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My skin is alive with pleasant tingles, and my chest feels full. My head has a funny floaty sensation, and the usual tension in my face is lessened.
Profound realization hits me, and I almost steer into a tree from how shocked I am.
Being around Hannah makes me happy.
Happy.
All day, I’ve been trying to figure out what that foreign feeling is inside me—the weird pressure in my chest, the fluttering in my stomach, and the buzzing in my fingertips.
Now I have a name for it.
Happiness.
I thought I’d forgotten the meaning of the word. For as long as I can remember, it’s been an unattainable idea.
And I don’t trust it.
It’s nothing but bait. Just an impossible possibility that’s dangled close enough to make me think I can grab it, only for me to be reeled into a nightmare.
I force my lips into a frown just to get some normalcy back.
I must keep in mind—no matter what positive emotion I feel in this moment, I can’t forget thatI’mthe nightmare in this scenario.
Hannah’s nightmare.
Coming to a stop outside her house, I turn off the cart and stare at the brown wooden exterior, the overhang on the small porch, and the dark window to the living room.
I should walk back to the main house now. Bobby’s waiting for me, but I can’t resist getting a little closer to Hannah.
Even from outside, I can smell her.
The sweetness.
Earlier, I’d thought the sugary scent was in the air because I’m on a syrup farm, but it’s her.
Twigs and leaves crunch under my boots as I follow the intriguing aroma to a window on the side of the house.
Peering in, I see the curved outline of a feminine body in the bed. She’s lying on her side, her back to me. The covers are bunched around her hips, and the smooth skin of her thigh is exposed.
My cock hardens, and I let out an unintentional growl as I adjust the front of my jeans where I’m painfully confined.
Why does this keep happening to me?
Hannah moves—perhaps she heard me—and she starts rolling toward the window.
I dart away, out of sight, and this time I don’t hesitate as I continue heading in the direction I’m supposed to.
With long strides, I arrive at the main two-story house quickly, ready to get this unpleasant conversation over with.
The Wildwood home is nice. White siding, with black shutters framing the windows. A large front porch, brightly lit by electric lanterns mounted on either side of the wooden door. Two ceiling fans, spinning around and around to create an extra breeze for the porch occupants.
When I climb the steps, Bobby’s sitting on a white swing. With his feet touching the wooden boards below him, he pushes himself back and forth, the metal chains squeaking with each sway.
And he doesn’t look happy to see me. With his arms crossed, he glares suspiciously, the warmth I’ve observed him exuding for everyone absent.
Has he finally figured out who I am?
Matching his closed-off body language, I fold my arms across my chest and lean on one of the columns.
