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He sniffs the air. “You smell smoke?”

“Only barbecues from the beach.”

Jack frowns, confused, like he’s been most of the morning, but it’s rarely that simple. “I don’t want Mal to smell it.”

“Mal likes open fires,” I remind him. “He fell asleep by the chiminea at my house.”

He sniffs the air again. “That’s not what this is.”

I don’t know what he means and he doesn’t seem able to tell me. After a beat, the moment passes and he goes inside to find Sol.

He leaves me while I am still talking, but it’s not that usual for Jack and I’m not offended. In fact, I almost follow him, then I realise it’s because I want to ask him a specific question, and it’s…not appropriate, or my business.

Jack wouldn’t mind.

Probably not. But I might if he told Sol. Or Mal, and Mal told Folk who put two and two together…

Why would he do that?

A fair question with a reasonable answer, but reason doesn’t seem to be my friend today. I check the numbers on my phone. Distrust them and do it the old-fashioned way. But my levels are fine. Which means my scattered thoughts are all me and I laugh at myself, and repeat a question I asked aloud a few nights ago.

What is this thing you do to me, Poet Whitlock?

No answer is forthcoming from the version of him living in my head. The vision of a blond-haired, blue-eyed pagan god wearing less clothes each time I see him.

Which is wild.

Before Poet, I don’t remember the last time I had sexual fantasies specific enough to be about a real person. I’ve never had them about a man, and I know I’m lucky not to worry too much about what that means. Bisexual, pansexual, I do not care. It troubles me more that my subconscious waited so long to tell me. I do not understand, and needing to almost sends me after Jack again.

The foil package in my hands derails me. An idea forming that is surely foolish. And yet, it takes hold, puts down roots, and carries me back to my house—past my house and up the coastal road to the dwellings and farmland beyond the town border.

Hanna isn’t home.

I tell myself this is why I don’t stop at her house either. It makes sense. It’s explainable. Where I end up, not so much. At least, not beyond the thrum in my blood, the kick in my pulse, and the lick of anticipation that has me scanning the horizon for any sign of the man haunting every spare thought I have.

Instead I find the long-derelict Letherby Farm.

Except…it’s not derelict anymore. Like everything else touched by Poet Whitlock—like me—it’s forever changed. The fields aren’t choked, the fences stand proud, and the earth around the old house has been turned over, ready for planting.

Unfinished, but claimed.

By him.

Poet.

His name echoes in my head as my gaze skims the land, absorbing every shift and spurt of new growth.

Trees.

Vegetables.

Fruit.

There’s life here now.

A thought that takes root as I see Poet coming up from the lower field as if he’s risen from the earth he’s brought back to life. Shirtless. His skin holding the afternoon sun. Golden light behind him that makes him seem otherworldly as he moves with the same lynx-like grace I saw in him on Moondust Farm, but with more presence than ever. The only thing missing is the stag crown of the pagan king Sol sings of at Beltane.

At least until he comes close enough for me to see his face, and his smile is very much human. “Hello, Oscar.”