“Top screen is for the debris.” His breath fanned across the shell of my ear as he poured out part of the seeds. “The middle ones are for the sorted seeds.”
He reached for the hand crank, his arm brushing against mine. “You control the speed. It’s all about the rhythm, Poppy. You can’t rush it.”
He began to turn the handle. The vibration of the machine hummed through the bench and straight into my thighs. With every rotation, he pressed closer. I could feel the heavy ridge of him pressing into my back, a silent promise of what he was capable of. I throbbed, a heavy, wet weight between my legs that made me want to turn around.
“Now you try,” he commanded again.
I placed my hand on the handle, turning it slowly.
“Faster, Poppy,” he directed. I turned it faster, but apparently not fast enough. He placed his hand over mine, guiding my arm in slow, rhythmic circles. The sound of the seeds sliding through the metal screens was hypnotic. With every rotation, he seemed to press closer, making it hard to breathe.
I turned to tell him I had the hang of it, but I’d forgotten how close he was. He hadn’t moved back. He was right there, his face inches from mine. The handle went still in my hand.
The heat in his eyes was no longer just professional focus. It was a raw, intense hunger. He reached up, his fingers resting atmy jaw—just the tips, grazing my skin with a gentleness that was far more dangerous than his growl.
He turned me on the stool until I was facing him. My legs parted to accommodate him as he stepped between my thighs. He slid his hands from the stool to my waist, his fingers digging into my hips as he pulled me to the very edge of the stool. I felt the delicious friction of the rough denim of his fly against me.
“You’re shaking, Poppy,” he murmured his gaze dropping to my lips.
“It’s.. it’s the shed. It’s too hot in here.”
I gazed at his mouth—firm, sculpted, and so close I could almost taste him. Every part of me, every instinct I’d tried to bury, screamed at me to lean in. To find out if he was as hard and unyielding as he looked. I wanted to feel that beard scratching against my skin, wanted to feel those large hands exploring every inch of my curves.
“It’s not the shed.” He leaned in, his nose brushing mine. I could see the raw possessive hunger in his eyes that made him look less like a mountain farmer and more like a conqueror. “You’ve been running since you got here. You don’t have to run from me, Poppy.”
I want to wrap my legs around him and feel all the power against me. I wanted to feel that brooding mouth on mine. I wanted it so badly. My body clenched just thinking about it. His thumb brushed my lower lip, pulling it down just a fraction, and the world seemed to narrow down to the space between our mouths.
But the reality of where I was—and who he was—slammed back into me. I was his employee. I was a runner, a girl hiding from a life that had tried to swallow her whole. I didn’t know how to do this. To open up like one of the flowers I’d seen in his greenhouse. That had been cared for and nurtured.
I scooted back but the loss of contact felt wrong.
“I can’t,” I said, my voice sounding thin and fragile in the small space. “I... I’m sorry. This isn’t a good idea, Cord.”
Every part of me disagreed with my mouth. There was nothing wrong with me being in his arms, his mouth on mine. Except… there was.
Cord went perfectly still. He didn’t move toward me, didn’t try to close the distance. He just watched me with those steady, green eyes, his expression unreadable once more. The heat dying and curling into something dark and frustrated.
“Okay,” he said finally.
The word was flat. No anger, no rejection—no emotion of any kind. He stepped back, giving me the room I’d asked for, his presence receding like a tide. “Finish the sort.”
“Right,” I said, my throat tight. “I will.”
He walked to the door, his boots heavy on the wood. He didn’t look back as the door swung shut, leaving me alone in the dim, earth-scented quiet.
I turned back to the sorting machine and placed my hand on the handle. I started to turn it, but the rhythm was gone. I’d done the safe thing. The reliable thing. The same damn thing I’d done my entire life.
But as I watched the seeds move through the metal, I really, really wished I’d said to hell with everything else and let him kiss me. Actually, I wished I’d asked him to do more than just kissed me.
CHAPTER FOUR
Cord
The supply rep came two days later, right on schedule.
His name was Danny. He drove a company truck and had the kind of easy, practiced smile that told you he knew exactly what he was doing with it. He came through twice a season. I would thank you, sign his paperwork and never give him another thought until he pulled in for another delivery.
That was before Poppy.
