Twenty-Six
Tait
Henry’ s presence proves to be more distracting than I’d like. And not just because of the pangs of lust that surge each time he does some small, inconsequential, purely masculine thing (e.g., throwing his arm over the back of my seat and looking over his shoulder to back the truck out, scratching his beard, doing the dishes for fuck’s sake), but also because something is… off.
Despite the other day, and the playfulness since, I keep expecting a bit of coolness from him—maybe even some detachedness after the other night when I sent him away. Instead, he’s been suspiciously nice. Doting, even.
After an oddly silent car ride over here—a stark contrast to the ride before that—he’s been overly attentive. He hovers over my shoulder, checking out shots on the little screen and smiling and complimenting. It’s disorienting, to put it mildly.
Plus, the man is just obscenely large. Watching him deftly haul around my lighting equipment like a sack of feathers rather than the cumbersome load it is puts my libido at odds with my feminist ideals. My mind continuously wanders to how those large hands felt splayed across me, fingertips pressed into that spot on my spine right above my ass. RBG help me, even remembering how easily he tossed said ass has a giddy feeling building in my solar plexus.
As aware as I am of the man, this garden setup is impressive.
“Eventually, we’ll build a more permanent greenhouse structure around all of this, but this will do for now,” he says, hauling me out of the mental gutter.
“Henry should show you the whole system and what everything is. He designed it,” LeighAnn offers.
I look up at him to find him practically bouncing on his toes. Oh, he’s really into this. Gardening. Of all the things.
“Well, like I was saying, eventually I’m sure they’ll put a more permanent structure around it, but this is just easy to add to for now, or adjust later,” he says, walking me over to the area where I’ve been informed the fall garden will be popping through. Sure enough, there’s a pumpkin patch sprawled out around a corner.
They’ve had the foresight to build it under a massive hanger-style building, with greenhouse sheeting in panels that are easy to rotate and remove for more or less sun exposure. It’s the length in total of a football field, if I had to guess, complete with a composting area, a chicken coop, a massive indoor potting bench that’s got numerous labeled fertilizers, feeds, and tools neatly organized and labeled. There are even rainwater collection barrels that are piped in from both ends. It’s brilliant—at least, to someone with no experience in this, it sure seems to be. He’s seemingly thought of everything. The pride on his face, mixed with his thinly veiled excitement, is contagious. I find myself asking about each area and plant, mooning over him wax poetic about how he wants to attempt this chili or that squash, or the cobbler he and Emmaline made with a mix of the berries they grew over summer… his eventual hopes of having an orchard.…
Hoooooboy, I’ve got the hots for a farmer. Farmer? Cowboy? I don’t know which, or both, but I’ll bet he’s one of the few men on planet Earth who could rock the hell out of a pair of overalls. I bite my lip to stave off laughing at the mental image.
“What?” he says sternly. He thinks I’m laughing at him.
“Nothing. I’m just a stereotype. I feel like every other bitch.”
He frowns in confusion. “I haven’t known you long, but even I think it’s safe to say there’s only one of you, Tait,” he says before getting distracted by an errant weed. He jerks it out of the garden bed like its very existence offends him, and I wonder if he realizes that he’s just paid me such a weighty compliment.
I’m not unique, and while I know that’s perfectly fine, feeling as though I’m special to someone again is… causing me to have a moment.
The man is just so damn helpful. I can’t help but notice how easy it is for LeighAnn, Grady, Caleb—hell, even the other employees in this place—to all ask him questions or for a hand without hesitation. And while I couldn’t categorize Henry as someone eager to impress anyone, it’s all too obvious that he cares about every aspect of the place.
And yet… this is all just outside of LeighAnn’ s house. He helps with the Range’s animals and horses. Even his house is James’s old one.
What does he get for all his loyalty and dedication, I wonder?
Belle chooses that moment to lick my hand like she’s aware and happy that I’m noticing this about her guy, and I look up to catch Henry’s eye. He flexes his hands and shifts uncomfortably, grinding a muscle in his jaw, but not breaking eye contact.
I’m aware, all over again, of the tiniest sensations under that stare—wishing so badly that I could read the thoughts on his face like he apparently can mine. I feel the beads of sweat trickling down my tank top as he strides my way. I slowly pull my camera up higher as my shield de facto, and he smirks.
“Got enough here?” he asks.
Not nearly. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Feel like a swim? Grady and Caleb want to go to a swimming hole,” he says, including the last sentence for my benefit, I’m sure, so that I know this is a G-rated swim adventure this time.
“Absolutely. We’ll stop on the way to unload the equipment and grab suits?”
“Perfect. I’ll load up an ice chest and some dinner.”