Chapter 16 Taylen
TAYLEN
My boots drag against each porch step like they’re coated in cement, muscles screaming from hours of work on top of supervising the move of the fences to make sure the festival doesn’t encroach on land that it’s not supposed to.
The only thing that makes it all better is that I’ve had two full days without having to see Bastian’s face or deal with the electricity that crackles between us whenever we’re forced to occupy the same space.
The satisfaction of avoidance dissolves instantly when I spot a small package propped against my door, wrapped in brown paper. No shipping label or return address. Just my name written in a familiar hand that makes my stomach clench.
“No,” I mutter, fumbling with my keys. “Whatever game you’re playing, I’m not interested.” But my fingers betray me, already reaching for the package even as I push through the door.
Inside, I remove my mud-caked boots before I drop onto the couch. The paper crinkles as I turn the package over, studying it like it might detonate. Knowing Bastian, it might. He’s playing my game now, and I’m suddenly not sure I want to keep participating.
The wrapping comes apart easily, revealing a small box that still carries the faint scent of cedar. My heart kicks against my ribs as I lift the lid. Inside, nestled on a bed of soft fabric, lies a single key attached to a leather keychain stamped with Property Manager in elegant script.
A note rests beneath it.
Full access granted.
Make yourself at home.
B
Anger floods my system, hot and sharp as summer lightning. “Make yourself at home?” I spit the phrase like poison, surging to my feet. The box tumbles to the floor, but the key burns in my palm like a brand.
What exactly does he think this means? That he can walk away from a kiss, twice, then dangle sex like some kind of reward?
The leather keychain mocks me with its implications. Property manager. Like I’m some kind of employee he can summon at will.
I pace the living room, each step driving splinters of fury deeper under my skin. My gifts were meant to prove to him that staying in Vermont requires commitment. Time. Dedication. But this? This is different.
“Bastard,” I call, the word echoing off the walls of my empty house.
I stand there in the middle of my living room, exhaustion weighing down every inch of my body, fury crackling under my skin.
My reflection catches in the darkened window. I look wild-eyed, flushed, and half-feral. This is exactly what Bastian does to me. Reduces me to this churning mess of want and anger and confusion.
I need to wash this day off. All of it. The physical labor, the festival prep, and especially whatever game Bastian thinks he’s playing.
The shower calls like salvation, promising to wash away both physical grime and emotional turmoil. I strip quickly, letting my work clothes fall where they land. Hot water pounds against sore muscles, but it does nothing to quiet the storm in my head.
What would happen if I used the key? Just walked into his space unannounced, demanded explanations for this latest move in our complicated game? The thought sends heat through my core, which makes me even angrier. Why does my body react to him like this?
It’s not like I haven’t been with other guys.
I’ve even tried one or two relationships that never lasted longer than a few months.
Their reason was that my farm life wasn’t compatible with dining out or regular trips to Burlington to watch a show.
Now I’m wondering if maybe my stupid body gave me away without consent.
That they knew I wasn’t as invested in making it work as I thought I’d been.
I shut off the shower with more force than necessary, reaching for a towel. My closet offers too few choices because every pair of jeans has fallen victim to a fence that needed to be urgently repaired.
I settle on dark jeans that I know fit well and a Henley that brings out my eyes. If I’m going to do this, I want to look good while doing it.
The key sits on my dresser where I tossed it. I study it while running fingers through my damp hair. I could still ignore it. Could leave it on his porch with a note of my own. Could pretend this latest escalation never happened.
But my feet carry me back to the dresser, my fingers closing around the cool metal. Because ignoring Bastian has never worked. Not in Burlington, not after his return, not now. The time for running has passed.
Time to end whatever dance we’ve been doing since that night in Burlington.
The sun hangs low as I step back onto my porch, casting everything in shades of gold and shadow.
Across the property line, warm light spills from Bastian’s cabin windows.
My feet find the familiar path, each step carrying me closer to the moment that will either destroy us both or forge something neither of us can walk away from.
The key slides into the lock with embarrassing ease. Music drifts through the door, something low and intimate that makes my anger spike higher. The cabin’s warmth wraps around me as I step inside, carrying scents of garlic and wine and deliberate seduction.
Bastian stands at the stove, sleeves rolled to expose forearms that flex as he stirs something that smells ridiculously good. He doesn’t turn around, but he doesn’t need to for me to know a smile plays at the corner of his mouth. “Oh good, you got my invitation.”
The casual tone ignites something in my chest. I pull the key from my pocket. “What the hell do you think this means?” The words come out sharp enough to cut.
“Exactly what the tag says.” He moves the pan off the heat, still not looking at me directly. “Property manager. Since you seem so invested in adding to my livestock.”
“Your livestock?” The laugh that escapes me carries no humor. “You mean the goat that follows you around like a devoted puppy? The chickens you’ve probably already named and spoiled rotten?”
My point is proven when I see the chickens and Gouta huddled together on top of a blanket in the corner of his living room.
He turns around. “Let me introduce you to Moira and Myrtle,” he says mildly. “And since you’ve taken such an interest in their welfare, I thought you might appreciate official access to check on them.”
“Bullshit.” I take a step closer, anger making me bold. “This isn’t about the animals. This is about you trying to manipulate the situation. Again.”
His eyebrow rises slightly as he reaches for the wine bottle breathing on the counter. “Manipulate? That’s an interesting accusation from someone who installed beehives in my mother’s orchard without asking.”
“That was different.” The defense sounds weak even to my ears. “That was about the farm.”
“Was it?” He pours wine into waiting glasses with elegant precision. “Had nothing to do with proving a point about commitment? About staying power?” His eyes meet mine over the rim of his glass. “About permanence?”
Heat crawls up my neck that has nothing to do with the cabin’s warmth. “You’re a manipulative bastard, you know that?”
“Takes one to know one.” The words carry no heat, just quiet acknowledgment that makes something twist in my chest. “We’re both playing games, Taylen. Have been since Burlington. Maybe it’s time we stopped pretending otherwise.”
I move closer, drawn by some force stronger than anger or pride. “Is that what this is? Another game?” My hand sweeps to indicate the intimate table setting, the wine, the music still playing softly in the background. “Another move in whatever chess match you think we’re playing?”
“No games.” He sets his glass down with deliberate care. “Not anymore. You gave me permanent residents for my farm. I’m giving you permanent access to my space. Seems like a fair trade.”
“There’s nothing fair about this.” My voice drops lower as the distance between us shrinks. “You don’t get to walk away from kissing me—twice—then act like giving me a key makes everything okay.”
“I walked away because I was drunk,” he counters, moving to meet me in the middle of his kitchen. “Because you were angry. Because we’ve spent seven years turning attraction into ammunition, and I wanted to do this right for once.”
The admission lands like lightning, charging the air between us. “This?” I gesture between us, close enough now to see the flecks of silver in his hair, to smell cologne and wine and something uniquely him. “What exactly is this, Bastian?”
“You tell me.” His voice carries challenge and invitation in equal measure. “You’re the one who showed up at my door. Used the key I gave you. Walked into the trap you claim I set.”
The laugh that escapes me sounds slightly wild. “Yeah, the trap. You knew exactly what you were doing when you left that key. It’s all an elaborate setup to get under my skin.”
“Get under your skin?” He moves closer until I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
“That’s rich coming from you. You’ve been driving me wild since the day I came back.
The goat, the chickens, the beehive, and even going along with my brother’s plan to host the Christmas Festival here.
Every perfectly calculated move designed to prove I don’t belong here. ”
“That’s not—”
“Isn’t it?” His eyes hold mine with dangerous intensity.
“Baby, you’ve had me twisted up in knots for weeks.
Hell, for years, if I’m being honest. Every look, every argument, every moment you let your guard down just enough to remind me what I’m missing.
So the question is, what are you going to do about it? ”
The endearment makes my breath catch. “Don’t,” I warn, but it comes out more like a plea than a protest. “Don’t act like you know what I want.”
“But I do know.” I take another step closer, eliminating what little space remains between us. “Same thing you wanted in Burlington. Same thing you wanted the other night in your living room. Same thing you want right now.”