Chapter 42
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
LINCOLN
Beau:
You and I are overdue for a chat.
Lincoln:
That sounds mildly threatening.
Beau:
Good. It should.
Willa was fifteen laps into her anxiety pacing when I decided to stop pretending I was reading. I closed the book in my lap and set my coffee aside, eyes never leaving her.
This wasn’t just nerves—this was a full-blown mental hurricane, and the thrice-reorganized spice cabinet was taking the brunt of it.
This morning, we’d started our Sunday like we always did.
Fed the chickens, checked the hives, walked the berry rows.
Then I’d made us breakfast before I’d grabbed a cup of coffee and settled in to read the next book in what was becoming my very favorite series.
It was giving me all kinds of thoughts on what I wanted to do to my wife.
Meanwhile, she paced like a caged animal hopped up on energy drinks.
Round and round she went, barefoot and unraveling, muttering under her breath the entire time. The spices had been rearranged. Then alphabetized. Then rearranged again by some system only she understood.
Her freak-out made sense, considering today was the day she’d been dreading for weeks.
Harper Davidson was scheduled to arrive in thirty minutes for the final interview.
The Big Interview. The one that could tank our chances or secure us the grant.
And Willa’s stress levels were through the roof, which wouldn’t do us any favors.
“You planning to reorganize the entire pantry and the fridge before Harper shows up, or just the spices?” I asked before taking a sip of my coffee.
She glared at me and tossed a dish towel at my head. It landed on the floor two feet to my right.
“Not a great shot, hellcat,” I said around a grin.
She stopped moving just long enough to rub her temples, her shoulders rigid with tension, and I decided that was my cue.
I set the mug down, closed the book I hadn’t been reading, and headed toward her. No more teasing. No more watching.
Time to handle it.
I stepped up behind Willa, my chest brushing her back, and braced my hands on the countertop on either side of her hips. “You’re not gonna relax until I distract you properly, are you?”
She opened her mouth, no doubt armed with a biting response, but I didn’t give her the chance to say a word.
I brushed her hair off her neck and dropped my mouth to the curve of her shoulder. Pressed a slow, openmouthed kiss to the place I knew made her knees weak.
Sure enough, she shuddered out a breath, her entire body seeming to sag like it was exhaling. “Lincoln, this isn’t really the—”
“Shh,” I murmured, dragging my lips up to her pulse point. “I’m working here.”
I kissed her neck again. And again. And again. Hot, slow drags of my mouth against her skin, my lips and tongue making her forget everything but this. I dragged my teeth lightly along her neck—just enough to make her moan and grip the edge of the counter.
“There she is,” I whispered, not bothering to tamp down my smile. “There’s my girl.”
She relaxed back into me and tilted her head to give me more access, her breath catching in a way that had nothing to do with nerves.
I slid my hand under her shirt, brushing my fingers over her stomach. “Still thinking about the interview?”
Glancing back at me, she tried to scowl, but the look fell short. With her lips parted and eyes hazy with need, my wife was just begging to be fucked.
“You’re evil.”
“You say that like you didn’t know that when you married me,” I murmured, sliding my hand up until my fingertips traced the edge of her bra.
She breathed out a moan as I cupped her through the lace, her ass tucked nice and tight against my cock.
And that was when a knock sounded at the door.
“Shit.” She exhaled a shaky breath, her head hanging as she braced herself against the counter.
I pressed one last kiss on her jaw and stepped back, adjusting my dick in my jeans. “Guess that’s our cue, wife.”
“You’re the worst.” She fanned herself while shooting me a playful glare as she strode toward the door.
Before she could get too far, I grabbed her hand and tugged her to a stop. “We’ve got this.”
And then I kissed her. Soft. Steady. A physical reassurance that I was here with her.
Her cheeks were flushed, her shirt was wrinkled thanks to my hands, and her eyes were lust-drunk. But as she squared her shoulders and reached for the doorknob, she looked like a queen.
My queen.
She glanced back at me once—just long enough to meet my eyes. I gave her a nod, firm and sure. Letting her know without words that this wasn’t just her fight anymore—it was ours.
And I’d be right next to her every step of the way.
WILLA
Harper Davidson was exactly as intimidating as I remembered.
Not in a heels-clicking-down-the-hallway kind of way. But in an I-ooze-confidence-without-even-trying kind of way. She wore jeans and a blazer, and her soft, honey waves were tucked behind her ear as she scanned our home like she was mentally cataloguing every detail.
I braced myself. This wasn’t exactly the glossy farmhouse I’d envisioned presenting. The real house was still rented to Pearl and Bernice for another month. This was Plan B. Cozy. Cramped. Intimately us.
Harper turned a slow circle, lips quirking. “This is cute. Super charming.”
My eyebrows flew up. “It…is?”
She laughed and set her notepad on the kitchen island. “Definitely. It feels cozy. Lived-in.”
“That’s all Willa,” Lincoln said, grinning at me. “She’s made this place home.”
My breath caught, that one simple word hitting harder than I expected. Home.
Harper slid onto the extra stool Lincoln had dragged over for her, her pen clicking as she raised a brow. “Shall we?”
We sat across from her at the island. As soon as I settled on my stool, I reached for Lincoln’s hand, holding it like a lifeline. Thank god he didn’t flinch at my death grip. Just smiled and laced our fingers together like this interview was no big deal.
“Let’s start with the farm,” Harper said. “Tell me about your current operation.”
“We’re a multiseason organic farm focused on community experiences,” I said, repeating the pitch I’d rehearsed a dozen times. “We host pick-your-own berry events, harvest honey, run a fall pumpkin patch and a chop-your-own tree farm starting around Thanksgiving.”
Harper nodded. “Sounds like a full plate.”
Lincoln squeezed my knee under the table. “You should see the color-coded spreadsheet Willa uses to keep the place running. It’s pretty terrifying.”
“I imagine running this place without a spreadsheet would be pretty terrifying too,” she said.
“It is a lot,” I agreed, my heart rate slowing a bit. “Especially since we’ve started selling at the Main Street Market on weekends. He”—I nodded toward Lincoln—“encouraged me to launch a line of small-batch jams. And the mini honey sticks that we can’t keep in stock were also all him.”
“I just had the ideas,” he said, squeezing my hand. “My wife makes all the delicious content.”
Harper smiled. “And the grant? How do you see that being used?”
“Upgrades,” I said. “Some of our irrigation lines are older than I am. I’d also love to add a small commercial kitchen, so we can expand our products and sell them year-round.”
Lincoln chimed in, a grin curving his lips. “And maybe some fancy labels with her brand on them. Just so people know they’re about to taste the best jam in New England.”
“The best, huh?” Harper said. “That’s a big promise.”
“I only speak the truth.”
When he looked at me like he was now, all soft and tender, like I already was the success I was too terrified to even believe in, my heart always tripped over itself before going all soft and gooey.
Harper wrote something down in her notepad before flipping to a new page. “What’s your long-term vision?”
I froze, a wave of heat rushing through me at the question.
I thought I’d prepared for this interview, but I hadn’t thought about this.
I opened my mouth to respond, but nothing came out.
This wasn’t a question I’d let myself think about in months…
Something I’d never allowed myself to speak about at all.
Because vision was just another word for dream, and I’d learned a long time ago that dreams had a way of never coming true.
But, as if he knew I needed the reassurance, Lincoln curled his fingers tighter around mine, silently encouraging me.
I cleared my throat. “I’d, um…I’d like to rebrand.
I want to be more than another farm driven by production.
I want something more intentional and community-focused.
Things like partnering with local restaurants for tasting menus and curated pairings, offering seasonal flavor releases of limited-edition jams…
Beekeeping workshops. Farm tours. Make this a place families come back to every year. Not just for produce but for memories.”
The words hung in the air, a little too honest, a little too big. My heart was racing like I’d said too much. But before I could freak out, Lincoln brushed his thumb over my hand, grounding me.
“You remember when your dad made us haul berry crates till our arms gave out?” he asked with a smile.
I nodded, a tight laugh escaping. “Every summer.”
“He was all hustle. Always focused on increasing production.” Lincoln’s gaze was soft and tender as he looked at me. “But this? What you want to do here? It’s all heart. It’s all you, wife.”
My throat went tight, his words landing deep in my chest. Leave it to Lincoln to say the one thing I didn’t know I needed to hear. The one thing that made me believe, just for a second, that maybe this dream wasn’t foolish after all.
That maybe we could create it together.
“Not just me,” I murmured. “Us.”
Lincoln held my gaze, all his usual teasing gone. I didn’t say the words that were bubbling up in my throat, but maybe he heard them anyway.
I want this life, and I want it with you.
Harper smiled, flipping the page. “Let’s shift to the two of you.”
Fuck. This was it. This was what this all hinged on—our fake marriage and hoping like hell Harper bought that it was real.
Lincoln slid his hand up my thigh and gave it a small squeeze. A silent I’ve got you.
Harper’s tone was light, but her gaze was razor-sharp. “When did you know this was the person you wanted to build a life with?”
Lincoln laughed under his breath and leaned back on the stool, the picture of ease. “I think I was about fourteen.”
I snorted and turned to him with a raised brow. “Pretty sure you were also fourteen when you locked a rooster in my room and gave me a very loud, very annoying wake-up call.”
With a grin, he just shrugged, completely unrepentant. “I contain multitudes, wife. You know this.”
Harper chuckled under her breath. “And you, Willa?”
I hesitated. “Probably when he read my favorite book, even though it’s not his preferred genre.”
He grinned. “Oh, it’s definitely my preferred genre now, hellcat. For very specific reasons, which we won’t share with the grant committee.”
“Lincoln,” I hissed.
But Harper just laughed. “I have to admit I wasn’t expecting to be charmed during a grant interview, but here we are.”
“Sorry about that.” I hooked a thumb in Lincoln’s direction and rolled my eyes. “This one can’t help it.”
“I’m not gonna apologize for that,” he said, grinning at Harper. “If charming you helps my wife get what she deserves, I’ll turn it up to eleven.”
The grin lingered on Harper’s face, but her gaze sharpened just a touch as she flipped to the last page of her notes. “One final question. What’s been the most challenging part of being married so far?”
“Watching her carry more than she has to,” Lincoln said before I could even open my mouth to respond. “And learning whether to step in or back off.”
“How about you, Willa?” she asked.
But my gaze was locked on my husband, and I couldn’t look away. Because for all the ways this marriage wasn’t supposed to be real, he’d never treated it that way. Not when it came to me. He’d shown up, day in and day out, like a man who’d meant every word of our fake vows.
Until this—until him—I’d never felt so cared for. So cherished.
I swallowed thickly and admitted, “Trusting someone enough to help carry the burden.”
He rubbed his thumb across my skin, giving me the steady presence I’d come to rely on more than I could admit.
Harper clicked her pen again and flipped her notebook closed before sending us a smile. “This was really helpful. And surprisingly lovely.” She stood, tucking her things into her bag.
“That’s it?” I asked, walking her to the door.
“That’s it,” she confirmed. “Someone will be in touch soon.”
Lincoln stood behind me, his warmth a comforting presence at my back. “Before you go, can we bribe you with some jam?”
“Tempting,” Harper said on a laugh. “But I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. I might swing by the market next week, though.”
With that, she headed out, and Lincoln and I stood shoulder to shoulder in the doorway until she drove out of sight.
Then he shut the door, turned to me, and pulled me into his arms. “I’m so fucking proud of you, hellcat,” he murmured into my skin. “You did it.”
“We did it,” I corrected and exhaled for what felt like the first time all day.
“Yeah, we did. We fucking nailed that shit.”
I laughed, but it sounded half delirious. My cheeks hurt from smiling. My eyes burned from holding back tears.
We stayed like that for long moments, his lips against my neck, arms locked tight around me, and his chest solid and warm beneath my cheek.
Maybe it was leftover adrenaline, maybe it was the steady thrum of his heartbeat that I’d come to know so well…
Maybe it was the whisper of hope that had started to take shape weeks ago and only bloomed brighter today, but I’d started to believe that maybe this wasn’t fake for him. That maybe this didn’t have to end.
That maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t the only one who’d fallen.