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We lie there breathing. Her hand traces lazy circles on my back. Bear scratches at the door.

"We traumatized your dog," she whispers.

"He'll live."

She turns her face and kisses my jaw. Soft. Not asking for anything. Just there.

"For the record," she says, "your south field isn't the only thing I'm interested in anymore."

I should say something smart. Something that keeps the walls up. Instead I pull her closer, tuck her body against mine, and press my mouth to her temple.

"Stay," I say. One word. More than I've given anyone in years.

She stays.

CHAPTER FOUR

HARPER

Iwake up in a lumberjack's bed with a Bernese Mountain Dog on my feet and the smell of coffee coming from the kitchen.

For about thirty seconds, everything is perfect. Morning light through the cabin windows. His flannel draped over the chair where he put it last night. The indent in the pillow where his head was. My body sore in all the right places, my skin still carrying the ghost of his hands.

Then I hear him on the phone.

His voice is low, but the cabin walls are thin and sound carries the way it does in old mountain houses. He's in the kitchen. The coffee pot clicks. Bear's nails tap the floor.

"No, I said one weekend. That's it." Pause. "Because it's my land, Silas. Because I don't want a permanent setup on my property. She's using the field for the festival and then it goes back to being empty."

Silas. Silas McCrae. He owns rental properties around Crimson Hollow. I'm renting one of his cottages.

"She's not a tenant. She's not a partner. She's a neighbor who needed a favor."

Neighbor who needed a favor.

The words land like stones in my stomach. I pull the sheet up. Not cold. Just suddenly aware that I'm naked in a man's bed and he's in the next room describing me like a temporary inconvenience.

"The field goes back to grass after Sunday. That was the deal."

I get dressed quietly. Jeans, tank top, his flannel because my flannel is somewhere in the hallway and his is closer and I'm not thinking about the symbolism of wearing a man's clothes the morning after he called me a favor.

Except I am thinking about it. Because my parents called the pumpkin patch a hobby. My ex called my baking a cute side project. Everyone I've ever cared about has minimized the things that matter to me, and I let them because wanting validation felt weak and weakness felt like proof they were right.

I walk into the kitchen. He's at the counter, phone to his ear, and when he sees me his face does something complicated.

"I'll call you back." He hangs up.

"Morning," I say. My voice is even. I've had practice at even.

"Morning. Coffee's ready. I made eggs."

He made eggs. He's standing there in a thermal, barefoot, with his hair still messed up from my hands, and he made me eggs. The domesticity of it clashes so hard with the phone call that my chest aches.

"I heard your conversation."

His jaw tightens. "How much?"

"Enough. The neighbor who needed a favor. The field going back to grass. The emphasis on temporary."