Something that isn't fantasizing about Grace or planning Ford's untimely accident.
The rhythmic scrape of metal on concrete is soothing.
Almost meditative.
I'm halfway through the third stall when I hear footsteps.
Soft. Hesitant.
I know those footsteps.
"You don't have to do that."
Grace.
I don't turn around.
Don't trust myself to look at her right now, not with the adrenaline still pumping through my system from dinner, not with every instinct screaming at me to close the distance between us and finish what's been building for months.
"Needed the air," I say, driving the pitchfork into the dirty hay.
"It's ninety degrees."
"Still better than in there."
I hear her move closer.
Smell her perfume—something light and floral that's been driving me insane for months.
Something that doesn't quite cover the scent of her, the soap she uses, the shampoo, the unique combination that is purely Grace.
She leans against the stall door, and I can feel her watching me.
That weight of her attention, heavy and warm.
"Shadow."
"Yeah, darlin'?"
The endearment slips out before I can stop it.
I've been careful not to use it around her, careful to keep my distance, my tone professional, my hands to myself.
But my control is shot.
Has been since Ford smiled at her in the driveway.
"Why did you look at Ford like you wanted to kill him?"
I drive the pitchfork into the hay harder than necessary. "Don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do." Her voice is soft but insistent. "You've been weird all night. Actually, you've been weird for months. Every time a guy talks to me, you get this look on your face like?—"
"Like what?" I finally turn to face her.
Mistake.
She's backlit by the setting sun streaming through the barn doors, and she looks like every fantasy I've ever had.
