Page 58 of Dumped for a Christmas Tree Farmer

Six Weeks Later

Mav

Fuck this.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Six Weeks and One Day Later

Mav

I don’t have blue balls; I have indigo balls. Balls that are so full, so ready for a release that I’m biting down on my knuckles from Indy ordering a meatball sandwich.

A meatball sandwich, which she’s going to devour in a matter of minutes, mouth wide open, tongue licking up the drop of salsa that will inevitably end up on the corner of her mouth. Eyes closed, moans of appreciation that would be better served with my tongue in use, not hers.

She moved to Seattle with me after New Year on a trial basis. We have one year to build a working relationship that would survive a potential romantic entanglement. And so far, it’s working. Her work ethic is unmatched. In six weeks, she’s done a review of every rental property, introducing herself to tenants and highlighting areas of concern. The tenants are happy. The team too, who declared their love for her the second she brought in brownies her first week. Her eagerness to learn only stretches to the point of my imagination where I remember what else she’s eager for.

But she hasn’t made the last six weeks easy for me. She knows exactly what she’s doing with each groan into her sandwich. At this point, it’s a battle of wills, a game of chicken which I’m desperately losing. Because Indy Winters looks as if she’s almost enjoying this game, which seems to be a yearlong edging session. I think she might be a masochist, the way her eyes glint with amusement with each bite she takes.

I’m a goner.

Only forty-six weeks to go.

Forty-five weeks and six days, technically.

I close my eyes, counting to five in my head and letting out a slow breath.

“Not hungry?” she asks, taking another bite of the sandwich she paid for.

Another thing I hate: she won’t let me pay for anything. Not a sandwich, not a coffee, and God forbid I suggest going out for dinner.

“Oh, I’m hungry, Indigo,” I mutter, clearly not quietly enough because her eyebrows shoot up, her lip finding its way between her teeth.

Once we’re back in the office, the mood shifts. Most of our workers are out on jobs, Indy staying in the office today to help prepare for a new property visit, which we’re doing at 6:00 p.m. It’s run of the mill, but it’s the first time we'll be meeting a potential seller, and she asked for my support. She’s dressed up. Usually wearing smart but comfortable clothes that she can assess properties in, and clothes that she doesn’t mind getting dirty. But not today. Today she’s all tight-fitting fabric, curving around her hips, a silky blouse thin enough that I can see the outline of her bra if I look for long enough—which I do. I’m no saint. She knows what I want.

She’s bent over the table where we display all the plans. One leg ramrod straight, the other bent, the tip of her shoe running up her other calf. Her ass is up, and dammit, the fabric of her skirt is so smooth I want to run my hands around the globes of her ass cheeks, lift up her tease of a skirt and sink my way home.

Six weeks.

That’s all it’s been.

“I think he’ll be amenable to selling if we offer the right amount. He’s notoriously tight-lipped on the amount he wants when he sells properties, so I think lowballing him will only cut us out of negotiations from the start.”

I nod, pleased that she’s researched our potential seller. She does the work, makes the effort, and somehow looks effortless, like the last six weeks haven’t bothered her at all. As if it’s driven her to work all the harder.

Even at home, because yes, she’s living with me until she gets her own place, she stays up late researching. Both of us put our heads together as we find new properties, look at new efficient ways to run the buildings. She’s a goddamn dream.

Fuck it. The team are all out on jobs. One platonic hand on her lower back isn’t going to hurt. Just so I can feel the warmth of her body through the thin fabric.

I step into her space under the guise of looking at the blueprints she’s laid out on the table in front of her. The second my palm touches her back, she inhales sharply. My blood warms as it rushes south.

“Mav . . .”

I breathe in her scent, my eyes closing so I can soak her in. Long gone is the smoky whiskey scent we seemed to be steeped in at the cottage. Here in the city, she’s salt air and honeysuckle, a new perfume she’s been trialing. It’s beyond distracting.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

My fingers smooth over her blouse, gripping the soft flesh between her ribs and her hips.