6
CLARA
The next afternoon, I was wrestling a bale onto the wagon we used for the hay rides when the low rumble of a motorcycle rolled up the gravel drive. I didn’t even have to look up to know who it was. My stomach did the same silly flip as it had the day before yesterday when Ronan showed up at the farm.
I straightened, brushing straw off my jeans, and watched him park beside the barn. When he pulled his helmet off, I grinned at how mussed his hair was. He popped down the kickstand, swung a leg over the bike, and headed straight for me.
“You’re back.” I tried to sound casual, but the catch in my voice gave me away. He’d told me as much last night on the phone, but sometimes it was still hard to believe someone like him was interested in me.
“Told you I would be.” He stopped a few feet away, his steely gaze sweeping over the wagon, the bales, and me. “Need a hand?”
I gestured at the mess. “If you’re offering to organize hay again, who am I to say no?”
He grabbed the nearest bale and hefted it like fifty-plus pounds was nothing, setting it along the wagon’s side wall where people would sit for the hay rides. I watched for a moment, appreciating the bunching of the muscles, before I jumped in beside him. We worked in an easy rhythm, with me directing placement and him lifting and stacking.
Ronan didn’t complain or act like manual labor was beneath him. If anything, he seemed to enjoy it.
By the time the wagon was situated how I wanted it, sweat had darkened his shirt across his shoulders, and I was fighting the urge to stare at the way his arms flexed every time he moved.
Dusting the hay off his hands, he glanced over at the pumpkin patch. “Looks good.”
“Thanks.” I pointed toward a stack of wood cutouts leaning against the side of the barn. “I’m going to set up the pumpkin one over there next.”
“What are they?” he asked, heading toward the barn.
“Fall-themed photo ops. They’re always popular during our fall festival days and get posted on social media a lot,” I explained. “Kids love sticking their faces through the holes.”
“Bet Cadell would love ’em.”
Thinking about the toddler son of the Hounds president and his wife, I nodded. “Only if he stood still long enough to actually have his photo taken.”
He shook his head with a deep chuckle. “True.”
“Maybe King and Stella will bring him, and then I’ll get to see how it goes.”
He lifted the top cut-out off the stack and turned the front toward me so I could see the picture of turkeys painted on the wood. “Where do you want this one?”
I pointed at the grassy spot near the parking lot. “Over there.”
Ronan carried it over for me, and after I got it set up, he did the same for a corn-themed one by the maze, pumpkins next to the you-pick patch, and a scarecrow near the ticket booth.
“Pose.”
Shaking my head, I laughed. “No way.”
“Come on.” He pulled his phone from his pocket. “One picture. For me.”
I rolled my eyes but stepped behind the board, poking my face through the scarecrow hole. Then I stuck my tongue out.
He snapped the photo and lowered the phone with a rare smile. “Cute.”
“I look ridiculous.”
“You look fucking beautiful, like always.”
My breath caught at the compliment.
Before I could come up with a sassy reply, he stepped closer. “Dinner.”
