I fiddle with the tape measure, pulling it out and letting it snap back in. “So thank you. I’m fine.”
“You’ve said that.”
“You keep looking at me like you don’t believe me.”
“I—”
He cuts himself off with a growl, but I swear I hear what he wanted to say anyway.
I’m here because I want to tear your clothes off and inspect every inch of your body for myself, then kiss where it hurts, then kiss where it doesn’t hurt, and then treat your body like my own personal playground of pleasure.
I shiver and shift my stance to subtly press my legs together against the throb growing between my thighs.
“Last time I dated one of my student’s parents, it didn’t end well,” he says gruffly.
“I heard.”
“And June doesn’t want me here.”
“She’s had a rough year or six.”
“But I can’t stop thinking about you.”
“I’m very think-aboutable,” I joke.
He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t snicker. There’s no amused twitch of his lips under that thick dark-copper beard.
Just golden-brown eyes telegraphing that yes.Yes.I’m very think-aboutable.
Much like he, too, is very think-aboutable.
I thought about him in the shower last night after I heard his voice rumbling through my house, when Junie wouldn’t let him enter.
My shower hasseen things.
And I would do them again, becauseoh my holy God, is this man talented in my imagination.
I spin and point to the ancient refrigerator in the corner. “It occurred to me that Uncle Tony would’ve loved the idea of converting the bunkhouse to an artists’ retreat, and whatever liability insurance I’d need for that should also cover letting you use a small corner of the ranch for giving the kids a place to practice being ranch hands and learn how to do practical things. Out here, for the retreat, we could update the kitchen to turn it into something more workable. Then redo the plumbing and separate the main bunk room into private suites. Just basic bedrooms with functional bathrooms. The secondary bunk room could be a workroom. Maybe put in extra windows, and then have anyone who needs to be inspired by nature. Writers. Painters. Weavers. Artists. Or anyone who needs—”
I cut myself off with a small gasp as he places a large, warm hand on my shoulder. “Maisey.”
“—an escape,” I finish on a whisper. “A safe escape to explore who they are.”
“You’re exploring who you are.”
“We all should.”
“I want to explore with you.”
“We—”
“Shouldn’t,” he cuts me off again. “Shouldn’t. But shouldn’t isn’tcan’t.”
“Shouldn’t is stillshouldn’t.”
“I wouldn’t take this kind of risk with anyone else.” His voice.God, I love that rumble. “But you—I thought I’d despise you, and instead, you’re so much more than I expected.”
“Junie—”
