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“Ready?” He lifts us over the big bowl of salt water. I bite down on the inside of my cheek and nod. “Alright. Deep breath.”
It’s a shock of cold, and then it stings.
“Ow,” I say, eyes burning. My fingers curl under the water, holding tight to his thumbs. “Ow, ow, ow.”
“You’re okay.” I’m a baby is what I am, but Everett’s not looking at me like I’m pathetic. He looks so sorry—like he thinks he’s to blame. “It hurts now, but they’ll heal up fast. I promise.”
I nod, and focus on breathing slowly. Already, the sting has started to fade.
“You know, this isn’t what I wanted when I asked you to dig that patch.”
I give a watery snort. “No shit.”
Everett falls quiet, frowning at the bowl between us. There are flecks of sawdust in his dark hair. And I hadn’t noticed before, but there are more lines at the corner of his eyes than before. He looks older.
Still delicious, but older too.
“I’m gonna finish it,” he says, and I open my mouth to argue but he presses my palms gently with his thumbs. “It’s not a debate, Josie. You’re done digging for now.”
“But—”
“No,” Everett says, and I tug my hands back, out of his grip. Salt water sloshes over the rim of the bowl and pools on the table.
“But I’m close,” I say, so frustrated that my teeth ache. “I’m nearly done, and if you’d just wait a few days for my hands to heal—”
Everett scrubs a wet hand over his face, scowling at the wall. “You’re being unreasonable.”
“No, you’re being an overprotective jerk. If you hired someone from town to dig that patch, would you be playing doctor for them too? Would you finish the job yourself even after you paid them?”
Hazel eyes narrow on me. “You’re not giving that money back.”
“Then you’re getting your damn vegetable patch.” I shove my chair back from the table, head throbbing. “Deal with it.”
And I know I’m making too much of this, know that I’m acting crazy, but digging this patch for Everett Bray is literally my sole purpose in life right now. If he takes that away—if I have to face reality—
Chair legs clatter over the tiles, and then Everett’s in front of me, the hollow of his throat level with my nose. I plunge forward without thinking, wet hands gripping his shirt, palms hot again with pain, and strong arms wrap around me. Hold me close while I press my face against his neck.
I’m melting down. This is a humiliating turn of events.
But oh, god. This man smells so freaking good.
“Please let me finish it,” I mumble. My pulse thuds in my ears, and I go cross-eyed trying to focus on the dark chest hair peeking above his open collar. “Please, Everett.”
The broad planes of his chest shift against me. Drops of spilled salt water drip steadily on the tiles behind us, and I can feel every ragged breath dragging in and out of his body. His hurried heartbeat thumps near my chin.
“Let your hands heal first,” he says at last. “It’ll keep.”
Tears well in my eyes, and I nod.
This is my cue to step back and clear my throat. To apologize for acting like a prize lunatic, and make some excuse. To say I’m on my period or something. Then we can go back to keeping a careful distance from each other, orbiting each other like two sexually frustrated moons.
I let out a sigh and burrow closer.
“This is a bad idea,” Everett mutters, and I’m not sure what he means—the vegetable patch, or our off-limits cuddle. But then his bristly chin rests against the top of my head, and either way, I don’t care.
It’s happening.
And I never want it to stop.
