Chapter 6
Sophie
I looked up from pouring myself a cup of coffee to find Davis filling the kitchen doorway. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and I frowned. "Can I get you a cup of coffee, Davis? You look beat."
He yawned, stretching his big hands up to grip the top of the doorframe. The move emphasized the musculature in his biceps. His raised arms had the added benefit of pulling his shirt taut, exposing a sliver of his abs and a hint at the dark hair arrowing lower, beneath the waist of his jeans.
Fire flashed through me as I imagined tracing that path.
I held back an impromptu lecture on the benefits of morning stretches and an offer to lead him in a few yoga poses to limber up.
Given his knowing glance when I finally dragged my gaze back up to his face, he'd pick up on it as a transparent bid to bend him into more interesting positions and admire his body further.
Was it my imagination that he puffed out his chest, just a little bit, as he strode toward me?
He paused at my shoulder, the heat from his body sending a fresh rush of awareness through me. “Bee?” The finger snap in front of my face brought his light eyes into focus. "You okay?"
I pasted on a sunny smile to cover my embarrassment at being caught mooning.
"Yeah. Just noticing your arm must be feeling better. No sling,” I pointed out.
He grunted.
“How do you take your coffee?" I asked, shifting to safer topics.
He leaned back against the kitchen counter, close enough for me to smell the hint of soap on his skin, and crossed his arms over his chest. The move made the muscles in his biceps bulge, stretching his shirt in more intriguing ways.
"Mild and sweet. Like me."
I peeked up at Davis, sure he was teasing me. Shocked to my core by his joke, I couldn’t quite believe what I’d heard. His serene expression gave nothing away.
"How much sugar do you like?" I asked, testing him.
He held up two fingers. I pulled the half and half from the fridge, doctoring each of our mugs before handing him one.
Davis's gaze met mine as our fingers brushed. The intimacy of the moment sent fresh flutters arrowing to my belly. Slowly, he took a sip from his mug, grunting in what I interpreted as appreciation. From Davis, it felt like warm approval.
"How's the ankle?" he asked.
I raised one shoulder. "Feeling a little better." I arched my brows. "Definitely well enough to help you with farm chores. What's on the docket today, boss?"
Davis's eyes narrowed. I did a shuffle step, complete with jazz hands. "Ta-da! See? I'm much better today."
He grunted, pointing. "Sit."
His throaty command sent a flash of awareness tingling through me.
"How do you like your eggs?" he asked, pulling a frying pan from the drawer beneath his oven.
The smooth motion drew his jeans taut over his glutes, emphasizing his massive thighs.
Yes, I checked out his butt. So sue me.
He was adorably rumpled and cooking for me. The combination was deadly to my poor, languishing libido.
"Fertilized," I muttered absently, caught up in fantasies I had no business entertaining about my short-term roomie.
Davis turned, his silent glare sending a flush beneath my cheeks. I coughed. "Fried. I said fried. I like 'em stomped on, yolks broken, the whole shebang."
"Figures," he muttered, turning back to the stove.
"What figures?" I asked.
Should I be poking the bear? Absolutely not.
After all, he was feeding me. I didn't have any business being picky.
Especially not after getting caught ogling him.
But something about his muttering flipped my switch.
I could handle a heck of a lot and maintain my sweet-as-pie attitude, but when I hit my limit: watch out.
"It's probably how all the poor saps across town feel after you get done flirting with them. Broken and stomped on."
I pulled back, instinctively retreating from his charge. Sure, I was bubbly, but my chatter was more friendly than flirting. Except when it came to him. Judging by the lack of men asking me out, most weren’t confused. Did he not understand the difference?
It might be the longest sentence I'd gotten out of Davis, but any sense of triumph was overshadowed by hurt.
"I'm a friendly person," I defended. "It's my personality."
"Sure it is," he said. His easy dismissal stung. "People pleasing is all well and good until someone gets their heart broken."
"Someone?" I asked. "You have a particular someone in mind there, Davis? That's an awful lot of accusation for so early in the morning. I didn't know you cared."
"I hear things," he mumbled, cracking an egg into the pan.
I huffed. "Sure. Campfire is a small place. Gossip is practically the town's only hobby. But it doesn't mean you have to believe everything you hear – especially about your friends," I added pointedly.
He turned around, the surprise in his expression gripping my heart. "Are we friends, Bee?"
"Yes," I insisted, without thought.
Skepticism shone in his dark eyes. He grunted, spinning back to our eggs.
My shoulders slumped, my playful mood gone. I'd thought we were friends. Clearly, Davis disagreed.
I couldn’t figure out what it would take to crack his stubborn shell.
Did he expect me to swear fealty in blood or learn a secret handshake to earn his friendship?
Was his definition wildly different from mine?
In my world, friends helped friends out when they needed it.
Whether it was catching a wayward balloon or stepping up to assist with farm chores. We didn’t let each other flounder.
Bewilderment swamped me. He seemed intent on pushing me away, denying the tentative friendship I thought we’d forged. The last ingredient of a real friendship was accepting each other’s flaws, and, clearly, he couldn’t get over mine.
"Thanks," I murmured when he slid a plate in front of me.
My eggs were perfectly cooked. Of course they were. Davis did everything well.
We ate in silence. I tried not to let the oppressive quiet get to me and force me into speaking to fill it. Davis didn't seem to want my friendship. I firmed my chin. Too bad he still needed my help.
I waited until he'd finished his last bite before scooping up his plate and mine, making quick work of our breakfast dishes. "Ready?" I asked as I turned back to the kitchen table.
I caught Davis’s gaze skip from my butt to my face, the heat in his eyes there for a flash before he banked it into his usual stoic expression.
It was on the tip of my tongue to tease him for checking out my butt, but my smart mouth was what had gotten me in trouble with him in the first place.
I couldn’t let go of the idea that the way his attention lingered on my curves indicated he was protesting a little too much about our arms-length relationship.
Instead, I smoothed my expression to one of polite disinterest. "What chore is up first?"
Davis downed the last of his coffee and pushed to his feet. "Since you seem to like fertilized eggs so much, let's check on the chickens."
Cheeks burning, I joined him at the back door, tugging on one of his spare work coats before following him to the chicken coop.
I shadowed Davis through his chores, collecting eggs and feeding the kittens. As the morning wore on, Davis lost the hunch in his shoulders, seeming to relax. Maybe it helped that I held my tongue instead of peppering him with a thousand questions like I wanted.
Davis checked the soil moisture as we walked the hops rows. He noted the limp that had crept back into my gait with a frown.
"Time for lunch," he growled, gesturing back toward the house.
Slowly, I followed Davis, stumbling over a gopher hole I missed in my desire to sneak a peek at his butt.
The way that man filled out his jeans should be illegal.
I stroked my chin. Maybe this was an issue for the city council.
I tried to imagine Davis's reaction if I succeeded in getting an ordinance passed that banned him from wearing jeans.
The stubborn man would probably switch to thin sweatpants, just to spite me.
I tripped over another hole, too busy trying to decide if it was inappropriate for me to buy him sweatpants for his birthday.
Even I wasn't bold enough to try to convince Jo to do it for me.
She didn't need to know that I'd taken an unhealthy interest in the way her older brother filled out his shorts.
"Fork," I muttered, finding yet another gopher hole in my distraction.
Davis paused, and I held back my groan.
Busted.
He pivoted to face me, taking a slow inventory from the top of my messy hair to my barn jacket and soft denim, to the tennis shoes that weren't exactly farm-worthy but had done in a pinch. Davis's eyes narrowed as he realized I wasn't putting my full weight on my left foot.
"Climb on," he growled, crouching down and offering me his back.
I suppressed the flare of excitement. Davis seemed less than enthusiastic. His words were more order than invitation.
I wrapped my arms around his thick neck, ignoring the mix of fresh grass and eau de chicken that clung to him.
Davis boosted me up his back, his good palm cupping my backside to hold me in place as he strode toward his house.
My breasts pressed against his back, my nipples hardening as they grazed the firm muscle there.
I squeezed my thighs around his hips, shifting closer, letting the sweet friction build.
Caught between heaven and hell, I clung closer, willing him not to notice how turned on I was.
Every step only added to my torture, cranking up my tension.
Davis’s firm hand clenched around my butt, almost a massage, and I held back my gasp with effort, sure this was not what he intended when he offered to carry me.
He acted like the extra weight was nothing.
Like having me pressed against him, rubbing along his back, didn't bother him at all.
"Fork me," I murmured under my breath, ashamed of how flustered I was.
I rode Davis's back all the way to the house, whimpering when he set me down.
"Do you need me to carry you to your bed?" he asked, expression concerned.
"Yes."
It slipped out before I could call it back, I swear. Barely twenty-four hours, and Davis had turned me into a stone-cold pervert. Or was that red-hot?
I gathered the shreds of my composure with both hands, going for innocent. "Davis, on second thought, I can go lie down on my own. A few minutes off my feet, and I'll be good as new," I said brightly. "I'll make dinner later if you like."
"Text me if you need something." Davis's rough command sent a shiver down my spine. If only he really meant that…
I limped toward Jo's bedroom, savoring every twinge of agony shooting through my foot.
I considered it penance. Davis had addled my brain.
Hopefully a little pain and some time alone would help me rediscover my resolve.
At this rate, three more days with Davis was going to turn me into a quivering mass of hormones.
I flopped down on Jo's bed, staring at her ceiling. My foot throbbed. Just what I deserved. So far, my plan to get over my crush on Davis by shadowing him everywhere was a bust. Every moment together only made me want him more, grumpy monosyllables and all. Because, as much as he might grumble, his actions had been impossibly sweet. Making me breakfast. Carrying me home. If the blasted man would only look at me, talk to me, I’d be convinced he wanted me too.
My commitment to getting over him was growing weaker by the moment. Keeping my distance and struggling to manage the stairs at my apartment would have been the safest choice.
Spending more time with Davis at the farm might be easier on my foot, but it was endangering my heart.