Chapter 20
maverick
She looks like sin and salvation in the passenger seat—wisps of hair around her face loose from her braid, pouty kissable lips that she’s been chewing on, flushed cheeks, and tired eyes looking around like she’s a deer who knows there’s a wolf in the woods.
I know she wants to go home, regroup. I should let her. But for reasons I can’t explain, not even to myself, I don’t want to let our time together end just yet.
“I want to show you something.” I take the exit before the one that leads to Longhorn—the earlier turnoff that heads toward Kincaid Farm.
Aria shoots me a look. “What kind of something?”
I grin. “The kind that doesn’t come with strings, darlin’, so relax, yeah?”
She raises a skeptical brow but doesn’t protest.
A few minutes later, I pull the truck around the back of Kincaid Farms and stop beside an old stone path, barely lit by the moon.
The greenhouse is tucked against a slope, wrapped in cedar and steel. Joy calls it my vanity project.
It spans nearly 5,000 square feet—arched glass and steel framed against the hill like a cathedral for the earth.
Inside, it’s warm and bright even in winter, with neat rows of raised beds bursting with life: heirloom tomatoes climbing trellises, sweet peppers ripening in clusters, basil and thyme filling the air with spice, rows of leafy greens, radishes, and winter carrots tucked beneath straw mulch.
For me, it’s peace—working there, being there, growing there.
I push open the door and wait for her to step inside.
The smells hit first—earth, warm and damp, citrus from the lemons, the soft floral sweetness of early-blooming lavender.
Grow lights bathe everything in gold. Rows of beds glow with green herbs, starter vegetables, tomatoes, and trailing vines on string lines. In one corner, a few dwarf Meyer lemon and kumquat trees produce citrus year-round.
At the far end, a swath of tulips—pink, white, golden—nod gently as if it were April in Amsterdam instead of a Colorado March night.
“This is…,” Aria trails off.
“Yeah,” I agree quietly, watching her take it in.
Most people think a ranch is about what’s in the pastures, or in the branding pen, or in the bloodlines of the horses. They’re right.
But for me, this greenhouse is the heart of what I’m doing. Nurturing.
I started this five years ago when a drought hit hard one summer, and the fields dried to nothing but dust. I built this facility to support the restaurants under the Kincaid Farms banner, focusing on backup crops and specialty herbs, furthering our commitment to farm-to-table.
Aria runs her fingers over a row of young tomato leaves, her expression softening. “It must be special to be here when there’s snow outside,” she murmurs.
“I’ll bring you here when it starts snowing in October.”
I know that’s months away but having her here is causing pressure to build in my chest—a feeling I don’t usually let in.
And damn it if the line doesn’t come out of nowhere, from a book I haven’t thought about since high school. Rochester said it best: “There’s a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly knotted to a similar string in hers.”
What the hell?
Now she’s got me quoting Jane Eyre?
God help me—I am falling hard for this woman.
She looks up at me, eyes darker than the shadows pooling between the beds as if she understands the importance of what I just said.
“Why did you bring me here now?” she asks.
I see her fear. I understand it.
The question is, why don’t I feel the same way? I’m forty years old. I’m a rancher, even if I know how to wear a suit well. I haven’t committed to a woman ever. I have never felt this way before. And yet, I’m not afraid. What I am is: curious.
I want to explore what I can be with Aria. Probably nothing long-term because that’s never happened before, but I know that whatever time I’ll have with her will definitely be interesting.
“I wanted to show you something important to me.” I’m not hiding how I feel. “I knew you’d like this, appreciate it.” I’m not hiding that I know her.
Her gaze flickers.
I don’t know what she’s thinking, but I know she needed to hear that. Because she’s fighting too. And maybe now, she’ll accept defeat gracefully, give in to me because this chemistry between us needs to be fucked out of our systems.
She looks away and plucks a mint leaf, smells it before popping it into her mouth. “It’s summer in here.”
“I come here at the end of long days…helps me think.”
She nods, like she understands that too well. “I bet.”
“You’re welcome at the end of your long days, Aria.” It’s a permission I’ve never given a woman whom I’m sexually interested in.
Her expression shifts—something vulnerable cracking through that steel mask she wears.
I take a step toward her. “Don’t say anything?”
She lifts her brows in query.
“Don’t break the magic…the moment.”
She swallows hard but gives me what I ask.
I reach for her. One hand to her waist. The other brushes the side of her jaw.
She doesn’t pull away.
"Been thinkin' about this for too long," I say, rough and needy. "Tell me if you want me to stop."
Her eyes are wide, and there’s excitement mixed in with a healthy dose of anxiety.
“I need your words,’ darlin’.”
“No, don’t stop,” she breathes.
I slide my mouth against hers.
The kiss is not careful or hesitant. It’s heat and breath.
She tastes like mint and defiance.
Like home and fight.
Like, something, shockingly, I don’t want to lose.
Her hands grip my shirt, holding on to me.
The world narrows to the space between us.
The scent of earth and blooming flowers hangs heavy in the humid air of the greenhouse, wrapping around us like a whisper of possibility.
“You have gray in your beard,” she murmurs, stroking my cheek. “And you…smell of leather and sage.”
I stroke her lips with calloused fingers, gentle, like she’s one of my precious seedlings.
I’m aware of everything, even if she’s the only thing I can see and feel. It’s as if the moment is magnified in every way.
The greenhouse pulses with life around us. I can hear the soft drip of water from the irrigation system, the rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze from the open vents.
I trace a thumb along her jawline. She leans into my touch.
“I want you,” I confess.
Her eyes flutter open. I see excitement. I also see relief.
Underneath all that prickly persona is a vulnerable, insecure woman who has been treated as a second-class citizen by the people who were supposed to love and care for her.
I vow then and there that no matter what, I’ll never let her feel like she’s second to anyone in my eyes.
"Aria," I say her name like a prayer, coaxing her mouth open with mine, playing with her tongue, tasting her.
I hear a side door open.
I growl. She stiffens.
I gently tuck her into me so Zane, the son of a bitch who probably saw I brought a woman along, came to investigate and fuck with me.
“Boss.” I can hear the amusement in his voice.
My guess? He’s probably already texted Joy: Guess what Mav’s up to.
I stroke Aria’s back to soothe her.
“Get the fuck out, Zane.”
“I just wanted to make sure it was you and—”
“Out.”
“Yeah. Yeah.”
Zane leaves, grinning.
Asshole!
Aria lifts her face; she’s flushed, embarrassed.
“What am I doin’?” she asks, shocked with herself.
I continue to hold her. She doesn’t resist.
“You’re making out with me in a greenhouse, darlin’.”
That makes her smile.
“Stay.” The word is out before I can stop myself.
She frowns in puzzlement.
“For the night.”
She remains silent for a while, and I regret letting my need get ahead of me.
“I’m not ready for that.” She cups my cheek. “But…I make a mean breakfast.”
This woman is elegant to her toes. If I hadn’t fallen for her already, it would’ve happened now.
“Then I’ll see you at sunrise,” I promise.
I drive her home and keep my hands off of her when I do. She understands because she’s got her hands clasped into one another.
“How do you like your eggs?” she asks huskily once she’s out of my truck.
“Chef’s choice.”
She flushes. “Goodnight, Maverick.”
“Dream of me, darlin’.”