When we finally ease apart, breathless and quiet and smiling in the dark, the rain has softened to a hush.
He presses his forehead to mine, voice low. “I like you too much already.”
“Good,” I whisper. “Then we’re even.”
He laughs softly, and I tuck that sound somewhere safe.
Satiated for now, we talk in low voices between kisses—small things that feel like big ones.
He tells me he learned to drive a tractor long before a car. I tell him my grandmother kept a box of fabric scraps because she believed you could save anything beautiful and make it useful later.
He says he wants a porch swing and a roof that doesn’t leak.
I say I want a studio with windows big enough to make winter feel less like a cave.
He laughs when I admit I name my plants. “What’s the aloe called?” he asks.
“Spike.”
“That’s it? I’d expect something more creative from you.”
“What? I’m trying to save it to help pumpkin patches.”
“We pumpkin patches are grateful. In fact.” He lowers his mouth to my neck. “I think I’d like to show you just how grateful.”
As he starts to make love to me, outside, the farm falls asleep.
Inside, I let myself believe I found exactly what I came here for: a life with purpose and joy.
SEVEN
QUINN
Morning creeps in through the thin curtains in a way it only can in September.
Tricia’s hair is on my pillow. My arm is wrapped around her waist.
Her foot—bare, cold—rests on my calf like an anchor.
Her face, well, her face is fucking gorgeous in the cool light of dawn.
She hums when I shift closer.
“You’re staring,” she murmurs, voice still heavy with sleep.
“Guilty.”
She laughs against my chest, the sound small and soft. “You’re supposed to be the grump, not the charmer.”
“I’m a man of many talents.” I press a kiss to her shoulder. “Stay.”
She rolls over so we’re face-to-face. “I can’t. I need a shower, and you’ve got about a hundred things to fix around this place before we open tomorrow.”
Her smile tugs at one corner. “Besides, today’s your one day without customers. I don’t want to distract you.”
“You could,” I agree, trailing a fingertip down her spine, “in the best possible way.”
“Tempting.” She kisses me once more—quick and sweet—then sits up, clutching the sheet. “But if I don’t go home, my laptop won’t magically send out your marketing emails.”
