And then there’s Seth. He’s behind me, his chest pressed to my back, his breath hot on my neck. His hands slide around my waist, pulling me flush against him.
They move in tandem. A rhythm I can’t predict, but my body instinctively understands. One touches my hip; the other cups my face.
It’s overwhelming. It’s too much. It’s everything.
I arch into the sensation, a moan building in my chest. The pleasure coils tight, a spring ready to snap.
I wake up with a gasp.
My eyes fly open. I stare at the wooden ceiling of the bunkhouse, my chest heaving. My skin is damp. My heart is beating out of my chest.
I want to laugh. A hysterical, disbelieving bubble rises in my throat. A threesome dream. About the Carson brothers.
I really am losing my mind.
I sit up slowly. The room spins for a second, then rights itself.
I have had a headache since late last night, a dull, persistent throb behind my eyes that the medication didn’t quite chase away. I press my fingers to my temples, trying to massage the ache away.
I look over at the other cot. Clara is a lump under the blankets, only the top of her dark hair visible. Her breathing is deep and even.
She’s exhausted. The quarantine, the fight with Joey, the packing—it has drained her dry.
I need coffee. Desperately.
I slip out of bed and grab a hoodie, shivering slightly as I pull it on. I open the door and step out onto the porch.
The ranch is waking up. The sun is a pale yellow disc rising over the hills. The cows are lowing in the distance.
I walk toward the main house. I go up the steps and let myself in. The kitchen is quiet. But not empty.
Seth is standing at the counter.
He has his back to me. He’s wearing a dark blue flannel, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair is damp, like he just showered. He’s pouring water into the coffee maker.
Boone is lying on the rug by the fridge. He lifts his head when I enter, his tail thumping once against the floor. He looks at me with big brown eyes, then rests his head back on his paws.
“Morning,” Seth says. He doesn’t turn around. He knows it’s me. He can probably smell me.
“Hey,” I say.
He turns then and offers a small, tired smile. “Coffee’s almost ready.”
“Thank god.”
I walk over and lean against the counter next to him. We stand in silence, watching the dark liquid drip into the pot. The smell fills the room, rich and nutty.
“How was your night?” he asks.
“Dreamless,” I lie. “Until the alarm went off in my head.”
He nods. He reaches into the cupboard and pulls down two mugs.
“How did the meeting with Grant go?” I ask.
Seth sighs. He leans his hip against the counter.
“It went,” he says. “Grant is wired. He’s thrilled the quarantine is lifting. He thinks the press coverage—once the ‘deadly parasite’ angle is corrected—will actually boost attendance.”
