“But I think that’s one of the things that bugged me about yesterday,” she says, a vulnerable admission.
“When the photog thought you were Haven?”
“Yes.” She sounds sad but also distressed.
Instinctively, I reach for her. Like I’m going to squeeze her shoulder or brush a strand of hair from her cheek. Something comforting. But I pull back, instead asking, “Why don’t you like having your picture taken? Because you can’t control the photo?”
“It’s not that I’m image-conscious. It’s just…well, I grew up here. Everyone knows me. Everyoneknewmy family.”
Knew. Past tense. My heart squeezes in sympathy. When I researched the farm, I learned the bare details of her past. Her parents died when she was in high school. That has to be what she means.
“You’re cautious then about…image?”
She turns her mug in a circle. The drink’s likely getting cold. “Sounds vain, but it’s not that. It’s just I’m trying to make something of this farm I inherited from my parents. Trying to make it a success. So, in a way, every time I go out of the house, I need to make sure I’m representing Lavender Bliss Farms too, you know what I mean?”
That makes perfect sense but still doesn’t give me the entire picture. “I do.”
“But it’s fine,” she says, waving a hand like she can makethe whole conversation vanish. “I should get back to work soon anyway.”
I could press, but she’s said enough for now. Invited me in some. I nod, taking a final sip of my coffee. “Let’s get you home. Don’t we have boulders to lift today or something?”
“Exactly,” she says, finishing her drink, then setting down the mug. As she does, she turns her face to one side, then the other, stretching her neck again.
If that’s not an opening, I don’t know what is.
“Let me help,” I say, and before she has a chance to protest, I drag my chair closer to hers and curl a hand under her hair and around her neck.
“Ohhhh,” she moans at the first touch.
A kernel of pride spreads in me from her reaction. I dig my thumb into her flesh, sliding it up and down the column of her soft neck. Kneading. Trying to help her release some of the tension.
She drops her head forward, giving me more room, savoring it even. “Is this part of keeping me safe?”
“Yes. When your neck doesn’t hurt, you’re less ornery,” I deadpan.
“I’m not ornery.”
I scoff. “Then what even is ornery if not you?”
“Not me. More like you.”
I dig a thumb into the base of her neck, and she unleashes another moan. “Ripley, you’re fiery and feisty, and you keep me on my toes.”
“Good,” she says, then draws a deep breath and relaxes into myhand as I run my fingers along her neck and under her hair. This close, it’s hard not to think about kissing her. Hard not to think about all the other ways I want to touch her given how intimate this is—from the sounds she makes to how close we are. So close she could turn her face, tip her chin, and wait for a kiss. One I desperately want to give her.
Those lips. Those beautiful, lush lips.
Eventually, I let go. She gathers her phone and the paper fox, then we leave.
When we reach the sidewalk in front of the tourist shop, she glances at the time on her phone. “Should we race? See if I can ditch you on two wheels?”
“You can’t.”
“Let me try.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because I bet I can.”
