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Gwen is positively beaming at me. “I always knew y’all had a little thing goin’ on.”
“Will we see you in the mornin’ then?” Georgia asks. “You know, if y’all…drink too much. And you have to spend the night.”
“You should definitely spend the night.”
“Definitely. And the night after that, too.”
My eyes move between the two of them.
“Um,” I say.
“Luke was braggin’ about you—we heard your business is growing by leaps and bounds and that you have a whole new kitchen you’re makin’ pastries in. You should use some of Luke’s produce,” Georgia says.
“His zucchini,” Gwen says, nodding. “They also got some good size on ’em.”
“You can put them in your muffins!” Georgia gasps, clapping. “Imagine how tasty that sweet-salty combination would be.”
Gwen nods. “Moist.”
“Satisfying,” Georgia says. “I do love a good muffin.”
I stare at them. Not sure if I should laugh or—
Or what, to be honest.
So I go with a laugh. Then I try to steer the conversation in a more wholesome direction.
“Y’all read my mind,” I say, ducking back into my car. I produce a white box, which I carefully balance on one hand while I close the door with the other. “I stole some of Luke’s veggies from Elijah and had one of my pâtissiers whip up a batch of sweet potato cupcakes with rhubarb-cream cheese frosting this afternoon.”
I open the box so they can peek inside. Georgia gasps again. Gwen grins.
“They are gorgeous!” she says. “You know, Luke’s rhubarb is especially hard—”
“Hey!”
My heart jerks at the sound of Luke’s voice. Skin buzzes. Mind races.
I turn to look up at him.
He’s standing on the porch with his hands on his hips. Dressed in jeans and a clean white tee that he fills out with so much male muscle and certainty it should be a crime.
He’s barefoot, and his hair is wet. Making it look a shade darker so that it matches his beard.
He’s standing twenty feet away, but I swear I can smell the soap on his freshly showered skin.
The fullness in my chest migrates, gathering between my legs. I just shaved this morning—landing strip, everything else is gone—so the rush of sensation feels especially poignant.
“How many times I gotta tell y’all those food puns are not appropriate?” he says, shooting his mom a glance.
She smiles. “But they’re so clever.”
He smiles, too. An echo of his mother’s, right down to the way the lines around their mouths crease.
“They’re not. But just this once I’ll let it slide, ’cause y’all got Gracie laughin’.”
His gaze moves to me. All sharp-edged blue and frank lust.
For a second I think I’m going to have a full on cardiac event.
“Gracie girl,” he says. Voice a thickly accented rumble.
He’s the only guy who calls me that.
The fullness inside me is almost too much to bear.
“Hi.” It’s all I can manage. Because I can’t breathe and I’m smiling like a big fucking idiot.
Be careful.
“You find it all right? The farm?”
“Yes. Yes, I did. GPS took me right to your driveway. This place—” I glance around. Just for a second, because I’m having trouble focusing on anything but him. “It’s so beautiful, Luke.”
He rests the heel of his half-fist on the porch railing. Leans into it, making the ropey muscles in his porny-perfect forearms harden.
Oh shit.
Ooooh shit.
“Thank you,” he says, gaze flicking down my body. “Come inside. I’ll grab some beers and give you a tour.”
“Can we come?” Georgia asks hopefully.
“No,” Luke says, eyes not leaving me.
“Got it,” Gwen says. “We’ll leave y’all to it, then.”
“Show her the eggplants,” Gwen says.
“The peaches, too,” Georgia adds. “Has Luke told you how much he loves peaches?”
“Mama.”
“Right then. We’re off,” Gwen says.
Georgia pulls me into a quick hug. “Remember the zucchini,” she whispers in my ear.
“Will do,” I say, laughing as I watch the two of them scurry to their truck.
I turn back to Luke to see him pushing off his hand. He lumbers down the steps, the treads creaking beneath his heavy footfalls.
Huge hands hanging languidly at his sides. Like they don’t have the power to tend to whole farms or tear down whole human beings.
His eyes never leave my face as he approaches.
I feel another earthquake coming.
I should run. Find someone less to fuck.
This is not going to end well, a voice inside my head warns.
But instead, because my heart is beating loud and strong and I am apparently incapable of self-control, I raise my face to him. An open invitation to kiss me or kill me or keep me as his prisoner for however long he likes.
He’s wearing this expression—this smirky, hazy kind of smile that’s more apparent in his eyes, squinted almost, than on his lips.
He puts a hand on my neck and leans down to kiss my cheek. Scruff bristling against my skin. Body surrounding me.
The pulse of crickets intensifies around us. Or maybe it’s my heart that’s making that sound.
