Chapter 5
Emory
There was something different about the farmhouse.
Emory couldn’t quite put her finger on it.
The same collection of old, fraying picture books was spread on the coffee table.
Memories of the boys’ youth that Byron revisited daily when he looked after Clayton.
The old leather couch was still sunken in the centre, where Miff was curled in a ball.
The same cold slate tile floors were covered with the same soft tan rug in front of the fire.
After the distant thunder had eased, Clayton had sprung to life, pulling every toy from the tub Byron had left in the living room.
He’d then proceeded to ignore them all and had pulled a box of wooden blocks out from somewhere—Emory wasn’t exactly sure where it came from.
With blocks all around him on the floor, Clayton was now building the tallest, skinniest tower he could on the big square coffee table.
It was time for Emory to get him ready for bed, but with the hustle of a trip to this Papa’s and the excitement of going to bed here, Emory doubted she’d have any luck getting him to sleep.
She’d let him play for a little longer, then she’d try.
She looked around the room again, trying to put her finger on what was different. After cooking dinner and insisting on doing all the tidying up, Byron had disappeared into the back of the house, leaving Emory alone with Clayton. But it wasn’t his presence she was missing, was it? That was silly.
With every ounce of her being, she had tried to ignore the way her stomach fluttered when she saw him stride out of the house.
Determination and worry had been written all over his face, and her fingers had twitched, wanting to reach out and smooth away the deep crease between his brows.
His hair had been all scruffy, like he’d just got out of bed or he’d spent the afternoon running his fingertips through the ends.
Emory couldn’t help but imagine it would look the same if it were her fingers getting tangled through the short strands.
And then, of course, that made her think of so much more.
She imagined what his muscles would feel like under her touch and how his large, calloused hands might feel if they explored her body.
How his beard might scratch at the skin on her chin. Or between her legs.
She forced a shudder, desperate to shake off all the inappropriate thoughts.
Byron had been her saviour in many ways over the years.
Giving her and Clayton a place to stay was just another item to add to the list. And Emory was grateful, so grateful, for all of Byron’s support.
She just hated the way her body reacted to his presence.
It was hard enough to fight off the heat that rushed through her when they crossed paths as often as they did.
When she knew she could escape home and hide her attraction in her bedroom, revisiting it later when she was alone.
But here? Now? There would be no escape.
She could squeeze her thighs together as much as she wanted, but she’d never be able to relieve the tension.
Not with the man she so desperately wished could be relieving it for her just down the hall.
That, surely, would be taking her petty enthralment a step too far.
Emory pushed off the couch, leaving Clayton with his blocks to hunt down whatever it was that was making this place feel so different.
She found it in the kitchen. A wide candle with a large, wooden wick flickered on the otherwise empty kitchen bench.
Emory had never seen this room so neat. The small breakfast table was usually a dumping ground.
Jackets on the back of chairs, a half-drunk coffee sitting atop the local newspaper.
Emory was certain Byron was the only person left in town who read the physical copy.
Everyone else downloaded the thing straight to their phones.
She hadn’t noticed any of it was missing when they sat down to eat, but without the bowls of potatoes and chicken wings and veggies spread on the table, its bareness screamed at her.
But that wasn’t all. Dishes usually sat drying on the rack by the sink.
Crates of fresh fruit and vegetables—Byron’s share from the week’s harvest of Tucker’s small but mighty produce patch on the other side of the farm—often remained on the bench.
But it was all cleared. Even the pots and pans from tonight’s meal had been washed, dried and put away instead of being left to air dry overnight.
Byron had insisted Emory could play with Clayton while he tidied up after dinner, but she hadn’t imagined he would go this far.
The candlelight danced across the bench, its wooden wick crackling as it filled the air with a fresh, woodsy scent that reminded her of the bush.
It looked new. The creamy wax was still high in the jar, the small pool that had started to melt not yet reaching the edges.
“I bought it in town.”
His deep, husky voice reverberated through Emory’s bones.
“When?” Emory’s voice was a breathy whisper.
She hadn’t meant it, truly, but she couldn’t have helped it.
Not when her heart did a funny kind of gallop because she thought he was implying he bought it today.
For her. He couldn’t have meant that, though.
That was just her silly little heart thinking.
She didn’t turn to face him, didn’t want him to see the way her cheeks were red hot with her blush.
Byron cleared his throat, and Emory imagined his Adam’s apple bobbing with the movement.
Stop it. She couldn’t think like this. Was it too late to go to the community centre?
A flash of lightning blinded her, the loud clap of thunder following almost instantaneously.
A warning, no doubt, that it was already too late. At least for tonight.
Miff barked, no doubt jumping down from her cosy spot on the couch.
The echoing sound of blocks tumbling was followed by Clayton’s cries.
He climbed over the couch, tiny footsteps plodding along the hard floor with Miff’s scampering close behind.
The little boy and the dog ran together into the kitchen, colliding with Emory.
She wouldn’t have toppled if her heart hadn’t already thrown her off balance.
At least that’s what she told herself. But really, the force of Clayton slamming against her legs and Miff skidding to stop in front of her caught her off guard.
She swayed on the spot, unable to throw out a leg for balance because Clayton had wrapped his arms around her and was squeezing tight.
They were going down, Emory and her son.
All she could do was throw her arms behind her to catch the ground as they fell.
Only, she didn’t. She caught something else instead.
Firm abs, and then, because she was falling and couldn’t help it, her hand dropped lower.
Emory squealed when she realised what she’d done, her hand wrenching away from Byron’s crotch and dropping lower instead.
His thigh was firm, full of muscle, and Emory’s entire body was heating up.
She needed out of the warm hoodie she’d put on as the sun began to set. Or better yet, out of this room.
Byron seemed unfazed. He huffed, scooping Emory under her arms before she hit the floor.
He wrapped his arms around her chest, placing her back upright.
But he didn’t let go when her feet hit the ground.
He stepped closer. Holding her still while she regained her balance, it did nothing to help her composure.
Pressed against her back, she could feel him.
All of him. And she was hyper-fixated on the part that she shouldn’t be feeling.
Not when she fell, not now, not ever. But there it was, firm against the small of her back.
Firm!
Ugh, she was never going to live this down. Or be able to forget about it. No matter how many times she told herself it was just his body’s natural reaction to being unintentionally groped, Emory was fixated on what it might mean.
She wriggled against Byron’s hold, trying to break free. He held her tight and growled, low in her ear.
“Don’t.”
Emory whimpered as his hot breath caressed the soft pad of skin under her ear.
“You’ll make it worse.”
She squirmed.
“Emory.”
Closing her eyes, Emory took a long, deep breath.
The kind she felt right down in her belly.
Her exhale was shaky, but she stood, frozen, as Byron loosened his bear hug.
She could have sworn his fingertips lingered on her hips.
A sharp, whispered gasp escaped her lips, and as if in response, Byron let out a grumbled breath of his own before clearing his throat and stepping away.
Another flash of lightning lit up the room, followed by a clap of thunder that echoed all around them. Still clinging to her legs, oblivious to his mother’s crimson red cheeks, Clayton screamed.
“I think we’re in for a long night,” Emory said, mostly to herself, but from his new spot far across the room, Byron coughed in response.
“From the thunder. Yep.” He cleared his throat and left the room.
Emory held in the giant, exaggerated sigh that threatened to escape her. Of course, Byron was less than thrilled at the thought of Clayton crying all night. She wasn’t particularly thrilled about it either, but unlike Byron, she couldn’t just leave the room at the realisation.