Chapter 1 #2
Her hips are nestled against my stomach, the intimacy of the position sending a jolt through me, making my heart race even faster. My hands, seemingly of their own volition, have found their way to her ass, cupping the firm yet yielding flesh, holding her aloft as if she weighs nothing at all.
Shit. If I had known I was about to meet her, I would have at least showered or changed my clothes. I’m pretty sure I smell no better than a cow or a goat right now. The scent of earth and livestock clings to my worn flannel shirt, and there's probably hay stuck in my beard.
“Y-you’re not a killer, are you?”
The question comes out of left field, and I snort. Or maybe it does make sense. She did just launch herself to me, after all.
She pulls back just enough to look me in the eye. And that’s when I begin to spiral. Images of kissing her, devouring her mouth, shuffle through my mind. My breath catches, my fingers reflexively digging into her.
God, I want to kiss her. A thread of desire knots around me, tighter and tighter, until I’m fighting it on sheer willpower alone. My self-control hangs by a thread as thin as spider silk.
Something passes her features, and she blinks slowly. “Oh, hi. I’m Paris, by the way. Paris Page.”
It takes me about three seconds to remember my fucking name. “Parker. Parker Priest. I own the field.” And about two hundred acres surrounding it, but that detail seems irrelevant with her soft curves molded against my chest.
“You can put me down now.” Her words flutter against my neck, sending a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the evening chill.
“I could.” I tighten my arms around her, and her mouth forms an ‘o’. “But do you want me to?”
Her brows twitch upward, her breath coming in uneven little puffs against my skin.
She looks confused and conflicted, those expressive features broadcasting every thought that crosses her mind.
Then she bites her bottom lip, worrying the pink flesh between her teeth in a way that makes my pulse thunder in my ears.
I know it's not supposed to be seductive—it's clearly a nervous habit—but my caveman brain and body don't know the difference. The sight of those perfect white teeth pressing into that soft flesh shorts out what's left of my rational thinking.
Without thinking—because thinking clearly isn't something I'm capable of right now—I reach up.
My rough, calloused fingers brush her chin, and I tug her lip free with my thumb.
Her lip pops from between her teeth, red and wet from the pressure, and my thumb lingers at the edge of her mouth, tracing the tender flesh before I can stop myself.
Paris sucks in a soft, sharp breath, her eyes as wide as saucers. Her breathing becomes ragged, and just as she’s about to open her mouth to say something, the skies open up.
Rain dumps like a flipped bucket, cold and sudden, slapping through the corn and soaking us in seconds.
“Shit,” I say, shifting her in my arms. “Hang on.”
I carry her through the field, boots slipping once on the muddy path, her arms tight around my neck. The small white farmhouse glows ahead, porch lights flickering warm and yellow through the curtain of rain.
Warmth rushes out to meet us as I reach the door and push it open with my shoulder. Inside, I set her down gently, but the moment she pulls back, I freeze.
Her shirt.
That soaked white T-shirt clings like a second skin. Thin cotton molds to her body, hugging every dip and curve. Her chest rises and falls, nipples visibly taut beneath the fabric, her skin flushed from the cold and the rush and maybe something else.
My cock jerks to attention before I can stop it.
“Y-you w-were p-probably wondering why I was crying.”
I couldn’t say anything if I wanted to. I’m just so damn busy adjusting my pants. My sense of equilibrium has shifted, and I don’t know what to make of it.
“I got lost in the maze, sure, but there’s this guy…”
White-hot fury floods in my veins, and I snap my head back to her. “Did he hurt you?”
Paris waves both hands and shakes her head.
“Not in that way, no. He’s my boss at the magazine where I work.
He’s been on to me ever since I said no to a coffee date.
And he keeps giving me assignments designed to make me quit.
This was the last straw. I was supposed to cover a major woman-owned brand opening, but he sent me here instead.
When I got lost, I just kind of lost it.
” She looks at me through her long, wet lashes and smiles shyly. “Sorry for dumping this on you.”
“That’s okay.” Inside, I’m fuming. Who the fuck is this asshole?
When I get my hands on him, I would— wait.
Wait a damn minute. Why am I reacting like this?
Where’s this protective instinct coming from?
Shit. I’m getting whiplash from all the emotions pinging through me ever since I first saw her. “I’ll go grab you some clothes.”
“I wouldn’t want to impose.”
My only response is a grunt. There’s pounding at the base of my skull, and I can’t seem to untangle the rioting emotions inside me. I grab the cleanest, most decent clothes I have in my cabinet. An oversized T-shirt and cotton pajamas.
I hand them over without a word, pointing to the bathroom down the hall. Paris takes the clothes, eyes never leaving mine. Our fingers brush, and an electric jolt slides down my spine.
And then—God help me—she lifts her soaked shirt. Right in front of me.
Time stops as though I’m falling under a spell.
I see skin, a lot of it. Smooth, soft, water droplets trailing down. Her bra’s white lace, nearly see-through. My throat tightens. I should look away, give her space, because I’m definitely acting like a creep.
“Bathroom’s that way,” I say, spinning around so fast I almost trip over my own feet. “I’ll, uh, I’ll get coffee going.”
I flee to the kitchen like a coward, my skin feeling hot and tight.
My heartbeat’s out of control, hammering against my ribs like it wants to break out. What the hell is happening to me? I don’t do this. I don’t react to people like this. I don’t let strangers into my house and then get hard over them changing clothes.
But she’s not just anyone, is she?
In less than an hour, Paris has lodged under my skin like a splinter I don’t want to pull out.
I’m pouring water into the kettle when I hear her soft steps behind me.
“Hey,” she says, her voice quieter now.
I turn … and nearly swallow my tongue.
She’s standing in the doorway in my shirt, sleeves too long, pants rolled at the waist, her damp hair loose around her shoulders. She looks … God, like she’s a goddess gracing me with her presence.
She lifts her bundled wet clothes. “Where’s your dryer?”
I shake my head, setting the kettle down. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.”
When I come back from the laundry room, her wet clothes hanging over the drying rack, I freeze in the doorway.
She’s perched on the edge of my dining table, legs crossed, steam curling from two mugs in front of her. Mine and hers. Ours.
She's using the blue-and-white ceramic one. The one that belonged to my grandmother. The one I keep tucked at the very back of the cupboard and never offer to anyone. Well, usually. Paris can do whatever she wants.
“I figured you’d want coffee too,” she says softly, smiling.
That smile feels like a punch to the gut. “I do.”
We drink in silence for a while. The rain’s still falling outside, steady and slow now.
I glance toward the hallway and clear my throat. “I don’t have another bed. Used the other rooms for storage. So, uh, you can take mine.”
She looks up at me over her mug. “Only if you’re there with me.”
I blink. “W-what?”
She smiles, slow and shameless. “I won’t kick the homeowner out of his own bedroom.”
“It’s fine,” I say too quickly, shifting in my seat, wondering why I’m acting this awkward.
Paris lifts her brow. “Will your girlfriend or wife get mad?”
“What? No. I’m single.”
Her eyes flick up to mine. “Good.”
My brain malfunctions, and it seems like every drop of blood has rushed down south, tightening my loins. “What?”
“What?”
I stand too fast. My chair scrapes back, and I wince at the sound it makes.
Fucking smooth, Parker. Real smooth.
I don’t know what she’s doing to me—I really am too tired to dissect my feelings—but if I don’t walk away now, I might do something I can’t take back.
“Goodnight, Paris,” I say, already on my way to grab blankets and pillows for my couch, which I won’t fit in. I’ve already made peace with the fact that I’ll wake up with a sore back tomorrow.
She grins into her cup. “Goodnight, farmer.”