“Cole, do you want to test if the strawberries are any good?”
“No,” I reply.
“I do!” Liam answers.
She washes one under the hose and hands it to him. While he decides they’re ready and starts picking them, Sofia pushes some whisps of her hair that have escaped her braid behind her ear. She clears her throat. “It’s a great garden, really.”
“It is,” I say.
She tries to make more conversation, but I keep my answers short. One word. Two, at most, until her attention shifts back to Liam. When she reaches out to touch him, I clear my throat. No one gets to just touch my son.
I don’t like how easily he warms to her either. She’s temporary. Whatever kindness she offers will only make it harder when she leaves.
On the walk back, Liam talks about how nice she is, filling the quiet. I listen with half an ear, already noticing that the wood pile by the shed is running low. The nights are still cold out here, colder than people expect.
Inside, I set him up with his favorite TV show—something about animals around the world—then step back outside.
I split more wood and stack it by the back door, enough for the house and the guesthouse both. If the temperature drops again, I want to be ready.
After that, I take the weed whacker to the area around the fire pit, clearing the overgrowth. Less risk. Fewer surprises. A clean line of sight if Liam’s out there.
The next day, Sofia tries to make herself useful around the property. She gathers the fallen branches left behind by last night’s windstorm, moving carefully as she works. Liam wants to help, of course, but I tell him to tend to the garden withme instead. I handle the branches, chopping them down into manageable pieces.
Sofia waters the wildflowers, taking her time, then pauses to study the grass like she’s deciding whether it needs cutting. She helps where she can, quietly, without being asked.
I keep my distance.
There’s no reason to get entangled with this woman, and I don’t intend for my son to get attached either. She’s temporary. Helpful, yes—but that doesn’t change anything.
When she heads out the third day she’s here, I remember the faucet being problematic in the kitchen. The new drain and the latches I need finally came in, so I go inside to fix it.
Sofia’s neat. There’s a bit of clutter, but I hear the drier thumping, notice the dishes drying, notice that she keeps her presence in the living room to a minimum.
I won’t snoop. I won’t get more involved with this woman than necessary.
So I fix the faucet, focused on the task, grateful that the space under the sink doesn’t carry her scent. Or at least, it shouldn’t. And yet the idea of vanilla and lavender slips into my head anyway—warm, dizzying, inviting in a way that has no business being there.
Neither does the image that follows.
Her catching me like this. Bent under the sink. Shirt riding up. Jeans worn thin from work. The thought lands out of nowhere, sharp enough to make my jaw tighten.
What the hell Cole!
I don’t mean to wonder what she’d do. The question just appears, uninvited.
Would she keep her distance, close the space between us, test my limits? Would she climb on top of me, straddle me, tease me and work me up?
My grip tightens on the wrench.
No. That’s not her. She’d probably make small talk. Invite me to dinner. Comment on the work I’ve done. Ask questions. Want answers.
All the more reason to finish up and get out before she comes home.
Even if that means missing the sight of her lightly tanned legs. Those hazel eyes flecked with gold. The way her gaze might linger—curious, assessing, not prying, but close enough to make me feel seen.
I straighten, exhale slowly, and force my focus back to the pipe.
My dick hardens against my thigh and I squirm slightly, trying to do the work right.
