Chapter 8 Eric
“E ric! Your dick is out. That’s twice in under a day.”
Emma’s voice cuts through the air, sharp and amused, as my brain struggles to catch up.
My lips curve into a lazy grin, eyelids heavy, as her gaze drags over my body. She stands in the middle of my home like she belongs here, like she’s always belonged here. Her chamomile scent curls into my senses, messing with my already fried brain.
The girl I once knew is long gone.
The woman standing in front of me? She’s all grown up, wrapped in a checkered shirt and slim jeans that fit like a second skin. She moves with an ease that clashes with the ruggedness of this place, her casual elegance making her stand out even more.
And damn, if she doesn’t look good doing it.
Heat rushes through me like a molten river, all of it heading south. I rake a hand through my damp hair, trying to get my bearings. Shower. Towel. Fuck.
I glance down, but the towel is gone.
“So you did see me?” I mumble.
Emma snickers as my brain finally catches up. I scramble for the fabric, dragging it over my rapidly hardening cock.
“Relax,” she says, that mischievous spark in her voice. “You have nothing to be ashamed of.”
I sink onto the couch, the towel doing little to shield me from her knowing gaze. “I’ll take that as a yes ,” I mutter, knowing full well she saw me in that barn, not just yesterday but also ten years ago.
A faint blush rises in her cheeks, but her stance is unwavering. Her eyes flick down, then back up. Goosebumps prickle along her arms, her body betraying her. A tremor ripples through me, desire flaring so hot and fast I almost forget to breathe. Last night’s dream slams into me, vivid and consuming, with Emma on this very rug, wrists bound, legs spread, writhing beneath me as I sank deep inside her.
My fingers flex against the couch.
“Are you going to pick up your towel?” Emma points to the ground.
I blink. The towel slipped again and I hadn’t even noticed.
“What if my brothers came and saw you sitting naked in front of me?” she adds, snapping her fingers in front of my face.
I sigh, reaching for my joggers. Turning around, I pull them on, giving her a full view of my backside in the process. When I turn to face her again, she’s biting her lip.
“Your brothers are coming?” I ask, bending to pick up the towel, right as my head collides with the corner of the table.
“Fuck,” I groan, rubbing the sore spot.
Emma’s laughter bubbles out, rich and full. “No, but what if they were? ”
Her voice dips, playful and challenging, like she wants to see me squirm. Like she likes pushing my buttons.
She steps closer, reaching up.
“You’re hurt,” she murmurs.
I still as her fingers graze my forehead, feather-light and careful. The gentleness of it sends a different kind of shiver through me—one that has nothing to do with pain.
Her breath is warm against my skin, her touch a whisper over the sore spot. She cradles my face, her thumb brushing over the cut, her eyes narrowing in concern.
“It’s fine,” I say, but my voice is hoarse.
“It’s not,” she counters. “You’re pale. Sit down.”
I lower myself onto the couch, mostly because my knees feel like they’ve turned to jelly.
She cleans the wound, dabbing at it with a cool cloth. The sting grounds me, pulling me back from the dangerous edge of wanting her. The scent of antiseptic replaces the scent of her , and I force myself to breathe.
“There,” she says, pressing a Band-Aid against my forehead. “All cleaned up.”
She pushes her bangs off her face, tucking a stray strand behind her ear. When our eyes meet, something shifts.
The moment settles between us, heavy and charged, like we’ve known each other for a lifetime but are still learning the shape of who we’ve become.
I swallow.
“Thank you,” I manage. “It’s been a weird day.”
Emma steps back, planting her hands on her hips. And just like that, the tension splinters.
“More weird than Huntz walking through town this morning to pick up his mail?”
Fuck.
I tense, the cut on my forehead suddenly throbbing.
“You met Misty,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral.
Her eyes narrow. “Why didn’t you tell me? And he has a house nearby?”
“It’s not a house anymore,” I say. “Just rubble.”
She crosses her arms. “Not the point, Eric. I thought you said he was dangerous. You said you wanted Annabelle safe.”
I exhale, rubbing a hand down my face. “It’s been twenty-seven years, Emma.”
Her head tilts. “Interesting how quickly you came up with that number. Keeping track or something?”
Damn, she looks cute when she’s pissed. But Huntz has nothing to do with why she’s here.
“Everything I’ve done was to protect Annabelle,” I say. “And you’re the one who wanted to find him.”
“What do you mean, everything you’ve done ?”
Tension creeps up my neck, settling behind my eyes.
“Damn it, Emma.” I push off the couch, pacing. “Without evidence, the law can’t touch him.”
Her jaw tightens. “What about your testimony?”
“Statute of limitations. It’s too late.”
She exhales sharply. “So that’s it? We just leave him alone?”
“That’s exactly it,” I say, forcing my voice to stay even. “It’s a stalemate. The best thing we can do is keep our distance, and he’ll do the same.”
Her eyes flick over me. “Sounds like you’ve talked to him.”
I clench my jaw. “Some time ago, I warned him to stay away from Annabelle. As long as we leave him alone, he won’t bother us.” I glance at the kitchen table. “I saw your note.”
“Are you changing the subject?”
“Absolutely.”
She levels me with a stare. Then, finally, she sighs. “All right. I’ll drop it for now. But don’t think you’re off the hook.”
I smirk. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She picks up a folded blanket, smoothing it out before draping it over the armrest.
“Did you sign the letter?” she asks.
“No. Wanted to wait for you.” I cross my arms. “What’s gonna happen when your brothers find out?”
“I’ll worry about them after I have my partnership. Now sign.”
I pick up the pen, scribbling my name onto the dotted line. Emma snatches up my shirt from the back of the chair and tosses it at me.
“Put on some clothes. It’s way past lunchtime, and I’m starving.”
I fumble with the fabric, shrugging it onto my shoulders. Her eyes linger as I button up, her lip tight between her teeth, and I catch her staring. She spins toward the fridge, yanking the door open like it’s a shield.
“So,” she says, peeking out from behind it. “What are you cooking for me?”
I lean against the counter.
“Omelette?”
She purses her lips, pretending to consider. “Fine. But I’m supervising. ”
I circle the kitchen counter, pulling eggs and a colorful spread of vegetables from the fridge. "Think you can handle egg-breaking?"
Emma straightens, determination flashing in her eyes. "Are you challenging me?"
I point to the cabinets. "Bowl’s in the cupboard, just to the right of the sink."
She grabs the bowl and gets to work, cracking the eggs with a little more force than necessary. A tiny bit of shell slips in, but I wisely keep my mouth shut as she removes it. Instead, I focus on dicing onions and peppers, the rhythmic chop grounding me.
A comfortable silence settles between us, punctuated only by the occasional murmur of instruction. She whisks the eggs like she’s training for the Olympic culinary team while I season the veggies. The scent of sizzling onions and peppers fills the kitchen, warm and homey.
Minutes later, we sit on the back porch, plates piled high with omelets, overlooking the river as the afternoon light turns golden.
Emma swings her fork through the air. “How did the foaling go this morning?”
I reach under the table, pulling out a bottle of Merlot I stashed earlier. “The mare delivered a beautiful chestnut colt. They’re both resting comfortably in the stable now, and I thought we could celebrate.”
Emma pauses, fork midway to her mouth. “Grandpa said the foal was born yesterday. You were in New York yesterday.”
The wind picks up. I clear my throat.
“He was. Blake called for help because the foal seemed like there might be something wrong.”
The lie leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I hate lying to her, but telling her I met with Huntz is not an option. The less Emma knows, the safer she is.
I uncork the bottle, pouring us both a generous glass.
“We can visit my foal later if you’d like,” I offer, watching her carefully. “We transferred him this morning.”
Emma takes a sip, her gaze flicking to mine. “He’s yours? I’d love that. I could use a pick-me-up.”
I exhale, tension easing. “Why? What’s going on? How was your morning with Grandpa?”
She leans back, stretching out her legs. “He took me to the sheriff’s office, which, by the way, is a mess , and then I went to Valley’s Delight and Lords Park with Misty.”
“Sounds like you saw everything this town has to offer.”
She scoffs. “Not even close. Lords Valley is full of secrets, and I’m not leaving until I uncover them all.”
I chuckle. She’s not wrong.
“Maybe you should move here,” I joke, half-serious.
Color drains from her face, her fork hovering over her plate like she’s forgotten what to do with it.
“What’s wrong, Ems?”
She exhales slowly, setting her fork down. “I spoke with my mom today. Dad’s not doing well. It sounds like my days here are numbered.”
The words slam into me, unexpected and unwelcome.
She just got here. But now she’s already thinking about leaving? I grip my wine glass, swirling the deep red liquid as if it holds answers.
“But you just got here,” I say, trying to keep my voice even.
She nods. “I should go back after the announcement.”
“After this weekend?” I press, the timeline suddenly feeling too damn short. “For a second, I forgot you weren’t staying forever.”
She tilts her head, studying me. “I thought you needed a pretend fiancée until after the weekend?”
The teasing glint in her eyes makes something shift inside me. Because if I let myself think about it too hard, I know damn well that it would be so much easier to just stop pretending.
To keep her here.
Not just for a weekend.
For longer. Maybe forever.
She finally takes a bite of her omelet, washing it down with another sip of wine.
“You make pretending easy,” I murmur.
Her hand stops midway to her plate and her gaze flickers to where my fingers graze the back of her hand. Goosebumps prickle along her arms.
She lowers her fork. “Are we still pretending?”
I don’t answer right away. Instead, I watch her. I watch the way her lips part slightly, the way she’s watching me back, like we’re both standing at the edge of something neither of us can name.
It takes everything in me to pull my hand away. I clear my throat.
“Yes. Of course,” I say, my voice rough. “I’m just saying, you make it easy. Which means our ruse will work, and?—”
“Eric.”
I stop rambling and meet her gaze. Her fingers slip over mine, threading between them like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The warmth of her skin against mine sends a ripple through my body.
I pull my free hand through my hair, exhaling. “I just wish we didn’t have to lie to Grandpa.”
She traces her thumb over the back of my hand, soft, reassuring.
“We’ve got this,” she says, her voice steady. “Harvest Fest is two days away. Your grandfather loves you. And I promise to be the best fiancée you’ve ever had.” She grins. “What could go wrong?”
So many things could go wrong.
Like me taking my best friend’s little sister to my bed and making her moan my name.
Like Grandpa refusing to pass down his assets unless I actually marry her.
Like me wanting to.
"Since I'm never getting engaged again, you've got the distinction of being my first and last fiancée."
She blinks, then smirks. “Fake fiancée.”
A muscle twitches in my jaw.
Emma leans in, her breath warm against my skin as she whispers, "Don't worry, Eric. I'll be such a convincing fake fiancée, you might forget it's an act."
Fuck.
A bead of sweat traces down my spine. The heat of the summer is nothing compared to the fire she just lit inside me.
I exhale slowly, forcing a smirk. "If you play my fiancée too well, I might want to keep you here forever."
Her cheeks flush, the pink deepening the freckles across her nose. She quickly grabs our empty plates and heads to the kitchen. I follow her inside, my eyes drawn to the sway of her hips.
"Want to do the rounds with me tonight?" I ask.
She glances over her shoulder. "Rounds?"
"Checking in on the horses, locking up for the night. We could see the foal?"
She stacks the dishes in the sink. “Sounds fun, but I have some work first.”
I nod, watching as she heads upstairs to change. Shortly after she returns, she’s deep in Huntz’s file at the kitchen table while I stare at the farm’s dwindling bank account. The sun sinks lower, shadows stretching long over the land. Horses gallop in the distance, their hooves a steady rhythm against the earth.
After rounding up the horses and locking the stalls, we make our way to the river’s edge, checking each fence and gate along the way.
"It must take you forever to do this every day," Emma says, rising onto her toes to scan the never-ending property.
"It’s faster when I ride Dash,” I say. “And it’s not as boring with you around.”
Without thinking, I take her hand, leading her toward the stable.
“I can’t wait until you see the foal. Blake brought him over this morning.”
Her fingers tighten around mine, just slightly.
“Are you saying you want me here permanently?” she teases.
I smirk. “I’m just playing the part.”
Playing the part.
That’s what I keep telling myself.
But as I walk beside Emma, her hand still in mine, I can’t help but wonder?—
What if I don’t want to pretend anymore? We finally reach the stables, and as soon as I open the door, she rushes toward the stall. She perches on an upturned bucket, balancing on her toes as she peers over the stable door.
"He’s nursing," she whispers, her voice soft with awe. "He’s beautiful. Looks just like Shadow.”
I step beside her, watching the newborn colt nuzzle against his mother.
Emma bounces slightly, excitement vibrating through her. "That’s the kind of baby I picture Shadow having. Copper-colored and healthy. And it doesn’t matter if it’s a boy or a girl."
I chuckle, shaking my head. She has no idea.
"Shadow’s gonna be a virgin forever," I tell her.
Emma turns on the bucket, now eye-level with me, her chest just inches from my face. And just like that, reason evaporates from my brain.
Her voice lowers, her words dripping like honey. "Just because she’s a virgin doesn’t mean she’s not ready for her stallion."
My throat tightens.
"He needs to find her," she murmurs, her breath warm against my skin. "And he needs to be the right one."
Her chest rises and falls, and I swear to God, I groan.
"Shadow’s had plenty of chances," I say, gripping the edge of the stable wall like it might keep me upright. "She kicked every single one away."
Emma laughs, a sultry little sound that makes my blood thick. "How would you like it if somebody forced themselves on you?"
"We’re talking about horses, Emma," I say, trying to play it cool. "They don’t date before mating."
She glances down, her expression shifting, and a flicker of disappointment crosses her face. It twists something deep inside me.
"Maybe they should," she mutters. "Horses have feelings, just like people. Wouldn’t you want Shadow to have her first experience with the love of her life?"
I blink. "That’s absurd."
Emma hops off the bucket, landing in front of me with a firm stance. "It’s basic psychology. Empathy and anthropomorphism ."
"Anthropo- what ?" I laugh, crossing my arms.
She smirks. "Anthropomorphism. Giving human traits to animals."
I shake my head, amused. "Honestly, Ems, all I heard was ant-morphism. How about we go see Shadow instead?"
She pivots, heading toward the wall where the halters and lead ropes hang. I trail after her, drawn to her like she’s got a damn rope around my neck.
"For someone who spends all his time around horses, I’d think you’d agree," she says over her shoulder.
I pluck the surcingle belt from her hand, hanging it back on its hook..
"Are we having our first argument as an engaged couple?" I slip my fingers through hers and tug her closer. The last thing I want is for Emma to be upset.
Her fingers tighten slightly, her frustration melting into a soft whimper. I lead her outside, the crisp evening air wrapping around us as the last rays of sunlight streak across the horizon.
"How about this?" I offer. "A neighbor just bought a new stallion. You can see Shadow in action, or lack of action, yourself."
Her lips lift into a smile.
“Well, she’ll either accept him, or she won’t,” she says, her voice laced with challenge.
I chuckle. "Your odds of that are pretty good, Ems."
We reach Shadow’s stable, and I push the door open. The mare nods her head, ears twitching as she lets out a soft neigh. Emma lights up, rushing forward, whispering to her like they’re best friends, fingers tracing along Shadow’s nose.
She moves like she belongs here. Like she belongs with me.
I barely take a step before Emma unlocks the stall and slips inside.
"Emma, don’t! "
But it’s too late. Shadow—who’s never been keen on anyone but me—doesn’t move.
Emma strokes her coat, murmuring softly, the mare leaning into her touch. Her hands move with care, like she’s done this a thousand times before. I watch, stunned, as she reaches for the brush and starts grooming the mare. And Shadow, the most temperamental horse I own, lets her.
“This is incredible,” I mutter. “She’s never this calm. I’ve always been the only one she tolerates.”
Emma turns, her expression warm. “You made her sound like some untamable beast when all she wants is love.”
Her voice dips lower, almost conspiratorial. Shadow flicks her ears toward her, listening like they’re actually having a conversation.
"You’re good with her," I step closer, sliding the stall door open. "You know, if your dad weren’t sick, I’d insist on you staying longer after Harvest Fest."
Emma stops mid-stroke and her eyes meet mine, something unreadable flickering across her face.
"It’s nice having someone around," I admit, my voice rough. "To brush horses with. To cook with."
Her lips part as a slow, teasing smile creeps in. "Says the single cowboy who has no time for a woman in his life."
She steps out of the stall, and I follow her down the corridor. She spins suddenly, turning to face me, her gaze searching mine. I run a hand over the back of my neck, trying to ease the tension building in my chest.
A life with Emma would be dangerous, but I want it. I want her. If Emma were truly mine, I’d spend every night buried deep inside her, mapping every inch of her body, tasting every breathy moan that falls from her lips.
But I can’t have her.
Not the way I want.
Unfortunately, her brothers in New York and her life there, along with the secrets I can’t let slip, stand between us.
"I won’t lie," I say, voice dropping. "Your offer is tempting. Fucking my best friend’s little sister definitely has its ring, but you are my best friend’s little sister. We can’t get involved.”
She smirks. "But we are involved, my cowboy. We’re engaged."
She lifts her hand, wiggling my grandmother’s ring.
"And if you feel like I’m not fulfilling my duties as your fiancée," she whispers, stepping closer, her breath ghosting over my skin, "then take what you need."
Jesus Christ.
I grab her hand, bringing it to my lips. She tilts her head, watching me, her pulse beating wildly against my fingertips.
"Be careful what you ask for, Emma," I murmur against her knuckles. "You’ve had two free shows. The next viewing? That’ll be a private performance. "
Her fingers skim my thigh as she pulls away, her touch setting me on fire.
"Promises, promises," she teases.
I grip her hips, pulling her flush against me. She’s soft, warm, and her body molds into mine like God created her just for me.
Shadow lets out an impatient neigh.
We ignore her.
Until she stomps her hooves, snapping us out of the daze. I exhale, close the stall, and take Emma’s hand.
"Come."
I lead her down the corridor to the supply room where a ladder is propped against the back wall, leading up to the hayloft.
"The second floor is sturdy," I tell her, gripping the rung. "Go on."
Emma climbs first, and I follow, watching her round ass sway with every step.
The loft stretches before us, golden light filtering through the gaps in the rafters. A makeshift bed of hay sits in the corner, covered with a blanket.
She steps to the railing, looking down at the horses below.
"It’s beautiful," she whispers.
I step up behind her. "The real magic’s over here."
I nod toward the blanket and she smirks, lying down. "Is this where you bring all your women? It’s romantic."
I chuckle, taking a spot beside her. "You think stinky horse stables are romantic? "
"It's not smelly."
"Just wait until after feeding time. The aromatics are... something else."
She laughs, looking up into the skylight above.
"This is a world away from my New York life. Swaying wheat fields, whispering streams, quaint cottages, and these almost magical stables... It's like stepping into a storybook. So yes, this is romantic. It’s very romantic. Grandpa would approve."
I lift up to my elbows.
“I’m meeting him in the morning about the farm and we’re setting up for the fest the day after.”
“And what about Huntz?”
"You shouldn’t poke that bear, Ems."
The mention of Huntz casts a shadow over the warm light of the hayloft. Memories of his cold, calculating gaze flash in my mind like a stark reminder of why I can’t risk stirring the past.
"Wouldn't you feel better if he wasn’t a threat?"
I turn to my side, connecting my gaze with hers.
"Emma, he isn’t a threat.” I wish my words were true, but I don’t want her involved. I never should have agreed to her brothers’ excuse for sending her here. “You should leave it alone."
Her inquisitive gaze locks on mine, and seconds stretch. I count her breaths and lifting heartbeats, until finally her lips parted and she whispers, "I promise not to poke too hard, but it feels like you need closure. Is there anything I can do for you to get closure?"
I clear my throat. How far can I push this without falling over? My chest rumbles and her lips part with an invitation. By then, her leg lays gently on top of mine, her knee sliding dangerously close to my crotch.
Above us, the sun dips lower, casting the perfect backdrop of romance when my cell phone buzzes. I check the screen; it’s a text message from Blake.
Shit.
"I need to leave. Blake’s pigs are having babies."
"As in little pink piglets? And did you say pigs, as in multiple?"
"Yes, he needs help. I have to go."
"I'm coming with you."
"I promise the piglets won't be pink," I tell her.
"I really want to come with you. But your truck is getting fixed, isn’t it?"
Reluctantly, I guide her down the ladder and turn her toward the fourth stall.
"We're going to ride the horses."
"Shadow?"
"No," I chuckle. "You take Summer, and I'll take Dash. Summer leads well, and Dash will follow. You know how to saddle up?"
She nods, bouncing on her toes, eager and excited as if this were Christmas morning. Ten minutes later, we’re on our way, our horses slow-galloping toward the Fields’ farm.