Chapter 4
FOUR
TRICIA
The next evening, after we close the gates, I make myself comfortable in the barn.
It’s like a whole different world.
Outside, the fields are dark with the hint of moonlight poking out from behind clouds. Inside, the glow from the laptop screen throws a soft halo around us.
Pumpkin is snoring at our feet after a busy day of chasing the hayride around the property.
Quinn and I are the only two people still here. We might as well be the only people in the world.
He’s sitting close, but somehow not close enough at the same time.
I tell myself it’s because he needs to see what I’m doing.
It’s definitely not because he wants to be close enough that we bump into each other whenever one of us moves.
“Okay,” I say, zooming in on the digital map I’ve already started. “If we match the signage to the new logo, it’ll feel polished but still… charming.”
He makes a low sound of approval. “That’s a polite way of saying they look sloppy.”
“I wasn’t going to say that.”
His shoulder brushes mine as he leans closer. I catch a hint of soap and pine, and something else that’s uniquely him. Warm and steady, like his land. It makes concentrating on picas and hues nearly impossible.
He points to the screen. “You did this all from memory?”
“Most of it.” I keep my tone light. “I cheated a little and looked at satellite view to make sure I had the angles right.”
“That’s incredible.” His voice is closer to my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “You make it look like somewhere everyone who loves fall would want to go.”
I swallow hard, ignoring the growing tremor in my voice. “That’s kind of the point.”
We both laugh. The space heater kicks on again, and for a few seconds that’s the only sound whirring in the air.
He notices me rub my arms and gets up, crossing to the storage rack in the corner. “Hold on.”
He comes back with a faded sweatshirt and tosses it to me. “Put this on.”
I start to protest. “I’m fine—”
“Tricia.”
Just my name, low and firm, comes out like an order. I take the sweatshirt.
It’s soft from wear. When I pull it over my head, warmth and his scent wrap around me like a second skin. The sleeves are too long, and I roll them up. He watches me closely, his expression unreadable.
I wish I knew what he was thinking.
“Better?” he asks.
“Much.”
I turn back to the screen, needing shift my focus to anywhere but him. “You said you wanted to talk about the website navigation.”
He eases back into his seat. “Yeah. But before we do—can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
His hand rests on the edge of the desk, fingers tapping once. “Why’d you take this job?”
The question catches me. “Because I needed some extra cash,” I say, then shake my head. “That sounded flippant. I mean—I wanted to do something fun, something whimsical. Something that got me out of an office.”
He studies me, like he’s weighing each word. “I get that.”
“You do?”
He nods slowly. “When my grandfather passed, the land came to my dad, who signed it over to us when he and Mom retired. I figured if I worked hard enough, I could keep it alive. But heart doesn’t pay the bills.”
I close the laptop. The light fades, leaving us in the glow of a single bulb. “Do you think you’ll lose it?”
“Not if I can help it.” He exhales. “But the bank’s on edge. Chad and Karen… They’ve been trying to buy us out for years. They’ve got money tied up in the bank, and they’re pushing to call our loan early.”
“That’s awful. Why?”
“Timber rights. There’s good wood on the back acreage. Plus they think there might be minerals under the north ridge. They’d strip the whole damn place bare if they could.”
His voice breaks a little, just enough to hear the ache. “My family built this place. Every fencepost, every beam in this barn. I can’t—” He stops. “I won’t watch them tear it down. Not without putting up a fight.”
Without thinking, I reach across the table and lay my hand over his. “You won’t.”
For a heartbeat, he doesn’t move. Then he turns his palm up beneath mine, his fingers brushing my wrist in a slow, unconscious motion that sends heat flooding through me.
“What about you?” he asks quietly. “What’d you hope for? Before this?”
I look down at our joined hands. “A small studio. A view. Maybe a life that didn’t revolve around deadlines.”
“That doesn’t sound impossible.”
“It doesn’t, does it?” I smile faintly. “You?”
He leans back, eyes still on me. “I used to think about building a few houses here. One for each of us. Let the next generation grow up together. Family close, land alive.”
“That’s… a beautiful dream.”
“I’ve been thinking about that more lately.” He shrugs, embarrassed. “About the next generation.”
“How many kids do you want?” I ask before I can stop myself.
He laughs quietly. “I don’t know. Two? Three? Enough to fill a hayride but not tip it over.”
I laugh. “Practical.”
“You?”
“I don’t know. A couple. I suppose it depends on their hypothetical father.”
“Ah.” His mouth curves. “Whoever he is, he’s a lucky man.”
Something flares in the air between us—so fast and fierce it’s almost a sound. I can’t look away.
Then, outside, a sharp clang rings out near the fence.
I jump. “What was that?”
“Probably the wind,” he says, standing. “Or a bear knocking over a trash can.”
My eyes widen. “A bear?”
“It happens.”
There’s another crash. My pulse spikes. Without thinking, I move toward him. His arms come up instinctively, steadying me against his chest.
We both freeze.
He smells like sawdust and coffee. His heart beats steady and hard under my ear. I tilt my head, and his breath grazes my cheek.
“Tricia—” he starts, but I look up, and the rest of the sentence dies.
He kisses me.
It’s deep and sudden. It sucks the wind out of my lungs and fills it with something else that’s purely him. The world outside the barn disappears. There’s only the warmth of his mouth. The slide of his hand up my back.
The quiet hitch of his breath when I kiss him back.
For one perfect, reckless moment, nothing else exists.
Then he pulls away.
“I’m sorry,” he says, voice rough. “I shouldn’t have—”
“Don’t,” I whisper. “You didn’t—”
“You work for me.” He steps back, shaking his head. “I need to remember that.”
The space between us feels colder than the night air seeping through the barn door.
He grabs our jackets and walks me outside. The gravel crunches under our boots. The moon paints everything in silver.
At my car, he opens the door but doesn’t look at me. “Drive home safe.”
“Quinn—”
“Please.” His tone is final, quiet. “Just… drive safe.”
I start the engine. The headlights cut across the barn as I pull away. He’s standing there in the glow, hands shoved in his pockets, watching until the road curves out of sight.
The sweatshirt still smells like him. I keep it on even after I get home.