I pick up my pace and cut him off, planting myself directly in his path. He pulls up short to avoid colliding with me. We're so close I can smell him. His sweat and earth and that cedar soap Dar keeps in all the bathrooms. I can see the pulse hammering in his throat, the green flecks in his dark eyes that I've cataloged against my will during too many sleepless nights.
"I'm yourwife." The words come out louder than I intended, sharp enough to echo off the barn walls, gaining a few looks from farmhands.
Our eyes lock in challenge. He doesn't hate the claim I just made, but he's not happy about it either. The emotion flickering across his face is something darker, more complicated. Hunger mixed with resentment. Want twisted up with frustration.Why?
He's the one who's been telling me he'll prove me wrong. Who swore he'd show me this marriage could be more than a business arrangement. However, if the last few days have proven anything, it's that letting people in never works out for me. I kissed him, opened myself up for one reckless moment, and then he iced me out so thoroughly I might as well be living alone.
"Yeah, you're playing the part perfectly." His voice drips with contempt.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Another backhanded jab. He agreed to stay longer so I could get to know my family, which has meant helping Dar prepare for the festival this weekend. Prepping recipes handed down for generations and hanging paper lanterns in the courtyard. I've put everything else on mute so I could have this, but not him.
"It means exactly what I said." He runs a hand through his hair. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm actually out here working."
"Is that what this is about?" my voice rises. "Is this why you've been acting like this? Because of the contract? If you're worried about it, let's sign it today. Right now. We can drive into Granada, find a notary, and get it done."
Something flashes across his face. "It's not about the contract." He tries to step around me, but I grab his wrist. Touching him sends heat spiraling through my veins. I miss him. The realization hits with devastating clarity. I miss what we had that night.
I feel the exact moment he registers my touch. His whole body goes taut, every muscle tensing like I've put my hand on a live wire. I see the way his jaw sets, that familiar stubborn clench that means he's fighting something internal. But I also feel the way his pulse kicks up beneath my fingers, betraying everything his expression is trying to hide. That has to mean something.
"It doesn't matter." His voice comes out rough, strained.
"Trigger!" Santiago's shout cuts through the moment. We both turn, my hand still wrapped around his wrist, to see him waving from another pen on the opposite side of the barn. He's standing with two of his most experienced hands, and even from this distance, I can see another bull, this one brown and rangy, pawing at the ground.
Trigger pulls his wrist from my grasp. "Go put some clothes on." His eyes drop briefly to my chest, and I suddenly remember what I'm wearing—or rather, not wearing. The thin silk of my sleep dress does nothing to hide the way my body has reacted to this confrontation—to him. My nipples are clearly visible through the pale fabric, hardened and practically on display for him and every single farmhand within eyeshot.
I cross my arms over my chest, catching a fleeting second of what looked like satisfaction on his face, knowing how my body reacted to him that way, and then it’s gone. "Don't worry." He puts deliberate distance between us. His eyes are hard again, that brief moment of vulnerability gone. "None of your precious bulls die today."
Then, turning on his heel, he walks away, his stride long and purposeful across the dusty yard. The farmhands scatterlike birds, suddenly very interested in their work. Santiago claps Trigger on the shoulder when he reaches the pen, already talking animatedly as I stand there in my nightgown and boots, my wrist still tingling from his touch.
If he wants to ice me out, fine. I'll remind him who he's playing with. I agreed to play the role of wife to help him land this merger. It doesn't mean I have to make it easy.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
TRIGGER
The first thing that registers is warmth. My body aches in places I'd forgotten existed, every muscle protesting yesterday's work in the pen. Those damn bulls nearly trampled me twice, but I want this. It makes me feel alive. My sore body is a reminder that I was not only alive but living intentionally. I draw in a slow breath, my mind still caught in that hazy space between sleep and consciousness, and that's when I feel it. The weight across my hip. The steady rise and fall of breathing that isn't my own. Soft hair tickling my jaw.Shit.My eyes snap open.
Morning light filters through the gaps in the curtains, and the pillow wall Asha constructed with military precision last night lies scattered across the floor. Her arm is draped possessively across my chest, and her leg is hitched over my thigh, her knee pressed dangerously high. I draw in a deep breath. I should move. It's what I've done every day since she proposed this arrangement, and every day, she unknowingly breaks it. But usually that's a good hour or two before now.
Asha is a heavy sleeper. It's how I've managed to put everything back together every morning before I leave, but Iknow my window of getting out unnoticed has passed. And my body has other ideas. I don't want to get up, not really. I'm exactly where I want to be, even if my mind is fighting it.
She shifts against me, and I go perfectly still, barely breathing. Her face is buried against my chest when cool air assaults the spot where her mouth was.
Is that drool?
My mouth twitches, and then she stirs again. I feel the moment consciousness returns. Her body goes rigid, and her breathing changes. Then slowly, she lifts her head, her eyes meet mine, still sleep-hazed with dreams before awareness sharpens them into accusation.
"What do you think you're doing?" Her voice is rough with sleep.
I raise an eyebrow, not moving an inch even though her leg is still very much tangled with mine, her body pressed along the length of me in ways that make my pulse kick. "What does it look like I'm doing?"
"It looks like you're breaking the rules." She pushes up on one elbow. "You're supposed to be on your side of the bed."
"I am on my side of the bed, sweetheart." I let the endearment drawl out, knowing it'll needle her. My eyes drop to where her leg is still thrown over mine then back up to her face. "It's your leg hiked up over mine and your drool on my chest, not the other way around."
Color floods her cheeks, and she snatches her leg back like I've burned her. "I don't drool."
