Because… what the hell was that back in the office?
I catalog the moment against my will.
His shoulder brushing mine when he leaned in.
The heat in his eyes, equal parts irritation and… something I am absolutely not naming.
The pulse between my legs that had no business showing up at that meeting.
My nipples are still tingling, for God’s sake. They’re practically doing jazz hands in my bra.
I yank open the tack-room door a little too hard. A coil of rope tumbles out and smacks me in the shin, which feels like cosmic commentary:get a grip, Delaney.
I crouch to pick it up, breathing deep—hay, leather, dust. Safe smells. Non-Daniel smells. The barn is cool and quiet, sunlight striping the floor in neat, orderly lines. Unlike my brain, which is currently a rave hosted by lust and denial.
I make a show of inspecting the feed bins, counting bags I counted yesterday, pretending I have any idea what I’m looking at. All to erase the way my body reacted to that man… and the way he looked at me like he felt it too.
“Professional,” I mutter to myself. “We keep things professional.”
I press my palms against my eyes and groan.
I’ve spent too many years not wanting things. Want leads to disappointment. Disappointment leads to that hollow feeling I can’t afford. So, I work. I survive. I refuse to want. I definitely don’t want Daniel Sutton’s hands on me. His mouth on mine. His tongue?—
Nope.
No way.
My core throbs, unconvinced.
I sink onto a hay bale and breathe.
A loud squawk makes me jump.
A rooster stands two feet away, head cocked, beady eyes fixed on me as if deciding whether to peck me to death.
Ethan calls him the demon rooster.
“Be nice, Major Pecker,” I tell him, my mouth twitching with repressed humor. The rooster’s moniker is another of Tom’s deeply questionable naming choices. “I’m having a rough day.”
He ruffles his feathers and hops a step closer.
I frown. Major Pecker is the most antisocial rooster in Havenstone.
Another hop. Now he’s right next to my booted foot, close enough for me to see the iridescent sheen on his black feathers and the sharp curve of his spurs.
This is… unprecedented. Should I move? Go inside? Call for backup?
I decide to hold my ground.
He hops up onto the hay bale, settles beside my thigh, and tucks his feet under his body like a cat.
“What the hell?” I whisper.
Slowly and carefully, I reach out.
My fingers brush against warm feathers, and he leans into the touch.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I whisper.
