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I’d spent years around clever men—professors, researchers, specialists who could reduce an ecosystem to variables and speak for forty minutes without once checking whether anyone else understood them.

Barrett knew more about these woods than any person I’d met, but he never seemed to need anyone to validate it. He simply used what he knew to help.

Molly’s father came outside carrying a box. “Sorry, we’re stealing him, aren’t we?” he said when he spotted me.

“Not at all.” I smiled. “Apparently, the entire town shares custody.”

Barrett waved his apology away. “It’s no trouble. Tree needs treating.”

Molly put a protective hand on Agnes’s trunk.

Barrett looked at her. “We’ll fix her.”

Her whole face lit up, and my lower stomach tightened.

Oh.

That was inconvenient. Because this wasn’t the same attraction I’d felt the first time I saw him. That had been simple. Barrett was huge, masculine, and striking in a way that made it difficult not to look at him. I’d noticed his body before I knew his name.

This was different. This had roots.

And apparently, I’d spent enough time in Screaming Woods to start thinking in botanical metaphors.

Barrett’s shirt pulled across his shoulders as he stood, and my eyes followed the movement before I could stop them.

Very scientific.

I looked away.

We didn’t get far as we continued through town. That was the thing about Barrett. Everyone knew him.

A woman outside the apothecary wanted him to look at a branch that had started dropping leaves too early. An elderly man stopped him to ask about the oak beside his house. Someone called from across the street to tell him a limb had come down near the western road.

What struck me wasn't that people asked. Small towns ran on mutual favors. Everyone knew someone with a truck, a ladder, a cousin who could do plumbing.

What struck me was that nobody asked Barrett anything except what he could do. Could he fix this? Could he look at that? Could he come by later?

Useful.

That was how everyone treated him. Useful Barrett. Reliable Barrett. Barrett would know. Barrett would come. And from everything I’d seen, he would. Every single time.

Nobody asked whether his back still hurt from the lace burns three days ago. Nobody noticed he'd been working since before sunrise.

I stood beside him and watched because, well, I liked watching him.

I liked the way he bent his head when someone spoke and how he never interrupted. I liked how his expression became intent when someone described a problem, as though whatever they were telling him deserved his full attention.

I liked his hands too, something I’d had ample opportunity to notice when one had been wrapped around my waist three days ago. I’d been busy avoiding death by pale lace at the time, but apparently my body had retained additional information. Now I wondered what they would feel like against my naked skin...

Barrett caught me staring. “What?”

“Nothing.” I snapped my attention back to his face.

His eyes narrowed. “You were staring.”

“I was thinking.”

“About?”