A note rests beneath it.
Full access granted.
Make yourself at home.
B
Anger floods my system, hot and sharp as summer lightning. “Make yourself at home?” I spit the phrase like poison, surging to my feet. The box tumbles to the floor, but the key burns in my palm like a brand.
What exactly does he think this means? That he can walk away from a kiss,twice, then dangle sex like some kind of reward?
The leather keychain mocks me with its implications. Property manager. Like I’m some kind of employee he can summon at will.
I pace the living room, each step driving splinters of fury deeper under my skin. My gifts were meant to prove to him that staying in Vermont requires commitment. Time. Dedication. But this? This is different.
“Bastard,” I call, the word echoing off the walls of my empty house.
I stand there in the middle of my living room, exhaustion weighing down every inch of my body, fury crackling under my skin.
My reflection catches in the darkened window. I look wild-eyed, flushed, and half-feral. This is exactly what Bastian does to me. Reduces me to this churning mess of want and anger and confusion.
I need to wash this day off. All of it. The physical labor, the festival prep, and especially whatever game Bastian thinks he’s playing.
The shower calls like salvation, promising to wash away both physical grime and emotional turmoil. I strip quickly, letting my work clothes fall where they land. Hot water pounds against sore muscles, but it does nothing to quiet the storm in my head.
What would happen if I used the key? Just walked into his space unannounced, demanded explanations for this latest move in our complicated game? The thought sends heat through my core, which makes me even angrier. Why does my body react to him like this?
It’s not like I haven’t been with other guys. I’ve even tried one or two relationships that never lasted longer than a few months. Their reason was that my farm life wasn’t compatible with dining out or regular trips to Burlington to watch a show. Now I’m wondering if maybe my stupid body gave me away without consent. That they knew I wasn’t as invested in making it work as I thought I’d been.
I shut off the shower with more force than necessary, reaching for a towel. My closet offers too few choices because every pair of jeans has fallen victim to a fence that needed to be urgently repaired.
I settle on dark jeans that I know fit well and a Henley that brings out my eyes. If I’m going to do this, I want to look good while doing it.
The key sits on my dresser where I tossed it. I study it while running fingers through my damp hair. I could still ignore it. Could leave it on his porch with a note of my own. Could pretend this latest escalation never happened.
But my feet carry me back to the dresser, my fingers closing around the cool metal. Because ignoring Bastian has never worked. Not in Burlington, not after his return, not now. The time for running has passed.
Time to end whatever dance we’ve been doing since that night in Burlington.
The sun hangs low as I step back onto my porch, casting everything in shades of gold and shadow. Across the property line, warm light spills from Bastian’s cabin windows. My feet find the familiar path, each step carrying me closer to the moment that will either destroy us both or forge something neither of us can walk away from.
The key slides into the lock with embarrassing ease. Music drifts through the door, something low and intimate that makes my anger spike higher. The cabin’s warmth wraps around me as I step inside, carrying scents of garlic and wine and deliberate seduction.
Bastian stands at the stove, sleeves rolled to expose forearms that flex as he stirs something that smells ridiculously good. He doesn’t turn around, but he doesn’t need to for me to know a smile plays at the corner of his mouth. “Oh good, you got my invitation.”
The casual tone ignites something in my chest. I pull the key from my pocket. “What the hell do you think this means?” The words come out sharp enough to cut.
“Exactly what the tag says.” He moves the pan off the heat, still not looking at me directly. “Property manager. Since you seem so invested in adding to my livestock.”
“Your livestock?” The laugh that escapes me carries no humor. “You mean the goat that follows you around like a devoted puppy? The chickens you’ve probably already named and spoiled rotten?”
My point is proven when I see the chickens and Gouta huddled together on top of a blanket in the corner of his living room.
He turns around. “Let me introduce you to Moira and Myrtle,” he says mildly. “And since you’ve taken such an interest in their welfare, I thought you might appreciate official access to check on them.”
“Bullshit.” I take a step closer, anger making me bold. “This isn’t about the animals. This is about you trying to manipulate the situation. Again.”
His eyebrow rises slightly as he reaches for the wine bottle breathing on the counter. “Manipulate? That’s an interesting accusation from someone who installed beehives in my mother’s orchard without asking.”
