The house is quiet. The ranch is fast asleep.
Shane didn’t like me going solo, and it still feels wrong, but I flip to my back and slip my hand between my thighs. After what I saw this evening, I have plenty of material running through my head. It doesn’t take long for my hips to rise a little, my fingers to dip down to where it’s wet. It’s been almost a week since I broke up with Shane, even longer since we fucked. Even longer than that, I think, since he made me come. Usually, he fucked me while I touched myself until I finished. He wasn’t a big eater, which was…a little disappointing. I discovered that after he asked me to be his girlfriend.
A tingle of pleasure starts, and when it erupts, my spine curves up. It’s clear and slow, giving me time to entertain the image I want.
Bittern, all wet and sexy, like he’s on a calendar or something.
My body melts, warm and satisfied. Rolling to my side, I press my hand over my pussy and close my eyes, pretending it’s his palm on me. The last thought in my head is…maybe I should speak to him. If I’m to the point of touching myself to images of him in my head, maybe it’s time to just grow up and introduce myself.
The next morning, I get up to find Mom already in the kitchen, sitting at the table with a pack of tissues.
“Hey,” I say, popping my head around the corner. “You’re sick?”
She nods, running her hand over her blotchy face. Uh oh, she really must not feel good; it takes a lot for Mom to show signs of being sick. “Yeah, not a great day to wake up with my head feeling like it’s packed full of stuffing. Is there any way you can go up to the ranch house and get my chores done? Just the essentials?”
“Sure, but Freya manages that, right?”
“She’s also sick. Not as bad off as I am, but she’s got the baby.”
“Well, that explains where you got it from.” I turn myself back towards the stairs. “I’ll get dressed and head down there now.”
I pull on jeans and a t-shirt, my favorite ones that hug me just right, and slip into my old boots that still sit in the back of the hall closet. Then, I dip into the kitchen and grab two muffins from the cookie tin by the stove. Mom leans back, nursing a mug of tea with a honey stick poking out.
“Thanks, honey. I really appreciate it,” she croaks.
“I don’t mind,” I say, heading down the hall. “Just don’t give me your germs, okay?”
Dad loiters by the barn. Who should be there but Bittern Hatfield. Because of course he is, standing there with his back to me, staring up at a loose gutter on the edge of the roof. The second muffin in my hand was for Dad, but now, I’m too shy to interrupt them and have to make myself known to Bittern. I balk, starting to skirt around them. Dad turns, lifting a hand.
“Hey, Janie, come here,” he calls.
Goddamn it.
Neck hot, I head across the dry grass with my eyes on the ground. When I lift them, holding out the muffin to Dad, I look right up into Bittern’s gaze. A tingle moves through my body, from the soles of my feet to the tip of my head. For some reason, I thought he’d have blue eyes, but they’re russet, warm and soft like a deer, with short, pale lashes around them. I’ve never seen a blond man with dark eyes before; the effect is striking. We stare at each other, and I barely feel Dad take the muffin from my fingers.
“Hi,” Bittern says.
I clear my throat.
“Hi,” I whisper.
I try to look anywhere but at him, and I think it comes across as I’m giving him the cold shoulder. Frowning, he stares at the ground then up at the gutter. I’m rooted to the spot, realizing nobody has ever made me feel all that from a single look before. Hot, cold, feverish, hands sweating. God, I must look so silly. I’m probably blushing out here in the open.
“Bye,” I say.
They’re both silent as I walk away, ears burning. What the fuck was that, and how do I ensure it never happens again? Dying inside, I tread down the hill and take off my boots on the porch, entering the ranch house. It’s quiet but not empty. I can hear Deacon in the kitchen, humming tunelessly and knockingaround in cupboards. Turning the corner, I reach for the apron over the chair.
“Morning,” I say. “Mom’s sick, and she sent me down to help.”
He turns, leaning against the counter. “Thanks. I got some food started for breakfast, but I have to be down in West Lancaster by afternoon. Freya’s a little sick but not too bad. She’s upstairs with Slate, letting him sleep in.”
“Okay, perfect,” I say, tying the apron and shaking back my hair. “I can get lunch going, clean up, and put dinner in the crock pot.”
“Thanks. Appreciate that.”
He starts making coffee, hitting the button then turning his gaze back on me with eyes narrowed. Right away, I shrivel back. Am I in trouble or something? I don’t even officially work here. How am I getting in trouble already?
“Bittern likes you,” he says flatly.
