“Special delivery,” I call softly, lifting the bags of food as I approach.
He steps forward to take them, leaning in to kiss me briefly. “Perfect timing. I just finished setting things up.”
Inside, I’m greeted by the familiar sounds and smells of the barn—hay, animals, the earthy scent that’s oddly comforting. The mother cat emerges from her nest in the corner, stretching languidly before approaching to rub against my legs.
“Hello, beautiful,” I murmur, crouching to scratch behind her ears. She purrs loudly, arching into my touch. “Everyone doing well in here?”
“All secure,” Caleb confirms, watching me with the cat. “The kittens are getting bolder. One of them tried to climb my leg earlier.”
I laugh, straightening up. “Bold is good. They’ll need it in this world.”
“Come on,” he says, taking my hand. “This way.”
He leads me toward the ladder to the hayloft, insisting on carrying my bag while I bring the food. As I climb up behind him, I’m not prepared for what awaits me at the top.
The hayloft has been transformed. Soft, twinkling fairy lights are strung across the rafters, casting a gentle glow over the space. Battery-operated lanterns create pools of golden light instrategic corners. In the center, a real mattress is covered with layers of clean blankets and pillows, creating an inviting nest. To one side, he’s set up a small folding table with an actual tablecloth, a lantern serving as a centerpiece, and a bottle of red wine.
“Caleb,” I breathe, taking it all in. “This is... how did you do all this in an hour?”
He shrugs, looking almost shy. “I may have had help. Ella lent me the lights and blankets. The mattress is from Jake’s office—he keeps it for when the cows are calving, and he needs to stay close. But Julia insisted on helping with everything else.”
“Remind me to thank her. It’s magical,” I say, setting the food on the table. “Like something out of a fairy tale.”
“A fairy tale in a hayloft,” he chuckles, coming to stand behind me, his arms circling my waist. “Not exactly conventional.”
I lean back against his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him. “I’ve never been much for convention.”
We eat cross-legged on the blankets, sharing containers of sweet-and-sour chicken, beef with broccoli, and vegetable fried rice. The conversation flows easily between us—stories from his childhood with Jake, tales of my travels with Kori, comfortable silences filled only with the occasional sounds from the animals below.
“Fortune cookie?” I offer, after we’ve eaten our fill, holding one out to him.
He cracks it open, reading the small slip of paper with a smile. “‘You will find unexpected joy in unusual places.’Well, that’s appropriate.”
“What does yours say?” he asks as I open mine.
I read it and can’t help but laugh. “‘Take a chance—the timing is right.’These things are getting suspiciously specific.”
He takes the paper from my fingers, setting it aside before gently pulling me closer. “Maybe we should listen to them.”
His kiss is tender at first, a question rather than a demand. I answer by deepening it, my hands finding their way to his shoulders, feeling the strong muscles beneath his shirt. He tastes like sweet-and-sour sauce and possibility.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing harder. His eyes search mine, looking for hesitation or doubt. He won’t find any—I’ve made my decision. I want this. I want him.
“Lana,” he murmurs, his voice rough with desire. “We don’t have to—”
I silence him with another kiss; that’s all the permission he needs. With surprising gentleness for such a powerful man, he lays me back on the blankets. As his hands begin to explore, I let myself surrender to the moment, to him, to us.
His hands slip beneath my sweater, warm against my skin, and I gasp as his fingers trace my ribs, moving upward with tantalizing slowness. I arch into his touch, wanting more, needing all of him.
“Is this okay?” he whispers against my neck, his breath hot on my skin.
“More than okay,” I breathe, helping him lift the sweater over my head.
The cool air of the barn makes me shiver, but Caleb’s eyes on me are like fire. He looks at me with such intensity, such hunger, that I feel beautiful despite my scars—the faint white line along my collarbone, the mark on my hip where Mark’s ring caught my skin.
“You’re perfect,” he murmurs, as if reading my thoughts, his fingers gently tracing the scar on my collarbone. “Every inch of you.”
I reach for him, tugging at his shirt until he pulls it off in one fluid motion. The sight of him steals my breath—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, the skin over his muscles marked with scars of his own, each telling a story of survival. I trace one that runs across his right pectoral, feeling the raised tissue beneath my fingertips.
