She doesn't remember me.

For a moment, I thought. When I first caught her staring, pretended not to notice and kept chopping. I thought the neurons might be firing, catching her up. But the moment she spoke, I knew. There was no recognition in her tone, no hint of happiness.

It's only been sixteen years, Sasha. The least you could do is remember me.

But what did I expect? A sudden role-reversal from the town’s infamous prodigal daughter?

I should have known.

I did know, deep down. From the moment I first found the agreement in Pop’s old documents. I started work on this place right away because I knew she’d be no help — if she even bothered to show her face here. Now, weeks after I started in on this spot, already going through the basement and the worst of the foundations, Her Highness finally decides so show her face. And the first thing she does is try to kick me off the farm?

Adding insult to injury.

I shove it to the back of my mind. Doesn't matter. I finish this job, then I get half the money for this place. It'll be more than enough to finish the add-ons I want to make at Pop’s farm. More than enough to keep his legacy going, even though it'll be one of the last family-owned farms left in this town.

Sasha Bluebell does not matter, I remind myself. Not one bit.

It doesn't matter that she grew up even more stunning than she used to be at eleven, chasing me around this backyard with legs as long as a doe’s. It doesn't matter that despite her fancy expensive designer clothes, she's still got those curves I remember her showing hints of as a teenager, right before she left. Those sexy hips and full breasts, separated by a waist I would kill to wrap my hands around. Her lips; those look exactly the same. Those bowstring lips I used to close my eyes and picture every night from age ten on. And her eyes have gone a darker, deeper green. The kind of backyard, nature green you could lose yourself in for hours. I did, once. We used to lie in this very backyard at dusk and count bats. Then wait until moonrise and count stars instead. Only I'd count more than just stars. I'd count how many seconds I could get away with watching her before she turned her head and caught me. Before she’d scowl and swat my arm and tell me to stop being so weird.

Before our hands would brush, tangle, just for a second, and then she’d leap away again, change the subject.

I never knew if she thought the same things I did. I assumed so, I figured there was no way she couldn't feel it too, the tension thrumming in the air between us, making the sweltering hot country summer nights even hotter with unspoken desire.

But I guess I was wrong. If she doesn't even remember my name now, then, well…

I scowl and finish chopping the last round of wood I'll need for the next few nights. I could commute from Pop’s, but it's a long drive to make each way daily, especially when I want to be up and at it first thing here. I cleaned up the single bedroom and have been camping out in it since last week when I realized I'd need to ramp up my speed on this fixer-upper if I wanted to get her on the market before winter hits and does any more damage. It's not that the house herself is doing bad — she's got good bones underneath it all. But that's not normally what potential buyers look at. It's all first impressions with them, window dressing. So I need to do that up as nice as possible if I want to earn enough to keep Pop’s farm going.

Which means I need to keep my head in the damn game.

I'm rewiring the lighting in the living room, which needs some work, when I hear tires out front. A door slams, and then I hear the unmistakable cursing of a city girl who's not used to getting a little mud on her heels. I resist the urge to check the window. I don't know where Sasha drove off to earlier, and I don't care. She's none of my business.

I’m elbow-deep in the wall when she crashes through the front door.

“I cannot believe some —“ Sasha stops dead when she sees what I'm doing. “Is that safe?” She's squinting at the electrical panel hanging open next to me.

I ignore her and finish adjusting the last two fuses. Then I step back and flip a switch. Light floods the living room — and, though you can't see it from here, the kitchen and bedroom too. An improvement over before, when only the kitchen power was working, and even then it was choppy.

“Oh,” she replies, answering her own question as she blinks at the lights. “Are you an electrician or…?”

“Just picked up a few things,” I reply. “Happens when you live in a hellhole, I guess.”

She bites her lip. It draws my eye, irresistible. Not to mention starts an unwelcome stirring against my jeans… Damn. I want to be the one biting that sexy lip. “Listen, Grant, I'm sorry about earlier. I was a little…” She shakes her head. “It was a long flight. Then a long drive. And people have been so weird to me here. Like at the hotel just now, there were clearly about a dozen vacant rooms, and they told me it was full.”

“Mark does tend to harbor a grudge,” I reply, fairly. “If you didn't give him an online review last visit, he gets a bit snippy.”

Her cheeks flush. That is more than a little distracting too. So she blushes easily, good to know. I wonder what else I could do to make her blush….

I'm getting harder just thinking about all the ways to make this innocent city girl turn bright red.

“Mark. Dammit, I knew it was an M name.”

I laugh. “If you didn't even remember his name, you're doomed.”

“What do I do?” She frowns and glances past me at the living room. There's something in her eye, something honestly and truly panicked that makes me almost feel bad for her.

Almost.

“I can't stay here,” she blurts.

“I'll talk to Mark,” I promise her. Her eyes immediately go wide with relief. I hold up a hand to stave it off. “But he's not going to be around anymore at this hour. You’ll have to rough it one night here, Princess.”

Her cheeks flare again. “I'll take my old room,” she murmurs, starting for the hallway off the kitchen, the one that leads to the tinier spare room. I'm surprised she even remembered where that was.

But I have to cut her off. “Your Mama turned that into an office a few years back.”

Sasha stumbles to a halt. Fuck, even her confused face is sexy. “So…” She trails off, leaves that question unspoken.

“There's your Mama’s room.” I let that hang long enough for her eyes to go wide yet again. But they’re still fixed dead on mine—she doesn’t back down from a challenge.

I guess some things, at least, haven’t changed.

“I’ll sleep in the car,” she says, hands on her hips.

I smirk. “What’s the matter, scared to be too near one of us country hicks?”

Our eyes lock. That wipes any remaining politeness from her expression. Good. I always preferred her when she was angry. The way her eyebrows crease and her fists ball, the way she won’t back down from a fight. The way she’s glaring at me right now, though, is making me harder still.

Fuck. How am I still so fucking attracted to her, after all these years?

“Of course not,” she replies, chin high. “I’m only being polite. You take the bed.”

I step closer. She holds her ground. I catch a whiff of her perfume now, something floral, expensive I’d guess. It smells okay, great probably. But I like her better without it. I like her scent, the one that’s all Sasha, can’t be bottled. “We could always share.” I grin at the way that sets off a white hot flush across her cheeks. Then I turn away from her, still smiling to myself. “But that’s okay. Don’t want to make you nervous, city girl. You couldn’t handle a wild man like me anyway.”

She snorts. “Oh, I doubt that.”

“Is that a challenge?” I turn back to raise one eyebrow at her, and find she’s moved closer to me, almost chasing me, fists still clenched.

Fuck, she’s glorious when she’s annoyed.

She holds my gaze for a long moment. Long enough that I know she’s thinking about it. About what fucking me would be like.

Good. Let her dream. Let her be the one to lie awake at night and fantasize, for once.

“You take the bed,” I tell her, hands spread in what I hope comes across as the peace offering I mean it to be. “My truck bed is bigger than your Porsche’s backseat anyway. And I’ve got a quilt in the truck from other times I’ve roughed it.”

She opens her mouth, though whether to agree or decline the favor, I don’t stick around to find out. I dust off my palms, leave her with the firewood, and head outside to make my bed for the night.