The sound of hammering wakes me up. Well, that and the rooster crying away in some far off field. I crack one eyelid at my blinds, then groan and fling an arm over my forehead to shade myself from the dawn light beginning to tint the blinds.

What time is it?

My phone, down to its last cell of battery life since I couldn’t find a plug near the bed in this tiny room—how on earth did Mama sleep without her cell phone beside her?—tells me it’s 5:04am. Not the kind of hour any civilized person should ever greet from this side of sleep.

But the hammering continues, directly overhead and growing louder by the minute. And unless I’m much mistaken, I do catch a whiff of something at least somewhat promising in the air.

Coffee.

I stumble out of the bedroom wiping sleep from my eyes to find a fresh pot of coffee on the stove and a little plate of toast and jam waiting beside it. I munch on the toast while I tie my hair into some semblance of a bun, then pull on a pair of jean shorts and toss on the only tank top I packed. Normally this would be a running shirt, but I’m working with what I’ve got for now. At least I remembered to bring a pair of boots. Granted, they’re leather, but they’re sturdy work boots, not the heels I stupidly put on yesterday morning. I yank them on too, and I’m surprised how good it feels to be wearing sturdy, reliable shoes.

Must be because I’m still feeling grumpy about tripping in the mud yesterday.

That finished, I splash my face clean, then bring my coffee outside to see about the racket.

Grant is on the roof. I lean back to squint at his broad, muscular back—unfortunately clothed today—and watch him lay out another roof tile, then hammer it into place. He’s about halfway done reshingling the roof, to judge from here.

“Need a hand?” I call up.

He turns around to squint down at me with what’s clearly doubt in his eyes.

That only makes me want to prove him wrong the more. He thinks he knows me—spoiled city girl, the town stuck-up bitch. Well, I might be a city girl now, but I was born country. Some things you don’t forget how to do.

Clearly, he doesn’t remember the way we used to clamber up every tree in the woods around here. Or the tree house we built, us and a couple of our neighborhood friends, with our own hands. It’s been a while, but I can still swing a hammer, thank-you-very-much Grant.

I set my coffee down and climb onto the ladder. He watches with progressively wider eyes as I scurry right up it to join him. I don’t even pause when I switch onto the roof and keep my balance easily as I cross it to his side.

To his credit, he doesn’t dismiss me the way some guys might. He just passes me a hammer from the tool bag perched beside him. I accept it, and our hands graze for a moment, his calloused skin rough against mine, like a match striking. It sets my whole body on fire, and I have to turn away for a second to catch my breath, to drive out the sudden images flashing in my mind.

Him shirtless yesterday, glistening with sweat.

His eyes, the way they bore into mine, dark and serious.

How those eyes and that sexy shirtless body of his would look above me in a dark room as he tossed me down onto the single bed in this house and…

I shake myself back into the present.

“You know how to use this thing?” he says.

“Might need a refresher course,” I reply. “It’s been a while.”

He grabs some nails as well, and holds up another roof tile for me. As he demonstrates how to grip the hammer, reaching around me to do so, I nearly lose my grip in distraction. Fuck. He smells amazing. The sweat he’s worked up already makes his scent even more noticeable—something piney with a heady undertone that’s all him, a hint of salt that makes me lick my lips unconsciously. He presses against me, and his hand wraps around mine around the hammer, that rough skin so firm against mine, his hand so strong, and huge. It completely engulfs my hand.

His whole body, to be honest, is huge. So much bigger than the scrawny kid I remember. Or even the handsome but lean guy in high school who never so much as glanced my way, despite all the summers we spent together as kids. Now, with the way he’s built up… God, he could toss me around the bedroom any way he wanted.

Fuck. Stop it, Sasha. This is not the time or the place.

“Paying attention?” he asks, his voice low and close to my ear—so close the breath tickles my skin.

Dammit. “Of course,” I respond.

He lines up the first nail, shows me how to drive it in. Then he shows me what angle to lay the next tile so the roof will all lie flat and orderly. Then he releases me, and I try to ignore the quiver in my thighs, or the way my pussy tightens in reflexive protest.

Having him kneeling behind me was too damn hot.

I suck in fresh air to try to clear my head, and then, while he watches, I nail down another tile, then another.

Eventually, he nods, satisfied, and goes back to his own pile of tiles.

I try not to watch him out of the corner of my eye too often. Or to track the way his biceps flex as he drives in the hammer.

Once or twice, I catch him looking back at me. My cheeks flush both times, and by the third time, I tell myself I need to behave. I keep my eyes ahead, focused on the tiles, and shift over ahead of him. That way I won’t be tempted.

We work in tandem for what feels like hours, though to judge by the way the sun is inching up the horizon, it can’t be more than one hour at most. I make it all the way up to the center of the roof, and then I turn to get more tiles.

This time, though, it’s Grant who I find staring at me. More specifically, at my ass. My cheeks flush again, and I realize with how short these shorts are, and how far I’m bent over kneeling on this roof, my ass cheeks must have been showing.

I set down the hammer, face bright red. “If I’m distracting you, you know, I can go and change,” I say, mostly to call him out. Even though, I have to admit, I’m enjoying knowing the effect I have on this guy. He might be judgmental at times, but he’s also hot as hell. It’s been a long time. Good to know I’ve still got it.

Grant’s eyes catch mine, full of humor. But his voice is dead serious when he replies, “Don’t.”

That one word makes my belly clench, and my legs quiver. Combined with the way his dark eyes still hook on mine, boring into me, it’s making the ache between my legs grow to a distracting level.

Then he smirks again, a knowing smile that tells me he knows just how much of an effect he’s having on me. Without another word, he turns back to his own work.

After a moment’s hesitation, I go back to nailing down my row of shingles too. We work until almost half the roof is finished, when Grant leans back on his heels and taps the empty bucket. “Out of nails. I’ll have to do a supply run later.”

“I can go,” I offer.

“Do you even remember where the hardware store is?” He cocks an eyebrow.

I bite my lip. “I have GPS.”

“You think any stores in this town are on Google Maps?” He laughs.

I sigh and sit back on my heels. “Still. If you give me directions, I don’t mind running out. You’ve put in so much work here already.” I cast an eye past the rooftop, at the distant yard, where, from this vantage, I’ve already been able to see evidence of his handiwork. Some of the fields have been plowed, the soil tilled. Others show signs of recent plantings. Not only is he fixing up the house itself, but he’s even working on the land. I didn’t even think to do that. “I want to pull my own weight.”

“Clearly you can,” he replies, casting a glance at the tiles I lined up. “My mistake for doubting you.”

“I accept your apology,” I answer with a faint smile.

He grins back at me. “Still don’t think you can handle everything about country life, City Girl.”

“You mean life in general or something in particular?” I lift one eyebrow.

“I was thinking selfishly, I’ll admit.”

“And just why do you think I can’t handle you, exactly, Country Boy?”

His gaze drops over my body again, slowly. “You turn bright red every time I look at you, let alone say anything.”

He’s right, I am blushing. But I force myself to lift my chin and lock eyes with him. I want to prove him wrong. I’m not the blushing girl he thinks. “Why, have something you want to say?”

“Plenty, Sasha.”

My pussy clenches noticeably at the sound of my name in his mouth. Fuck. Why does he know how to turn me on so easily? “So go for it, Grant,” I reply. I raise my brows, inviting.

But he just shakes his head and turns to reach for the ladder down. “I’m going to clean up. Then I’ll do a hardware store run. Feel free to tag along if you want to know where it is.”

Before I can even reply, he’s down the ladder, leaving me alone on the rooftop, wondering what on earth just happened.

* * *

Half an hour later, I’ve made it down from the roof too and dusted myself off. I head into the bedroom to grab my stuff and go change. But when I pass the lone bathroom in the farmhouse, the steam escaping through the open door catches my eye. It’s only opened a crack, just a couple inches. But it’s enough to glimpse, via the mirror hanging over the sink, a reflection of what’s happening in the shower.

I should keep walking. I know I should. But my feet have their own idea. They slow, stumble to a halt before the door, and, unable to help myself, I steal a peek through the open doorway.

At first all I see is shower tile. I’m about to take a deep breath, tear my gaze away and turn toward the bedroom instead, when movement catches my eye. Grant steps into view, reaching for something on the other side of the narrow shower. He’s turned to the side, giving me a glimpse of muscular thighs, and an ass so tight and round it makes my stomach clench and my mouth water. But then he turns back toward the shower again, and my jaw drops.

He is a big man. Huge, in fact.

He’s not even hard right now, I think in shock, at the sight of his thick cock. I can’t imagine what it would be like to be fucked by a man like him. I’ve never been with anyone that big. But my pussy tenses, my panties damp. Clearly my body wants to find out.

Too bad, I scold it. I spin away from the door and hurry toward the bedroom before I get caught gawking at someone I should definitely not be fantasizing about. But the whole time I shrug out of my tank top and into a clean shirt for our run into town, I can’t stop picturing his body. The water from the shower curling down over his taut muscles. I imagine being in that shower with him. The way he’d pin me against the wall and lift me off my feet easily, like I weighed nothing at all. The way he’d thrust into me, and how thick he’d feel inside my tight pussy, stretching me out, making me scream with pleasure…

Stop thinking about it, Sasha. Clearly I’m just horny. It’s been a long time since my last hookup. That’s the only explanation I can think of for why I’d suddenly be so into a guy like this, a guy so different from my usual type. I like pretty nerdy boys. The kind of guys I can have a long intellectual conversation with before we make love to our favorite soundtrack. Not guys like this.

Not guys who could probably fuck me harder than I’ve ever been fucked before.

I force that thought, along with all the rest, from my mind. Force them out and focus on what I need to do now—go finish our errands for the day.

I straighten my fresh shirt and consider my jean shorts for a second. I could change them. But I’m remembering Grant’s eyes on my ass, and the way he smirked at me. That one word he uttered. Don’t.

So I leave the shorts on, grab my wallet, and head out into the living room.

When I get there, Grant is already dressed and waiting for me. I resist the urge to glance at his crotch, wondering if I’d be able to see the outline of his cock through those jeans. Wondering what it would take to get him hard for me.

I can’t think like that. I’m too distracted as it is.

For his part, Grant just smiles when he sees me, ambiguous, hard-to-read. Is he smirking at me, or does he just always look a little bit haughty, like he knows something I don’t?

“Ready?” he asks.

I nod, and he leads us out toward the cars. He bypasses mine straightaway—and I can’t exactly complain. The dirt roads aren’t too helpful on this rental’s undercarriage. He heads straight for his truck and I trail after him.

Then we nearly collide because he’s stopped in front of the passenger door to open it for me.

“Oh, I can…” I reach for the handle then pause halfway. Because he’s shaking his head.

“I might be a country boy, but I was raised with manners,” he says. He opens the door and swings it open, then steps aside while extending a hand.

I glance from the truck to him and back again. The step is two feet off the ground—nothing I couldn’t handle with effort, but still. I place my hand in his, and thrill at the warmth of his skin, the strength in his hands. I lean on him as I step up, and he lifts me easily toward the cabin as I climb into the passenger side seat.

He shuts the door behind me and circles around to his side of the truck while I’m still catching my breath from that touch. Dammit. Why does he have such an effect?

He climbs into the driver’s seat and shuts the door, not bothering with a seatbelt as the turns the ignition. Country music blares over his loud speakers, but louder than that is the growl in the truck’s engine, itching to be gassed.

Just the sound of the truck motor—a real engine—brings back a flood of memories. Riding shotgun with Mama into town for groceries, bouncing on the seat with every bump to make the ride feel like a roller coaster at the county fair.

Learning how to drive myself on these roads, gunning it as fast as I could so I could feel like I was flying—flying away from all this.

Riding shotgun with Dad, back before—No. I cut that memory off short. I don’t think about those days.

I run a hand across the dashboard, unable to conceal my smile.

“Been a while since you’ve been taken for a real ride, has it?” Grant asks, a wide smirk on his face. I’m not sure if he’s talking about the truck, exactly. My face flushes.

“Might be,” I admit.

“Well. Might want to buckle up then,” he replies, grinning.

Without further warning, he guns it. We’re facing down the driveway, but even though I just drove up and down this twice yesterday, it feels completely different from here. From the seat in a truck built for this terrain, driven by someone who knows how to handle these country roads. Pretty soon we pick up enough speed to barrel along, and I whoop, unable to contain my elation.

Grant laughs. “You need to loosen up once in a while, City Girl,” he calls over the roar of the road under our tires, the rush of wind through the cracked windows, because of course this thing doesn’t even have air con. And for some reason I don’t even mind. “You’re a lot more fun this way.”

“Yeah, well you’re a lot more fun when you’re taking me for a ride instead of calling me names,” I shout back with a smirk.

He lifts an eyebrow at that. “Can’t I do both?”

“Guess that depends on what kind of names you plan to call me,” I shout back, just as we reach the end of the driveway and he slows down, enough that my voice echoes in the cabin.

Grant barks out a laugh. “Oh, I can think of a fair few that’d suit you, City Girl.” He glances over at me, and his eyes do that thing again, that slow wander across my body that sets every nerve ending on fire.

“I’m working on a list of my own for you, Country Boy.”

“Still think you can handle this, do you.” He doesn’t say it like a question. He says it like a challenge, a dare. At the same time, he turns onto the main road toward town, not meeting my eye anymore.

“I like a challenge,” I reply, chin lifted.

“Hm. Careful what you wish for,” he answers to that, casting one last sideways glance at me before he turns his attention to the road.

For a few moments we fall silent, listening to the upbeat country tune that’s currently pounding in his speakers. It’s one I recognize, one I forgot I even knew the words to, and I find myself mouthing them under my breath as we roll through town.

Just like yesterday when I first drove in—and in the afternoon when I rode down to talk to Mark at the hotel—all eyes are on us once more. But this time, as we drive through the town square, the center of town, the social hangout for everyone and their parents—and their grandparents too, for that matter—I sense a difference. This time, I notice far more girls turning to eyeball the truck, following its path, their eyes eagerly searching out the driver’s seat.

And I notice more than a few of those smiles shifting into frowns when their eyes wander past the driver’s seat toward the passenger side and finding it occupied.

Well. Can’t blame them. I’d be thirsty for a guy like Grant too, if all I had to choose from were the pickings in this small town.

You’re hungry for him even when you do have more options, the unhelpful voice in the back of my head points out.

I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from fantasizing again. But that’s hard when the whole cab of this truck smells like him. When his warm body is just a couple feet away from mine, his arm muscles bulging as he shifts the truck down a gear and turns away from the plaza.

“Are you paying attention?” he asks, and I startle, tearing my gaze from his biceps.

“Hmm?”

“You wanted to know how to get to the hardware store, didn’t you?” He rolls his eyes, but he’s smirking too. He’s enjoying how distracting he is, damn him.

I lean back in my seat. “Right.” I force my eyes on the road. Force my mind to stop imagining how it would feel if he swung this truck into a parking spot and used those thick, strong hands to reach for me instead of the gearshift. I’d bet he could pull me onto his lap before I even had time to gasp and tell him it was improper in public.

Then I imagine what that would feel like—kneeling across him while he wraps those strong hands around my firm ass and pulls me down into his lap. I picture the bulge in his jeans from thick cock; imagine grinding myself against him… Fuck, I could probably get off on that alone, like a horny teenager.

“You’re drifting again,” he points out, and I blink, startled to realize we’ve already gone three more streets while I wasn’t looking.

“No, I’m not,” I protest.

“Sure. And we’re where, again?”

I lick my lips. Frown. “I’m not great with directions,” I protest.

“Uh huh.” He swings a left in front of a site I do recognize, though—the church Mama used to go to. The church I went to growing up, and that helps me orient myself.

So many of the other stores have changed. Call me naive, but I’d have thought that in a little town like this, the big chain stores wouldn’t make much of a dent. But I spot a Starbucks on one corner and an IHOP across the way, and frown. “Where’d Billy’s go?” I ask, before I think better of it. Before I realize that’s a memory lane I don’t want to ride down. Fraught with all the things I remember after mass, heading there every Sunday for pancakes and coffee with—No.

“Not such a bad sense of direction after all.” Grant shakes his head with a sigh. “Billy’s closed down about ten years back. After Billy passed. Neither of his sons wanted to keep the place running. Rick tried to sell it for a while, but…” He shrugged one shoulder. “Not many people into the small town life these days. Everyone wants to run away to the big city. Forget their roots where they buried them.” He shoots me a sideways glance at that, and I clamp my mouth into a thin line.

“As long as they’re doing what they enjoy, don’t think you ought to blame them,” I say.

“Course not,” he says. “As long as it’s really what they enjoy.”

With that enigmatic statement, Grant pulls into the parking lot attached to Tulip Hardware, just a couple blocks up from where Billy’s used to be. At least that’ll be easy enough for me to remember.

We head inside, and Grant gives me a list of supplies to find while he hunts down the rest of the things we need. I manage to locate the nails we’ll need to finish the roof, as well as the various yard tools that have either rusted away or been borrowed from our shed and never returned in Mama’s absence.

I beat Grant to the counter and find an older couple chatting behind it. Their gazes slide over to me, at first with an absent glance, then narrowing in recognition and suspicion, in a way I’m getting used to spotting.

These people must know me. Or knew Mama, at any rate.

“Can we help you?” the man asks, a bite in his tone.

The woman doesn’t say anything, just stares.

“Er, I wanted to buy these.” I place the items on the counter.

He eyes them doubtfully. Doesn’t make a move to stand or start checking me out yet, though.

The woman leans over to pick up a cup of coffee from its perch on a neighboring stack of books and sips it politely for a long moment.

I stand there watching, eyes wide. Are they really just going to ignore me?

But after a long, almost never-ending moment, the woman finally sighs and pushes to her feet, grumbling like I’m asking the biggest, most interminable task of her. “Thirty for the lot,” she pronounces, without even looking at what I’ve laid on the table.

“But…” I bite my lip. I did the math already. None of this should add up to more than twenty bucks at most.

“Thirty,” she repeats, fixing me with a glare.

Just then, I feel a warm body approach behind me, and a thick, strong hand comes to rest gently on my shoulder. At the same time, the woman’s face transforms into a bright smile.

“Grant, honey, how lovely to see you.”

“How’ve you been? How’s the farm coming?” the man interjects.

“Great to see you too, Etna,” he replies to her first, bobbing his head. “And it’s coming along, Hank, slowly but surely. I see you’ve met my business partner, Sasha.”

“Your partner, is it now?” Etna’s eyebrows rise.

I remember her now, though. Those names—Etna, Hank—they triggered memories I didn’t even know were buried in my head. I remember Mama going over to tea at their place sometimes on Saturdays, when I couldn’t have been more than ten years old. I remember cavorting around their yard with some other kids. What were their names? I shake my head. Don’t know, but still.

I extend a hand, smiling. “Etna, I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you at first. How are your kids doing?”

She smiles back, her cheeks flushing a little, clearly surprised and pleased that I remember anything at all. “Just fine, thank you dear. And, a bit belated I suppose, but my sincerest condolences about your mother. She was a fine woman, Maryanne.”

“You’re the spitting image of her,” Hank puts in, a little warmer now that I’ve spoken up. But still. There’s a downturn at the corner of his mouth, a faint suspicion in his gaze. When he glances back at Grant, though, he’s all smiles again. “Hope you aren’t tiring yourself out too much, working up there all alone.”

“Got some help now,” Grant says with a smile, his hand tightening slightly on my shoulder.

Just that touch, even through the fabric of my T-shirt, is enough to make my body tense and a pulse of electricity flare in my nerves, deep in my belly.

“I hate to say hey and run, but…” Grant gestures from the supplies to the clock above the couple’s head. “Running low on sunlight and high on chores, so.”

“Of course, no problem, honey.” Etna beams. Then she darts a glance at me, something maybe almost apologetic in her gaze, before she turns to start counting up the items. “All together?”

“Sure,” Grant says before I can butt in.

I turn to glance at him all too aware of his hand still resting on my shoulder. “Grant,” I start in a low voice, but he cuts across me in a voice just as low.

“I’m saving receipts,” he says. “They’re all business deductions, we’ll take it out of the profits once we’ve sold the place.”

“You’re selling?” Hank butts in now, eyes wide.

“That’s the plan,” Grant replies, now looking over my head at the man. But I can’t help but notice the tightness around his jaw, or the way his hand drops off my shoulder and he doesn’t meet my gaze anymore.

What’s that about?

I don’t have time to wonder, because Etna’s already finished bagging up our supplies, and Grant accepts them from her to lead us out of the store.

I trail after, casting one last glance over my shoulder at the couple to wave as we leave. They wave back, though I have a feeling it’s mostly for Grant’s sake, from the way their eyes narrow when they catch mine, and their hands drop back to their laps the second Grant is out of sight.

We load up the truck in silence, and I climb into the cab—after Grant yet again insists on opening the door and helping me up—without a word.

“I need to stop at the grocery on the way back,” he says. “Figured I’d cook tonight. You want to do a run too?”

“Sure,” I mumble.

He lets that sit for a few seconds. “What’s eating you?” he asks when he starts the truck up again.

“Nothing.” I glance out the window.

He snorts faintly. I spin to glare at him.

“What’s so funny?”

“You acting like a grumpy teenager,” he replies bluntly. “You don’t want to talk about it?”

I bite the inside of my cheek again, annoyed at how easily he can read me. At how transparent I’m being. “It’s nothing,” I say. “It’s just…” I sigh. “The way Etna and Hank were, the way Mark was yesterday… People don’t like me here. They don’t want me around.”

“Why do you care what they think?” Grant replies with a shrug. “You left this place behind for a reason once. You’re planning to do the same thing again. What’s it matter to you how the people you left behind feel about that?”

He has a point. I lean back in my seat and wrap my hands around the belt, tugging at it. Why do I care, anyway? I’m never going to see these people again. I didn’t have a damn thing to do with them for fifteen years, not since I left for my better, far more exciting life in the city. Why do I care if they resent me for having that life, for choosing it over this one?

“Fair point,” I mumble, not quite sure how to respond. How do I articulate why it bugs me? Because, despite the fact that I shouldn’t give a damn what anyone in this town thinks… It does still bother me. I just can’t put a finger on why.

We hit the grocery store, shopping in separate aisles. I finish a lot faster—I figure Grant has a lot to stock up on, since he lives here, whereas I’m just passing through. I only need enough to get me through this week, and in my book, that’s mostly pasta and ramen, plus a few fruits and veg for my lunchtime salads.

I check out, but still no sign of him, so I figure I’ll get a head start and haul my bags out to the truck before he can come and offer to carry everything for me again, Country Man With Manners style.

I get my bags situated in the truck bed which he’s left unlocked—I’m going to have to get used to that again, I think for a second before I remember that no, I don’t have to get used to it at all, since I’ll be leaving for the big city again in just a few more days. As I’m about to climb into the truck, a shout stalls me.

“Sasha?” a guy hollers.

There’s a whistle as I stop and turn around slowly.

“It is,” the guy says again. I don’t recognize him. “Sasha Bluebell in the flesh.” He’s across the street, but when I make eye contact, he steps off the curb and starts strolling toward me. “Damn. You’ve filled out.” His gaze drops across my body. Unlike when Grant does that, this feels sleazy. Irritating as hell, especially when he licks his lips after.

I don’t remember him, but that’s clearly becoming a running theme. “Excuse me. You are?” I ask, planting my hands on my hips.

Unlike most people who seem annoyed or irritated when I don’t recognize them, this guy’s smirk only deepens. “Aaron Smith. You don’t remember me? We went to junior high together. Though…” He shakes his head with another grin—and another long, lingering look at my body, which makes me cross my arms across my stomach and glare. He’s still walking closer. Just a foot away now. “You definitely looked a lot different back then. Fair enough. Bet I did too.”

You probably weren’t a scrawny creeper with greasy hair and a lecher’s grin, I think. Then again, what do I know. “Aaron. Nice to see you. Afraid I was just leaving.” I grab the handle of the passenger side door.

He grabs my hand, pins it against the handle. “Aw. You leaving so fast? You only just got back into town from what I hear.”

“Yeah, well, never was my favorite place,” I manage to growl between clenched teeth. “This is reminding me why.”

His eyes darken. “What’s the matter, Sasha? Too good for us country boys now?” He leans in, and I catch a whiff of something horrible on his breath. Rotten egg scent. “Or do you just need a good roll in the hay as a reminder of how good we can be?” he asks with a wink.

My stomach churns. I wrench my hand free of his and open my mouth to let him have it.

But before I can, a deeper, angrier voice interrupts. “Leave her alone.”

Grant.

Aaron’s gaze darts over my head, and he drops his hand. Though he doesn’t back off. “What’s the matter, bored of the local fare, Werther? Got a taste for fancier gals now?”

“None of your fucking business, Smith,” he replies. Unlike Aaron, his tone isn’t antagonistic or angry. Grant doesn’t need to threaten anyone to be intimidating, I realize. He just… is.

“No need to snap. I wasn’t criticizing your taste.” Aaron winks again. “Big city girl is a looker, if not a keeper.”

“You know what’s also none of your fucking business, Smith?” Grant asks. I turn to find him smiling serenely. Utterly unconcerned. Only his eyes give him away. There’s a red-hot fire burning in them. It’s the kind of glare no sane person would fuck with. “Ms. Bluebell. Who, by the way, is a person, and not the inanimate object you’re making her sound like right now.” His lip turns up, his nose lifting in a faint sneer of disdain. “Though with guys like you chasing her around this town, I’d hardly say anyone can blame her for high-tailing it out of here first chance she got.”

My eyes widen, even as my heart beats faster. Fuck. No guy has ever defended me like that before.

Aaron, for his part, is scowling now. But even he seems to know better than to fuck with Grant. He’s about a third of Grant’s size and doesn’t look like he’s got any muscle to speak of either. “Fuck you too, Werther,” he mutters as he turns away.

“Great to see you as always,” Grant calls at his back, rolling his eyes and storming past me to toss his groceries in the truck. “Little fucker’s begging to get his ass wiped across this street if you ask me,” he mutters as he swings back around to open my door for me. He locks eyes with me for a second, something apologetic there. “Do me one favor. Don’t judge us all by that rotten shit-shaped apple.”

“I don’t,” I answer without thinking. I can’t tear my eyes from his. Can’t stop my heart racing either, at the thought of the way he just defended me without even so much as lifting a finger. Though I know he would—I know he’d have kicked Aaron’s ass if he had to in my defense.

That only makes it even hotter.

There’s a long, tense moment as we stand there, breathing the same air, my head tilted back so I can stare up at him fully.

Then Grant pulls away, strides back around to the driver’s side of the truck without waiting for me to climb in and shut the door behind me like usual.

I pull myself into the cabin and try to ignore the way my fingertips quiver; my hands shake as I buckle myself into the seat.

We take the drive back toward the farm in silence. I chew on the inside of my cheek, not sure how to break it. When we finally make the turn up the dirt road toward the farm itself, I take a deep breath and force the words out.

“Thank you,” I say. “For defending me.”

“I’d defend anyone from that asshole,” he replies. “Aaron Smith hasn’t been worth a damn since the second his poor mother was unfortunate enough to squat him out.”

I laugh softly and shake my head. “Still,” I continue. “I… Thanks.”

We drive up the dirt road in bumping silence for a while. I glance back down at my jeans—the same jeans that my ass showed in earlier this morning. The jeans that I traipsed around town in after Grant. No wonder Aaron tried to pull something.

I shake my head. “I should be more careful, probably.”

He glances sideways at me without responding, then guns it a little faster. The house pulls into sight up the road.

“I mean…” I tug at my jeans. “Like, with my outfits and everything. I should be more careful about drawing attention to myself…”

Grant doesn’t answer until we pull into a parking spot next to the cabin. When he puts the truck into park, he turns to cast a long look at me, gaze dropping to my jeans and then back to my face. “You’re right,” he says, reaching to undo his own belt.

I blink. “What…”

“You shouldn’t draw attention to yourself,” he speaks over me, faster, sounding frustrated now. Maybe even angry.

I frown.

“Drawing attention to yourself could cause trouble you never expected. More than you asked for.” His dark eyes catch mine, and there’s something white hot in them now. My belly clenches, even as my pussy responds by going tighter, feeling wet. “Drawing attention to yourself could make it really hard for a man like me to avoid bending your sexy ass over and fucking you right here in the dirt.”

My mouth drops open. It takes a second for me to find my voice. When I do, I have to take a deep breath to keep it from trembling with desire. “You’re… being too forward, Mr. Werther.”

He barks out a laugh at that, so sharp and close that it makes me jump in my seat slightly. “Mr. Werther. I think we’re past that now, Sasha. Or was that not you I caught this afternoon, sneaking around the house stealing peeks at my big dick in the shower?”

My cheeks flare red-hot. Fuck. He saw that?

He grins, as though to answer my internal question. “Tell me, did you like what you saw? You certainly hung around looking for long enough.”

Unbidden, unable to help myself, my gaze drops to his lap again now. There’s a bulge in his jeans, though judging by his size earlier, it’s hard to tell if he’s already hard for me or if that’s just how fucking big he is, even when he’s not hard yet. “I…”

“Or were you nervous?” He raises an eyebrow, studying me. “Scared of the big country man and his huge cock. Huh, Sasha?”

I can’t do this. I can’t stay here or I’m going to say—or do—something I fucking regret. I grab my handle and fling the door open. Throw myself down from the passenger seat and ball up my fists. I try to think of a retort, something to shout. But he’s right. I did sneak around watching him shower. I can’t exactly call him out for being crude now.

Especially not when my pussy is wetter than it’s been in months at hearing him say all that. Hearing him talk about fucking me in the dirt, about how big his cock is…

So I just turn my back and storm up toward the house.

There’s a slam as Grant shuts his own door. “That’s right,” he calls across the yard. “Scared little city girl. Run on home to the big city before you get hurt out here in the real world.”

I growl under my breath as I reach the front door. I fling it open with a crash and stomp inside, furious. I slam it behind me again, hard enough that the frame creaks in protest. I ignore it and stomp right through the house, grabbing the tool bag on the way through. Damn. I left the nails I need to finish the roof back in the truck.

Doesn’t matter. I’ll work on something else in the meantime. Anything to get me out of this house and away from that asshole.

Drawing attention to yourself could make it hard to avoid bending your sexy ass over and fucking you.

I shiver. Dammit. Why are my panties so fucking wet at the thought of that? What kind of asshole talks like that to his business partner?

That’s what we are after all. That’s all we are here. Business partners, trying to be professional while fixing up this hellhole and selling it to the highest bidder. He has no right to assume anything about me, to talk about fucking me, just because…

Just because you perved on him in the shower?

I grimace. All I did was peek a little. I was curious. So sue me. But he’s way out of line.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway, as I hole up next to the rosebush that’s taken over the tool shed out back and start to work trimming away the weeds that have interwoven between the thorny branches. If I don’t trim this thing back, it’ll take down the walls of this shed in a summer or two. So I sink myself into my repair work, and do my best to ignore any thoughts about the asshole I left standing beside his stupid truck.