Would he ever be able to repair the greenhouses? Offer Jansel a raise?
Would he be able to keep Jansel on at all?
He could sell the goats, maybe. He could sell Sally. She was past her milking prime; he’d been losing money on her since they bought her. Except he knew he didn’t keep her fat enough to make her worthwhile to any butcher, and the idea of taking her away from Daisy before he absolutely had to?—
Suddenly, they had reached the house, their cars sitting in the gravel, the light dying all around them. Emerson could barely remember getting there.
“Ben.” He stepped toward him, voice gruff. “I know. I know it all still needs a lot of work. But I promise?—”
“Hey.” Ben forced a smile, patted Emerson on the shoulder. More kindness than Emerson deserved. “I know, man. I trust you. And even if?—”
Ben glanced around before returning his gaze to Emerson’s.
“Even if it’s not picture perfect. No wedding is. And this farm is where Lex wants to get married.” The warmth that entered Ben’s eyes then, the way his mouth curved—that was real. This was the Ben Emerson knew. “So this is where we’re going to get married.”
And this made Emerson ache, too. Ben’s certainty. That his and Alexei’s love was strong enough to make anything golden. To weather any storm.
Emerson could only give a solemn nod.
He stepped back. Watched Julie and Ben get into their car. Gave a wave alongside Luca as they backed out of the drive and down the lane, through the trees that would spit them back toward Greyfin Bay, back toward the ocean.
He and Luca stood there in silence for a moment, after the sound of the car had faded.
“Hey. Emerson—” Luca started, but Emerson cut him off. He was already moving, hands stuck in his pockets.
“Thanks for everything tonight, Luca.” He spoke over his shoulder, his path intent. Glass of water, a couple ibuprofen, and his bed. “You were wonderful. Please, do something fun tomorrow, a real day off, outside this godforsaken farm.”
Except even as the door slammed behind him, the words rested sour in his stomach, a lie.
He was fucked, but he didn’t hate this farm at all.
He loved it so much he’d given up his marriage for it.
Even if Ben and Alexei’s love was somehow stronger, Emerson couldn’t quite bring himself to believe Ben’s optimism. As he’d learned these last few years, sometimes love wasn’t enough.
Even if Emerson had given this land all the love he had, he knew the truth.
He was going to lose it anyway.
eleven
Luca’stired feet came to a halt in the threshold of the kitchen.
Emerson sat on a stool at the long kitchen island with his back to Luca, shoulder blades jutting against cotton. Hunched over a laptop similar to the one Luca held in his right hand. He was wearing yet another worn t-shirt, another snug pair of jeans. God, this man wore his clothes well. Everything simple, basic, but so well used that it all looked soft as butter. Hugging the thick places—those shoulders, that ass. Hanging just right in all the places he was lean.
Giving his head a shake, Luca headed into the kitchen.
Obviously, he was touch starved. As evidenced by last night. Crowded into that small booth, touching Emerson every opportunity he got. He hoped none of it had been too inappropriate, made his boss uncomfortable. The guy had been tenser than he’d ever seen him; Luca had wanted to impart comfort, encourage him to relax. His fingers had itched to do something from the minute they’d walked into that barn, Emerson’s shoulders up by his ears, to the minute he’dstormed into the house after Ben and Julie had left. He’d yearned to dig his thumbs into Emerson’s back, whisper in his ear again. Make his muscles let go.
“Morning.”
Luca laid his laptop on the opposite side of the island. Emerson raised his head. His face seemed even more exhausted than usual, the lines around his eyes deeper. Luca hadn’t expected to see him here. Had thought, even on a Sunday, that he’d already be out in the fields.
“Morning,” Emerson returned the greeting, voice rusty. Looking back down at his keyboard, his cheeks flushed that mottled pink, as if embarrassed by his morning voice. Luca’s fingers itched again. If he was honest, they’d never really stopped.
“Okay if I snag some coffee?” Luca motioned to the pot on the counter behind him. He’d been snagging coffee from this pot all week, but for some reason felt the need to ask now, in this fragile, just-him-and-Emerson Sunday morning space.
Emerson nodded, quick and emphatic.
