I gesture to the cab. “In the front.”
The door is already open. I climb in first, settling into the worn driver’s seat that’s molded to my body after years of use. The space is designed for one person.
Faye falters at the door, eyeing the narrow bench seat.
“It’s a tight fit,” I warn.
She nods, then climbs in, and?—
Yeah, tight fit is an understatement.
Her hip and shoulder press against mine. Her spicy perfume fills the small space, wrapping around me until I’m breathing her in with every inhale.
“Okay?” I manage to ask, strangled.
She nods, her cheeks pink again. “Yep.”
I force my attention to the controls, gripping the steering wheel with both hands to keep from doing something stupid like putting my arm around her, or pulling her closer, or leaning in to find out if her neck tastes as good as it smells.
I turn the key. The engine roars to life, vibrating through the cab and through both of us.
Faye’s hand shoots out, grabbing the door handle to steady herself. She laughs, a little breathless. “Wow, that’s… loud.”
“Sorry.” I ease off the throttle, bringing the engine down to a low rumble. “Forgot to warn you.”
“It’s fine.” She shifts, trying to get comfortable in the limited space, and her thigh presses more firmly against mine.
Every cell in my body goes feral. If I’m not careful, I’m going to drive us straight into a ditch.
I release the brake. The tractor lurches forward, and Faye sways into me, her hand landing on my thigh to catch herself.
“Sorry!” She yanks her hand back like she’s been burned.
“It’s okay.” My voice sounds as if I’ve been gargling gravel.
I focus on driving. On navigating the worn path that loops through the back fields, past the rows of tulips in full bloom. The trailer bounces behind us, kids shrieking with delight every time we hit a bump while I rattle out the scripted history of Hollow Creek Farm. The only reason I don’t stumble on my words is that I’ve led this tour so many times, I could do it in my sleep. Or, as the case is, with 99 percent of my brain function focused on Faye.
Thirty minutes, I remind myself. I can keep my shit together for thirty minutes.
Probably.
Maybe.
We’ll see.
17
FAYE
The tractor cab is meant for a single person. Sandwiching in two people, especially with one as large as Ryder, means I’m basically sitting on his lap.
Well, I finally got my wish of smelling him up close. And today, with him not coming straight off the back of a horse, he smells of grass and flowers and the summer to come. Of sunny days spent stretching lazily by the lake. Of sleepless, sticky nights—and not because of the temperatures.
He is so darn sexy with his backward baseball cap keeping his unruly hair in check.
His large hands grip the steering wheel, flannel shirt sleeves inexorably rolled up to reveal his tanned forearms. And his voice is right in my ear, close up as he speaks into the microphone and behind me, amplified by the speakers mounted on the back of the tractor’s cabin. It throbs through the seat and right up my spine. That deep, magnified drawl has the same effect on me as whiskey on an empty stomach—warm, ill-advised, and buzzy. At least with him having to explain how the farm works and what each part we drive through is, I don’t have to make conversation. I’m free to quietly melt by his side.
Ryder keeps his eyes on the rutted track ahead and seems oblivious to how my left thigh is striving to form a molecular bond with his right.
