“That doesn’t sound impossible.”
“It doesn’t, does it?” I smile faintly. “You?”
He leans back, eyes still on me. “I used to think about building a few houses here. One for each of us. Let the next generation grow up together. Family close, land alive.”
“That’s… a beautiful dream.”
“I’ve been thinking about that more lately.” He shrugs, embarrassed. “About the next generation.”
“How many kids do you want?” I ask before I can stop myself.
He laughs quietly. “I don’t know. Two? Three? Enough to fill a hayride but not tip it over.”
I laugh. “Practical.”
“You?”
“I don’t know. A couple. I suppose it depends on their hypothetical father.”
“Ah.” His mouth curves. “Whoever he is, he’s a lucky man.”
Something flares in the air between us—so fast and fierce it’s almost a sound. I can’t look away.
Then, outside, a sharp clang rings out near the fence.
I jump. “What was that?”
“Probably the wind,” he says, standing. “Or a bear knocking over a trash can.”
My eyes widen. “A bear?”
“It happens.”
There’s another crash. My pulse spikes. Without thinking, I move toward him. His arms come up instinctively, steadying me against his chest.
We both freeze.
He smells like sawdust and coffee. His heart beats steady and hard under my ear. I tilt my head, and his breath grazes my cheek.
“Tricia—” he starts, but I look up, and the rest of the sentence dies.
He kisses me.
It’s deep and sudden. It sucks the wind out of my lungs and fills it with something else that’s purely him. The world outside the barn disappears. There’s only the warmth of his mouth. The slide of his hand up my back.
The quiet hitch of his breath when I kiss him back.
For one perfect, reckless moment, nothing else exists.
Then he pulls away.
“I’m sorry,” he says, voice rough. “I shouldn’t have?—”
“Don’t,” I whisper. “You didn’t?—”
“You work for me.” He steps back, shaking his head. “I need to remember that.”
The space between us feels colder than the night air seeping through the barn door.
