LIAM WASN’T SURE HOW HE’D gotten so lucky. It had to be something from a previous life because he hadn’t done anything good enough in this one to merit this kind of karma. Breathing in the sweet scent of the clover, he followed Andy as they traipsed across the field toward the shed on the far side of the property.
He’d debated giving her an out. Telling her he had work to do and staying out of her hair for the day. He’d already checked in with work, but he could come up with something to do. What would be the fun in that? He’d watched her run through everyone else on the farm and their jobs before finally coming to—what looked from the outside, at least—the painful realization that she’d be stuck with him shadowing her.
A better man would step aside and make things easier. But if watching the way her Lycra-clad body moved as they did yoga had taught him anything, it was thathewasn’t a better man, and he had precious little interest in becoming one. The fact that he’d caught her checking him out as well cemented his impulses. He planned to get as close to her as she’d let him, figure out what made her tick and then find a way to push her buttons the good way. Or in whatever way she was up for.
He’d spent a fair bit of time rationalizing what he wanted. Nothing said he couldn’t hook up with Andy while he was on vacation. It’s what people did. Maybe not him usually, but other people. The looks she’d given him that morning when he caught her checking out his ass readjusted his impression of her wanting more. For a moment, she looked like she’d be happy to get her hands on him—or hell, sink her teeth into him—and he was more than happy to oblige.
It would be easier to convince himself he hadn’t misread the situation if she’d talk to him instead of keeping up her angry march across the field. Angry might be the wrong word. Determined seemed like a better fit. Andy Stuart was nothing if not determined.
The grass was noticeably drier than it had been that morning, which was a good thing because it was long enough to hit him at mid-calf and the idea of spending the day in damp pants held no appeal. The morning mist had burned off, but every few steps he saw a clump of grass with a spider web suspended between the stalks. Tiny drops of dew clung to the delicate strands like crystal beads on a necklace. It was completely ordinary and so beautiful he stopped for a moment to get a closer look.
The webs were almost impossibly symmetrical and so intricately constructed. He couldn’t imagine how long it had taken the spider to complete its masterpiece and how easy it would be for him to destroy them all just by tromping through the field and swinging his arms. For a moment, it took him back to bombed-out villages and buildings razed to the ground.People’s life work destroyed in an instant.He pushed back against the thought, gently nudging the memory out of the way so it didn’t intrude into his conscious thoughts and color his entire day.
It had taken him a long damn time to learn how to do that—how to push back a memory so it didn’t steal his present. It had gotten easier with practice but it hadn’t started out that way. In the beginning, the memories rolled him, knocking him on his ass. He’d worked hard to find something resembling control and even then it was nothing more than an illusion some days.
Stretching out a fingertip, he gingerly touched one of the blades of grass supporting the web and watched the drops of dew dance in the sunlight. Finding the beauty in ordinary things was one of the parts he missed the most about his reconstructed life. He could hardly handle the bare necessities when Gabe hired him to work at Southerland Security. The job helped save him but focus on work hadn’t left much space for anything else. Maybe the time at Sourwood could help him as much as Jake.
Maybe he ought to be satisfied with what he had and stop looking for more.
He glanced up and saw Andy watching him. She’d shielded her eyes with her hand, limiting his ability to read her expression, but her lips curved in a way that made him want to run his thumb over them. To taste them and see if she was as sweet as he imagined. Innocent idealist to his sullied realist. Because he was at heart an asshole, he pulled his hand back to swat at the web, catching himself when he heard her gasp. Jesus, he had to have evolved into something more than a boy who pulled the wings off butterflies or burned ants with a magnifying glass. Surely by now he was more than that.
“What are we doing?” he asked, lowering his hand and closing the distance between them in a few strides.
Andy stayed frozen in place, still staring at the spot where he’d stopped to look at the web. She didn’t move until he was practically on top of her, crowding her, making it seem like his question was about more than their job for the day. She sucked in a breath, and he saw her steady herself. It was as if pieces moved in place behind her eyes and when her gaze met his, she was cool and in control again.
“Making soap,” she said, pivoting with the grace of a dancer and heading for the small shed.
Whatever he’d thought they’d be doing, soap making sure as hell hadn’t been on the short list. He’d assumed they’d be planting something or dealing with the animals. But if the lady wanted to make soap, he’d be the best damn soap maker he could be. And then maybe she’d look at him like she had over yoga instead of like he’d disappointed her.
“Whatever you say, boss.”
She shot him a glance, and he took comfort in the fact that her smirk was firmly back in place. Following her into the small building, he waited for her to flip on the light before he closed the door behind them. It was a single room, surprisingly clean considering the worn-out exterior, with long work tables running down two of the walls. There were shelves filled with assorted bins and five-gallon plastic buckets and a cart like the ones they sometimes had in mess halls to stack trays. A small chest freezer stood off to one side and there was a gas burner with one of those small tanks usually used to power a grill. A closed metal wardrobe-looking thing took up the last space on the wall, and there was a small loft that appeared to be used for storing boxes and stuff.
“Wash your hands,” she said, scrubbing up at an ancient-looking utility sink. “And then you can get the goat milk out of the freezer.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He crowded in behind her, using the opportunity to breathe in the clean scent of lavender that clung to her. She sucked in a breath, letting it out as she reached for a towel and squeezed past him.
“Bring the milk over here and empty it into this pot.” She set a big stainless-steel stock pot on the counter with a little more force than necessary.
Smiling to himself because he couldn’t seem to get past riling her up, he dried his hands and opened the chest freezer. He didn’t know what he’d expected but it wasn’t the stacks of trays full of cloudy white ice cubes he found.
“Why do you freeze the milk?” he asked, carrying as many trays as he could without risking dropping them. The cold against his forearms made him tighten his grip. “Why not just use fresh?” They milked twice a day. He could go to the barn that minute and probably get all the milk she needed.
“It changes the fat molecules and slows down the reaction time with the lye. Put it all in here and then put these on.”
She laid a pair of leather work gloves, goggles, and a paper mask on the counter. He’d never thought of soap making as dangerous work, but she’d mentioned lye. He’d seen firsthand the damage it could do when it was used to torture victims in parts of the world he’d just as soon forget existed. The burns to their bodies were horrific. One poor bastard died when it ate through his esophagus.
“Let me help,” he said, suddenly needing to put himself between Andy and the white powder she was measuring onto a scale.
She glared at him, her eyes distorted by the goggles but not so much he couldn’t tell she thought he’d lost it.
“You are helping.” She spoke slowly, the words muffled against the mask she wore. “Putting the milk into the pot is exactly what I need you to do. And you’re not going near this stuff without your gear on.”
He hadn’t been thinking about anything but keeping her from getting burned. He’d been so caught up in putting himself between her and danger, he hadn’t even bothered to put on the gloves. She kept her gaze pinned to him, watching him like he was a bomb that might go off, as he took a step back toward the ice cube trays. She didn’t turn back to measuring the lye until he twisted the first ice cube tray, popping the milk free and dropping the frozen chunks into the pot.
There was something wrong with him—something broken inside—that made smashing spider webs acceptable and made him think about torture in the middle of a souped-up arts and crafts project. One more stellar example of why he and the peace-loving hippy farmer would never work. Not that he’d been looking for anything other than a temporary hookup, but still, it would be nice not to default to Rambo all the damn time. He finished emptying the trays, setting them in the sink before he donned his protective gear.
“Stand back,” she said, waiting for him to comply before she gingerly emptied the lye into the pot with the milk.
