My cheeks burn again.Fuck, I need a lobotomy.
I roll up my sleeves and reach for the first bale. The twine bites into my palms as I lift. My muscles strain, in a perpetual state of aching.
I drag the bale across the dirt, drop it into place on the opposite wall, and go back for another.
But I can’t stop the dream from creeping into my mind.
Tip my head back and groan into the cloudless sky. “Why?Whywould my brain do that?”
I yank another bale off the stack, annoyed at both it and myself. The effort sends a pulse of tension through my shoulders, but it’s not enough to chase away the phantom sensation of fingers tracing my hips. Two hands, one from behind, one from in front. My breath stutters.
I drop the bale harder than necessary.
It was just a dream.
People have weird dreams all the time. Stress dreams. Anxiety dreams. Heat-induced psychosis dreams.
They don’t mean anything.
Except this one felt like something.
Like a warning.
Or maybe a wish.
Dust floats in the beams of sunlight as I pass the open barn door. Buttercup and Monty shuffle in their stalls, like they can sense the hurricane swirling in my chest.
I shove another bale across the ground, dirt sticking to my skin. My arms burn, sweat prickling along the back of my neck. I rip my coat off, unable to bear the heat any longer. I rest myhands on my hips, catching my breath and taking a water break. Why is it so fucking warm already?
My playlist is blasting in my ears, but my heartbeat is louder.
Why did he leave so fast?
How does he go from brushing my hair behind my ear and saying things heshouldn’t, to pushing me away again and being his usual brooding self?
It was almost likehe couldn’t look at me.
The realization pulses through me, dizzying. I’m being stupid. But also…maybe not?
Because hehadlooked at me, just before he turned. Like maybehewas the one who had woken up from a dream he wished he could forget.
My heart kicks painfully against my ribs.
“No,” I whisper, refusing to give the thought oxygen. “Nope. Absolutely not.”
I grab another bale, muscles trembling slightly now—not from exertion, but from the possibility that this thing twisting my stomach might not be one-sided.
“Ihaveasecret,”I whisper to Lydia as I slip into my hidden nook behind the bar, tucking my knees up like I’m trying to fold myself out of existence.
It’s been my hideout during lunch, keeping me safe from awkward run-ins with Lane. He’s been timing his break to end when mine starts, and I’m really thankful he’s been respectful and keeping his distance.
Now I’m also hiding from the Morrow boys. Especially after my dream last night…the dream that’s been on a constant replay in my head against my will.
Lydia crouches down in front of me with a devilish grin. “I love secrets. Spill.”
“You have toswearto me that you won’t tell a soul. Or judge me. Swear it.”
She grabs a tequila bottle from the shelf, places one hand over it, and raises the other like she’s in court. “I swear to the tequila gods, I won’t judge you or tell a soul.”
