“I’m sorry,” I told him. “I overreacted and took it out on you.”
He nodded. Saying nothing, his eyes hidden beneath his hat.
“I’m struggling.” I hated that I was spilling my guts to this grumpy stranger. I’d worked too hard for too long to be strong, to hide my vulnerabilities so no one could ever exploit them again. Yet I couldn’t stop. “He’s eloping again. Bolting. Regressing in some of his progress,” I admitted, shaking my head. “It’s the move and all the uncertainty. I thought I was prepared for it, but…” The weight I always carried on my shoulders grew.
He studied me intently, his head slightly tilted. It was unnerving, being the focus of his scrutiny. “I should have been watching more closely.”
That was like a blow to the solar plexus. I did not need his help.
“If it helps at all,” he went on, “he was very polite and curious.”
Shrugging, I lied. “That kind of helps.”
He continued surveying me. Not in a creepy way, but like he was cataloging every flaw and strategizing about how best to exploit my weaknesses.
He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I don’t want to overstep. But do you have any help? Seems like you’ve got your hands full.”
There wasn’t a hint of judgment. No pity. Just logistics. This man seemed to speak only in practicalities.
And between one breath and the next, any charitable feelings I’d held for him crumbled into dust. Long-simmering rage bubbled up inside me again, its target the brick wall of a human standing in front of me.
“Excuse me?” I sneered. “That’s rude.”
He had the audacity to look … confused? His brows lowered and his lips tugged down. Like he hadn’t just insulted the core of my being.
“I work my ass off, thank you very much,” I snapped. “My kids are well cared for. And yes, things have been a bit chaotic, but I’ve got it under control.” The words poured out, years’ worth of trauma unloaded on him.
He held his large, rough hands up in surrender. “I didn’t mean to offend.”
“Yes you did.” I took a step forward, relishing the power that came with having this big, strong man on the defensive. “What’s your problem? You hate women?”
He shook his head. “Of course not. I’m just.” He took a step back and smoothed his hand over his beard, his eyes darting to one side. Even his dog was staring at him like he’d royally fucked up. “Um, I… Sorry. And well.” He took his hat off and ran his hands through his dark hair.
He really had the rugged thing going, not that I cared at all.
“I don’t have a problem,” he finally said. “I’ve got a farm to run.”
An annoyed huff escaped me. “I’m getting tired of this whole noble farmer bullshit,” I said. “Just admit it, you’re an ass.”
He swallowed, his throat working, his focus still locked on my face. I hated it.
And then he smiled.
A smile.
A fucking smile. Big and wide and toothy. And wasthat…? A dimple? Just one on the left side, barely visible through his beard.
My traitorous heart tripped over itself, and a warmth I hadn’t experienced in years bloomed low in my belly.
Then he laughed. A deep laugh that in other circumstances would be annoyingly sexy, making my damn knees wobble.
“I live to please, Matchstick.”
All the pleasant sensations vanished and my spine snapped straight. “What did you call me?”
He laughed again, motherfucker. “Matchstick. Small. Dangerous. One spark and you’ll light the place up. A lot of power in a tiny package.”
I scowled. Was that an insult? I couldn’t wrap my head around it. Because I was kind of flattered. Not that I’d admit it. And I definitely didn’t need this grumpy ass giving me a nickname.
