5. Lily #2
The impact sent a cascade of smaller hay bales tumbling around us, boxing us into our corner.
The world became a claustrophobic, scratchy, and surprisingly fragrant little cave.
We were wedged together on the bench, his side pressed firmly against mine from shoulder to thigh.
He was still half-covering me, his arm a protective barrier.
Olivia was squished safely between me and the side of the wagon, completely unfazed and now trying to catch pieces of floating hay.
“You okay?” His voice was a low growl in my ear, his breath warm against my cheek.
“Fine,” I squeaked. I was not fine. I was hyper-aware of everything.
Of the solid muscle of his arm against my back.
Of the strength radiating from him in palpable waves.
Of the fact that he was so close I could count the individual threads in his dark hoodie.
Our fake hand-holding had been awkward. This was something else entirely. This felt real.
The wagon was descending into low-grade chaos. The crying kid was now wailing. People were complaining. The teenage driver was on his phone, presumably calling for a rescue that was miles away.
But in our little hay-fortified corner, it was strangely quiet. The commotion from the rest of the wagon seemed distant, muffled.
Mario hadn’t moved. He was still pressed against me, a solid wall of warmth in the chilly night air.
He slowly lowered the arm that had blocked the hay bale, but he didn’t pull away.
The darkness hid us from the prying eyes of my family, from June, from everyone.
The performance was over. There was no one to fool. It was just us.
“He’s not very good at driving,” I whispered, just to break the thick, charged silence.
A low chuckle rumbled through his chest, and I felt it vibrate through my own body. “Engine stalled. Probably a clogged fuel line.”
“Of course you know that.”
“It’s my job to know that.” Then he corrected himself, his voice going flat. “It was.”
The word hung in the air between us. The wound he’d come here to escape. The reason for our whole stupid charade.
I turned my head to look at him. In the gloom, illuminated only by the faint, distant moonlight filtering through the trees, his face was all sharp angles and shadows. The arrogant, broody racecar driver was gone. In his place was just a man, shrouded in darkness, looking tired and a little lost.
My heart gave a painful, sympathetic ache. It was a real feeling. I shoved it down. *Rule three.*
“Thank you,” I said, my voice soft. “For … you know. The hay.”
He just nodded, his gaze dropping to my mouth.
The air grew thick, heavy. The distant sounds of the annoyed crowd faded away completely.
My whole world narrowed to the few inches of space between our faces.
He was so close. Too close. My brain was screaming at me to move, to lean away, to re-establish the six inches of buffer space our contract demanded.
My body wasn’t listening.
In a slow, mesmerizing movement, he lifted his free hand, the one that wasn’t still loosely holding mine. He brushed his thumb across my cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle.
“You have hay in your hair,” he murmured.
His fingers threaded into the stray strands near my temple, carefully working out a piece of straw that had gotten tangled there.
His touch was feather-light, but it sent a cascade of warmth skittering down my spine.
My breath caught in my throat. I couldn’t have moved if the tractor had spontaneously exploded.
His hand lingered, his thumb stroking my temple in a slow, hypnotic rhythm.
His eyes held mine, dark and searching in the gloom.
The intensity I’d seen in the pumpkin patch was back, tenfold.
He wasn’t looking at me like a business partner.
He wasn’t looking at me like his best friend’s sister.
He was looking at me like a man looks at a woman he is about to kiss.
And God help me, I wanted him to.
My own rules, my own vows of independence, my fear of my meddling family—it all burned away like mist in the morning sun. There was only this man, this moment, this strange, terrifying, undeniable pull.
He leaned in.
I leaned in.
My eyes fluttered shut. My lips parted. The scratchy scent of hay and the cool, clean scent of him filled my senses. I could feel the warmth of his breath, just a whisper away from my mouth. One more inch. One more second.
“Are you guys—are you kissing?!” Olivia’s high little voice cut through the silence like someone slamming a toolbox lid.
A dozen brilliant beams of light suddenly stabbed through our private darkness.
My eyes flew open. Across the wagon, a chorus of phone flashlights had been activated, flooding our little corner with harsh, invasive light.
The spell was broken. We sprang apart, the three feet between us now feeling like a gaping chasm.
My face was on fire. Mario swore under his breath, turning away so quickly his shoulder bumped the side of the wagon.
The moment was gone, brutally murdered by twenty-first-century technology.
“What was that?” my mother’s voice called out, sharp with suspicion. “Lily, are you alright over there?”
Before I could answer, another light flashed, this one brighter, quicker, and more deliberate than the phone beams. A distinct, single flash.
A camera.
My heart stopped, then plummeted straight into the soles of my boots. I whipped my head toward the source of the flash.
There, standing on her bench to get a better angle, was June. She was lowering her phone, a triumphant, predatory glint in her eye. She’d seen it all. The proximity. The intimacy. The almost-kiss. And she had documented it.
She gave me a little wink, a silent confirmation of her journalistic coup, before turning to show the picture to the woman next to her.
Their lie was now public record. Our one, single, terrifyingly real moment had been captured, destined to become evidence in the trial of our very fake relationship.
I looked at Mario. He was staring at June, his face a mask of cold fury. He looked utterly, completely trapped.
Then, almost sheepishly, he glanced down at Olivia tucked between us and said, quieter now, “Stay here. I’ll see if I can get the tractor started so we’re not out here all night.”
He pushed himself up, brushed hay from his jacket, and moved toward the teenage driver like someone who’d rather fix an engine than stand under a flashlight’s glare.
And as I sat there, surrounded by hay, family, and the wreckage of my best-laid plans, I realized with a gut-twisting certainty that he wasn’t the only one.