And my traitorous, sex-starved brain applies that same intent to other contexts. To how he’d touch me. Hold me. How he would take his time, use that same steady control, that same careful attention.
The goat finishes the bottle. Ryder sets it down, then grabs another baby from the pen. This one is braver, less skittish. It butts against his leg, demanding food.
“Pushy,” he tells it with a grin. “But I like the confidence.”
Ryder beckons the first girl in line to approach and helps her feed the goat. He walks her through the process step by step, patient and encouraging. Praising her when she gets it right. Showing how good he is also with human children.
I already knew he’s an amazing dad from watching him with Rhys and from the school trip, but the front-row reminder is a pull so deep it rearranges my priorities without asking for permission.
I need to turn around. Go somewhere else. Let Bettany or one of the other parents watch this instead. Let anyone else stand behind the fence and appreciate Ryder Evans being careful with baby goats because I’m about to faceplant in the mud, wiped out by a work of art titled Tiny Goat on Sexy Forearms: A Study in Accidental Seduction via Livestock Handling.
But I don’t move. My feet stay rooted in place, eyes trained on him.
Bettany is filming everything, panning her phone over the kids waiting their turn and capturing snaps for the parent group chat she’ll flood later. I’m tempted to ask for a copy of the video of Ryder’s demonstration.
As if hearing my thoughts, he glances up, his eyes landing directly on me as if he’s been aware of where I was standing the entire time.
The corner of his mouth kicks up when he catches me staring.
Then he smirks.
Confident, teasing, and full of dark promise.
The curve of his lips seems to say: Save that look for when we’re alone.
Yeah, I wouldn’t mind being next in line for cuddles.
21
RYDER
When the baby and adult goats are fed, Remy lures the class toward the chicken run. I collect the feeding bottles and head into the barn to wash them. My T-shirt is damp along my spine; the afternoon’s been hot, but inside it’s cooler. The temperature drops a good ten degrees as soon as I’m through the door. I set the bottles in the utility sink and turn on the tap, letting the water flow cold over my hands before I start scrubbing.
The barn smells of hay, animals, and old wood. It’s quiet here, just the rush of water and the distant sounds of kids laughing outside.
I scrub the bottles mechanically, my mind elsewhere.
On Faye.
On the way she stared at me while I fed the baby goat. The look on her face was hungry, wanting, like she was imagining my hands on her instead of the animals. And when I caught her devouring me with her eyes, she rewarded me with that pretty pink flush I’ve become addicted to. I wanted to tell her we’re both in this, that I’d be eager to get her in my lap, to touch her without needing an excuse. With no need to ask for permission because she gave it to me already. That I want her to be mine to touch, kiss, and undo.
But she’s been steering clear of me. Is she scared she no longer has an excuse not to kiss me? Or has she decided it’s not what she wants?
The thought sits wrong in my chest. Heavy and uncomfortable.
Maybe she thinks it’s a bad idea. I’m a single dad with a farm to run and a life that doesn’t allow room for complications. She’s a teacher who could leave Blue Crescent Harbor tomorrow and never look back.
We don’t make sense on paper.
But logic doesn’t matter when I can’t stop thinking about her. When a simple text exchange with her kept me awake half the night. When I dream about wrapping her ponytail around my fist and?—
Footsteps echo behind me.
I turn, expecting Mom with a task for me or Rebecca getting back from the flower fields. Instead, I find Faye.
She stops short when she sees me, her eyes going wide.
Like she didn’t expect me to be inside. Or maybe because she did, and that’s why she came.
