my nose, I suck him in. The smell of animal dander is there, sure. But there’s also something soft and sweet, like melon. Why does he smell like melon? Fuck, I want to lick him all over.

“Sam,” Harrison groans again, and I pull my face out of his neck, putting a few inches between us. He looks tortured.

“You really gotta go tonight?” I ask.

He nods once. Slowly.

I force my fist to loosen its death grip on his shirt and take a full step back. “All right.”

“God, Sammy,” he says, and I can’t get too excited about the use of my name because the tone is plain sad.

“What is it?” I ask softly.

“You just… You look like a kicked puppy,” he answers, smoothing his palm down my chest and stomach, as if righting my shirt.

“’Cause I’ll miss you.”

I don’t mean to say the words aloud. I really don’t. But there they are.

Harrison makes a soft sound, almost a plea. “Sam, we just met.”

“So?” I counter.

“So it shouldn’t be this hard,” he says. And the fact that he’s including himself in that statement makes my hope spring.

“Go out with me,” I say.

Harrison looks taken aback, and he drops his hands off my body. They hang at his sides. “I…”

“Let me take you on a date, Harrison. A proper one when we’re back home. I still have a few days left here”—I’ll be helping transport the rest of the animals away—“but after that, lemme take you out.”

“I don’t know, Sam,” he says, scrubbing his hand along the back of his neck. “My life is…complicated.”

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