Chapter 12
Will: Anything? You’ve been quiet.
Tate: Nothing yet. You?
Will: Me and my partner sat in cars last night at her apartment. Nothing. It’s like he vanished.
Tate: He didn’t vanish. He’s scrambling. He’ll be here.
Will: Can you still fit a bible between you in that tractor?
Tate: She’s got a cattle prod between us.
Will: Atta girl.
The fall festival started next week, and it was a last-minute scramble to finish the maze in time for the grand opening.
Jaxon and Luke had put together most of the maze, but now Tate was working on the loader, adjusting bales for a tighter fit and reworking the ends of the maze.
Tate proved efficient at his work while wearing a backward hat and with forearms to write home about, while I was proving efficient at conjuring endless romantic farm scenes exploding in my head.
All fictional scenes, I should add.
But when Tate caught me staring at him one too many times, with what I can only imagine was some dreamy and faraway look on my face that writers sometimes get, I forced myself to stare at my screen.
Over the past week, I’d gotten pretty good at writing while being jostled around in whatever tractor we were driving. I’d all but claimed Tate’s unused donut pillow, with my headphones pumping out enough white noise to block out just about anything.
The visit to the library had unlocked a part of my creative brain that I’d been missing, such as allowing myself to use things and…people…around me for inspiration.
And once I started, it was hard to stop.
My male main character wasn’t just a cop.
He was a cop and a part-time hobby farmer.
With a tractor. The idea of it had just enough small-town quirkiness that it worked.
I had an attractive, albeit bossy, cop to teach my female main character how to look after herself, and he had muscles and owned a tractor.
It was almost too hot to handle. And I had first-hand experience.
Elaine would love it. Tate could never know.
He caught me watching him again.
I flushed, yanking my wandering eyes back down to my computer, only to find a new email from my boss. I checked the connection from the hotspot on my phone to my computer and opened the email, grateful for something else to concentrate on.
How’s the screenplay? I feel like I haven’t done my job as your boss in pressuring you as I should. Do I need to give you a hard-and-fast deadline to get me a rough draft? Or are you confident in your abilities to produce what we need?
Also, thank you for your address, but after seeing your images on social media, per our contract, I need the details of your current living arrangements. You are still living alone. Correct?
Elaine had just sent it. There was a good chance she was still online. I shot her a quick reply.
Consider me properly scolded and extremely pressured. So much so that you don’t need to worry about any more pressure. I could get you a rough draft in another week or two. I think you’ll love it.
My current living situation is…complicated. And extremely temporary. My bodyguard (this sounds more dramatic than it is…he’s my brother’s friend who is a cop) is certain we are getting close.
I was less certain, but no need to bring that out. Before I could attempt to write another scene, another message came through.
Remember, I gave you approval for a LIGHT layer of suspense. No bodies and no murder. Get your rough draft to me by mid-October, so if changes are necessary, we can get it fixed before it goes to Daniel two weeks later. How’s that for bossy and pressure?
I have to know the exact details of your living arrangement, or HR will have my head.
The contracts you signed are very much in effect here, and we all have to do our part to keep everything fair.
If word gets out that someone isn’t living up to the agreed standards, there will be a mutiny.
And the company can’t have a mutiny right now. I need to be kept in the loop.
I closed my laptop. That was enough emails for one day.
I was taking my notebook out of my bag when the flyer of fall activities from the library came out with it and fluttered away, landing on Tate’s boots.
“What’s this?” he asked, plucking it up with his fingers before I could grab it.
His eyes swept over the paper before he handed it to me.
“Which one are we going to first?” he asked, re-adjusting another straw bale in an effort to tighten the outside of the maze.
“Oh, we don’t need to go,” I waved my hand nonchalantly.
“Why not?” He was eyeing me carefully.
“I thought I’d need to go for inspiration, but my writing is going really well. I’ll be fine.”
“What about our cover?”
I motioned outside the windows to where his brothers and dad were working. “You guys have so much to do this week getting ready for the festival. We can do something next week.” I squinted down at my laptop, typing nonsense and hoping he’d move on.
“Liv,” he said, his voice serious. “We can’t end this hiding in a tractor.”
My fingers stopped typing. I stared at my monitor for a long moment.
“I don’t want to be a burden any more than I already am. You don’t really want to go to any of those things. I’m completely fine. I’ll be—”
“You’re not a burden.”
I huffed out a dry laugh. “I am a burden. None of you asked for this.”
“Neither did you.”
There was a quiet compassion in his eyes that threatened to melt me. I looked away.
He leaned forward, waiting for me to meet his gaze once more. When he was satisfied that I was paying attention, he said, “You’re not a burden, Rawlins. A pain in the butt? Absolutely. But never a burden.”
I looked away, wondering why I all of a sudden had the urge to bawl like a baby.
The loader sat idling while I gathered my thoughts. When I finally had the courage to look up, Tate was examining the flyer.
He held it up. “It just so happens that I’ve been dying to try out the trail ride from Archer’s place to the maple farm.”
“You have not!” I protested.
“I have.” He read the paper. “It says right here that it’s a gentle trail ride on a sweet mare that will ride over the hills and through the woods…
” He paused, making sure I got the reference.
Once I shook my head, he went on cheerfully.
“To Carver Maple Farm. A tour is included. It would be a good time to ask questions.”
“I could just call them. I need to be writing.”
“We’re going,” he said, a glint in his eyes. “Just as soon as you get a hit on me.”
“Then you’d better buckle up,” I said, resigned to my fate. “I was going easy on you all those other times.”
“Yes, I’ve been terrified of you ever since you whipped out your thimble of Mace.”
Before I could say anything, he threw me a grin that made me forget what I was trying to say.
“We’ve got a date,” he said proudly. “I can’t wait to tell your brother.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
I picked the flyer up off the floor. “Well, alright. If you want to sample the maple syrup and take a walk through the”—I looked at the paper to read how it was written—“fall-kissed trees, then who am I to stop you?”
His eyes shot to mine, a gleam crowding in their depths. “Did you say kiss?”
I blinked. “Kissed. The trees are fall-kissed.”
He whistled lightly, ignoring me completely. “You did say kiss,” he said again.
“The paper said kiss.”
“Alright, if you really want to get the town talking, I guess we can—”
“Stop!” I kicked him, biting my lip to stop the smile. I already had burning cheeks. I didn’t need to be smiling at him. I wasn’t even sure what was happening.
“It’s just an interesting word when you ask your fake boyfriend to take you out on a date.”
“I didn’t ask you out.”
“Didn’t you? Because I would never agree to something like this on my own.”
And then he grinned, looking more confident and happy to be in control. But this time, a heat simmered in my chest at his teasing.
“For all intents and purposes,” he began, “when we step out of this farm, we are dating—at least we’re letting everyone think we are. I just hope you’ll be able to keep your hands to yourself with such a romantic setting and words like that flying around your head.”
An embarrassed laugh finally broke free. It had been a long time since a man had so outwardly flirted with me, and I wasn’t sure what to do about the rush of tingles up my spine and the heat now pooling in my belly.
Horseshoe Holler was tucked away on the side of a hill blanketed in maple trees just outside of Autumn Ridge.
Along the way, we passed a field of horses, no doubt belonging to the stables.
There was something about a field full of horses grazing in the afternoon sun, surrounded by trees showing off bright corals and reds, that really did something to a person’s anxieties.
Tate took a bend in the road and drove into a gravel parking lot, where a beautiful creamy-white stable stood in front of us. Outbuildings, barns, and a white farmhouse with a wraparound porch finished the cozy scene. Seeing all of this, I wished I was more of a horsewoman.
He parked next to a diesel truck with a large horse trailer attached.
“How’s your stomach doing after you left me wide open in our fight?” I asked Tate as he turned off the engine.
Tate ignored me, pushing open his door and muttering something about it being the last time he’ll let me win anything.
And he did let me win, by the way.
I gave it my all. His self-defense lessons were helping me feel more confident, although I wouldn’t admit that to him just yet.
The problem was…my “all” gets very distracted by a warm chest. And hands that always seem to find their way to my hips.
And a smart mouth that gets after me for never remembering how I’m supposed to be standing.
Newsflash: I do remember. It’s not rocket science.
I’m chalking it all up to having had a barbed-wire fence around my body for the past six months, and apparently, bossy hands and semi-annoyed looks are my kryptonite.