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Was it really only yesterday that I kissed Josie Martin for the first time? That I touched her hair and felt her bare skin; that I slid inside her tight heat?
It’s been less than twenty four hours, but it feels like decades have passed. Josie’s car is where she left it: partway along the track back to town, tucked away behind a copse of bushes. The paintwork is dusty, the windshield splattered with bird mess, and I should’ve moved it for her days ago, but I didn’t think.
I don’t think when it comes to her. I’m too busy feeling. Too busy craving.
It’s no excuse, but there it is.
“Harry?” Her head’s buried in the open trunk, her hands shifting through the tangle of belongings. “Did you find my phone charger?”
A toffee-colored head pops up, and then her mouth drops open in dismay.
“Oh,” Josie says. “It’s you.”
Not what any man wants to hear when he goes to declare his love. But I deserve her cool tone and the tense way she holds her body; the lack of trust in her moss green eyes.
For one shining moment last night, I had her. Josie Martin was all mine. Then I wrecked it, and now my girl’s loading up her car, fixing to drive away from me forever.
“Please don’t go.” The words tumble out of me in a rush. I haven’t slept, haven’t even changed my clothes, and my brain is fuzzy with exhaustion. I’m sitting a test I’ve never studied for, and my whole life hangs in the balance. “I messed up, Josie. I know I did. But please don’t go.”
The slam of her car trunk echoes out across the long grass. She picks her way past me, careful not to let our sides touch. “I found a nanny job. I’ve got an interview down south.”
“That’s great,” I lie, “I’ll drive you. And then we can talk on the way, okay?”
Because she can leave the Barns if she wants, as long as she doesn’t leave me. If Josie wants to work in another town, I’ll drive out to see her as often as I can. Maybe I could even move—find a new patch of land and build the Barns 2.0. Anything to be close to her.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Josie says, so cold and prim. “I think you said it all last night, Mr Bray.”
This was a mistake.
I’m such an ass.
“Josie,” I plead. And I’m not above begging this girl, but she looks so fucking wounded that I don’t want to make things worse. I settle on following her slowly to the passenger side, watching her root around in bags stuffed in the footwell for something or other.
“You suck,” she whispers when she senses me behind her, digging faster, her movements agitated. I screw my eyes shut, chest aching.
But when I blink my eyes open, I’m done tip-toeing here. My girl doubts how I feel? Then I’ll show her. I’ll prove how much I love her, today and every day until every ounce of doubt is scrubbed clean from her mind. I’ve got Harry’s blessing, and I’m running with it like a bank robber tearing out of dodge.
I draw in a deep breath, the air scented with pollen and last night’s wood smoke. “Josie,” I warn, and then I step closer, crowding her against the car. “I’m not playing. If you drive away from me with things left unsaid, I’ll come after you.”
“Oh, scary,” she says, but it comes out wobbly. When she straightens, her back is flush to my chest, her shoulders heaving with every breath. “The big, grumpy man wants me to listen to him. So original.”
I wrap an arm around her waist and jerk her back, anchoring us together. Josie’s heartbeat thumps clean through my shirt, and I hate that I hurt her this badly. I hate that I put this strain in her body.
“The big, grumpy man wants you. Only you.” Soft hair catches in my beard, and I rub my face against her head like a cat. “Only ever you, Josie. Fuck, don’t drive away from me. You’ll take my soul with you, buckled up right there in the passenger seat.”
Her breath catches on a sob. Her head tips back against my shoulder.
Ah, hell. Josie.
I won’t take a single second of this for granted. Not when she grabs my wrist and tugs it down, running my hand along her body; not when she guides my grasping fingers to the juncture of her thighs.
“This doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you.”
“I know, baby.”
Josie’s wearing some baggy black sweatpants, a pair that surely belongs to Harry, and even though I have no right to be jealous right now, I hate that. I hate seeing her in another man’s clothes.
After today, she’ll borrow my shirts. She’ll raid my closet. Even though everything will swamp her, and she’ll be swimming in miles of loose, faded cotton, it’s my scent that will linger on her skin.
