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My lips twitch. “The crows weren’t that bad, were they?”
A hiss sounds as Gus inhales sharply, clutching his hand to his chest. “You were there, Jen. You were attacked!”
Fallon picks up my wrist and shows the room the back of my hand. “She’s got the battle scars to prove it.”
Tugging my hand away, I let a laugh fall from my lips. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“Woman, you are crazy,” Gus says, glancing out the window again. His knuckles are white around the broomstick, eyes scanning the skies outside.
I surprise myself by laughing.
Tex, who had disappeared for a few moments, opens a side door and walks in with a big bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey in each hand. He lifts them up. “Who else needs a stiff drink after that shitshow? And tomorrow is Sunday, so I’m not going to hear any excuses about resting for the competition.”
Surprisingly, Carla is the first person to jump up. The old Latina woman grabs one of the bottles from his hands and cracks it open, beelining for the catering table full of mugs and glasses. “How many?” she asks, counting the number of people in the room.
Before I can protest, a Jack and Coke is thrust in my hands, and—oh, screw it. I haven’t had a drink in a long time, and today was really hard. Would it be so bad to sit here and enjoy my fellow competitors’ company?
Fallon’s body is warm as he tightens his arm around my shoulders, the couch is plush beneath me, and the alcohol burns pleasantly as it slides down my throat. I find myself laughing as Tex and Reg tell us about the first time they made choux pastry—and nearly burned their bakery down.
When Carla tries to top up my glass for the third time, I cover it with my palm. “No more, Carla. No más.” I already feel tipsy enough that I’ll probably have a headache tomorrow.
“Time for bed,” Fallon says, plucking my glass from my hand and heaving me up from the couch. “This one needs her beauty sleep.”
Carla clicks her tongue, but takes her seat at the impromptu poker table that Tex set up a few minutes ago. They’re using pie weights as chips, and Carla’s pile is already much, much larger than everyone else’s. I watch her win a round handily, and I turn to smile at Fallon to see if he saw her clean up.
He isn’t watching the poker game at all. He’s staring at me, and the way he looks at me makes heat flame in the pit of my stomach.
“Let’s go to bed,” he says quietly, putting a large, warm hand over the small of my back. Saying our goodbyes, we head out the door and toward our guesthouse.
Fallon slips his hand into mine as the cool night air settles over my skin. I inhale the crisp, fresh scent of the outdoors and let a smile slip over my lips. The alcohol left a pleasant buzz in my body, a lightness I haven’t felt in a long time.
“That was fun,” I announce.
Fallon’s hand tightens around mine. “Who are you and what have you done with Jen?”
I whirl toward him and scowl. “I’m not that bad.”
“I’ve never, ever, in all the years I’ve known you, heard you describe social interaction as ‘fun.’”
Biting my lip, I try—and fail—to hide my grin. “You may have a point. Mr. Richter. Maybe I’m finally coming out of my shell. Only took four decades.”
Quick as a flash, Fallon nabs me around the waist and hauls me over his impossibly broad shoulder. I yelp, because approaching half a century in age means I prefer to have my feet firmly on the ground, thank you very much, but Fallon just bands his arm across my thighs and squeezes.
Breathless, I try to lift my head and catch myself staring at the way his butt really fills out his jeans. “What are you doing?”
“Having my way with you.” He strides down the path toward the guesthouse, and I watch the competition barn pass us on my left.
“Fallon—” He hikes his shoulder and I land with a low oof. “Put me down! We’re going to the same place! Carrying me doesn’t even make sense. Logically—”
Fallon angles toward the barn and ducks around the back, hidden from view from the main house.
“Where are you going now?”
Large hands wrap around my waist and haul me back to the ground. Fallon’s body is huge above me, all towering muscle and heated male energy. Hands still on my waist, he slowly walks me backward until my back hits the side of the barn.
“The guesthouse is too far,” he says, placing a palm by my head as he crowds me against the wall.
Normally, I’d hate this. I like space and freedom and independence. But there’s something about the sin promised in Fallon’s gaze, and the heat of his body pressed up against mine, and the sheer masculinity of his movements that makes me melt from the inside out.
