Chapter 19
It takes another five minutes before the farmhouse appears in the dark.
It looks like it belongs on a postcard—two stories, white siding, and a big wraparound porch.
I’m too tired to take it all in. The last part of the drive completely flattened me—partly the late hour, partly the weight of our conversation lingering.
We unload the duffels in silence, carefully clicking the car doors shut.
Linden lets us in through the side entrance, past a massive kitchen.
The scent of grilled chicken and veggies still lingers in the air, making my mouth water on the way up.
The stairs creak despite our best efforts to move quietly.
Linden’s room is larger than I expected but sparsely decorated, dominated by a big bed at its center.
The quilt covering it looks handmade. A few framed pictures hang on the walls—his family again, visibly younger than in the photo I saw at the Nook; Linden at his high school graduation; a close-up of a cow I assume is Buttercup.
“Okay,” Linden murmurs, dropping his duffel in the middle of the room. “The air mattress should be…give me a sec.”
I sit down on the edge of his bed while he opens the closet doors, shifts around in there, then moves to peer under the bed.
“Shit,” he whispers, scratching the back of his head.
“What?” I murmur.
“Mom must’ve moved it. We use it for guests, so she might’ve forgotten to put it back into my room after the last visit.” He runs a hand through his hair, sighing. “I have no idea where she put it—it could be in the attic, the basement, my parents’ bedroom…”
“Hey, it’s fine,” I say, shrugging. “I can take the floor.”
“No. Absolutely not,” Linden protests. “You take the bed, and I’ll grab some blankets.”
“Lind.”
“No, Micah, you’re our guest. My mom will kill me if I let you sleep on the floor.”
I snort, shaking my head. “You drove all the way here. And I’m also not letting you sleep on the floor of your own room either.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks, then I carefully clear my throat.
“I mean, we could…”
“Yeah?”
I gesture at the bed I’m sitting on. “It’s not a small bed. We’d both fit.”
Linden presses his lips together. He looks at the bed, then at me.
“You don’t mind?” he asks quietly, and I snort.
“Lind, you had my dick in your mouth. I rubbed you off in the back of your truck—no, I don’t mind,” I promise, a tired grin playing around the corners of my lips.
He groans but nods. “Get in then. I’m about to keel over.”
I’m dead tired when we nestle into bed, but sleep evades me.
The glaring red digits on Linden’s alarm clock jump from 12:00 to 12:01 a.m. He’s set it for five in the morning, which means I’ll start my first day on the farm tired and bleary-eyed.
Great.
Shuffling under the light covers, I slowly sit up, then rub a hand over my face.
Next to me, Linden sighs softly in his sleep.
He was out like a light from the moment his head touched the pillow.
I’m not sure what keeps me awake—it’s warm in here, yes, but nothing compared to my cramped attic room in the Nook.
I’m also not fussy about sharing close spaces with others.
As a college football player, I’m constantly on the road during the season, sleeping on a bus full of teammates and in small hotel rooms. But somehow, Linden’s presence makes me oddly self-aware of my big body.
Suddenly, I feel like I’m taking up way too much space.
Am I crowding him?
I’m a touchy guy—what if I cuddle up to him in his sleep and he hates it?
What if I drool on his pillow?
Absurd thoughts, considering what we already did with each other, but they keep swirling around in my mind, mixing with the unfamiliar creaks and groans of the farmhouse.
Letting out a low huff, I decide a bit of fresh air might help. I quietly slide out of bed, then tiptoe across the hardwood floor, my path illuminated by the moonlight filtering through the big window.
I hold my breath when the door squeaks under my touch, chancing a glance back at Linden.
He’s still breathing quietly, curled up on his side.
His blond hair appears silver in the moonlight, fanning out around his head like a halo, his pale skin glowing mysteriously.
He looks otherworldly, almost fae-like, and for a moment, I wish I could capture his picture and show it to him whenever he reaches for one of his oversized sweaters to hide in.
Shaking my head at my thoughts, I turn to the dark hallway, closing the door behind me with a soft click.
I take a moment to orient myself, then slink past the row of closed doors behind which Linden’s sisters and their husbands are probably fast asleep.
I feel like an intruder when I carefully make my way down the wooden stairs, trying to avoid the creaky spot we hit earlier, but, of course, still stepping on it. I stop, holding my breath as I listen for movement and wait for someone to switch the lights on and confront me, but nothing happens.
A few toys are littered across the floorboards of the hallway, which I carefully step over on my path to the door. Somewhere in the dark, a pair of green eyes blinks at me.
“Hush,” I hum when the orange cat meets me halfway, weaving around my ankles, then rubbing against my legs with a soft meow.
I bend down, hesitantly petting its back and scratching between the perky ears, which earns me a soft purr.
I smile at the sound, spending a few minutes longer in the hallway than intended.
The little furball protests with a loud meow when I finally slip into my sneakers, making me cringe.
“I’ll be back in a bit,” I promise in a hushed voice as I reach for the door handle, blinking in surprise when I find it unlocked.
For a second, I think back to the deadbolts my father installed in our home—three in total, with a thick chain lock on top.
I used to lie in bed, asking myself if I could get them open fast enough if I had to escape.
Because in my father’s world, there’s always something to escape from.
A fire. A robbery. A group of secret agents.
Meanwhile, on the Woodrow farm, a whole family is sleeping peacefully behind an unlocked door.
I take a deep breath as I stretch my arms out, groaning when a satisfying pop comes from my neck, then another as I turn my head from side to side.
The air is still warm, but not as stifling as it is in Bonham.
Out here, my senses are almost overstimulated in the softest way possible.
Everything around me is alive: the leaves of a tree rustle in the courtyard as a soft breeze travels over from the forest, bringing the sweet scent of ripe fruit and dried grass with it, mixing with the smell of the nearby barn.
Out in the fields, crickets are chirping, and insects are buzzing.
Now and then, a muffled moo breaks the silence.
I narrow my eyes to slits, trying to spot where the sound comes from, when an insistent meow behind me makes me jump.
“Hey, you aren’t supposed to be out here!
” I tell the little orange devil who snuck out behind me.
This is a farm, so I guess it’s free to come and go as it pleases, but I also don’t want to be the dumbass who loses the only indoor cat the Woodrow family owns before even properly meeting them!
So when it hops down the porch steps to disappear into the dark, I follow hot on its heels across the courtyard.
I catch up to it in front of the barn, but before I can reach out, it ducks under the wooden door and slips inside through the gap, leaving me standing there like an idiot.
“Shit,” I curse, clasping my hands together at the back of my head as I pace up and down on the dusty gravel. I don’t dare to follow it inside, but I also don’t want to leave it out here and pretend nothing has happened.
Just as I’ve worked up the courage to push the door open, a loud bark has me freeze in my tracks.
From behind me, I hear the unmistakable crunch of gravel beneath paws.
The fine hairs at the back of my neck stand, my heart thumping in my chest as I slowly turn around.
Just a few yards away, I can make out the silhouette of a huge guard dog staring me down with malicious intent.
A guard dog that Linden definitely failed to mention when we arrived.
I instinctively raise my hands as if confronted by a police officer, trying to placate it with a stammered “I just meant to get the cat!” when a calm but commanding voice rings out.
“Oak!”
The dog visibly relaxes at the order, even though his retreat is slow, darting a few suspicious looks back at me.
“Thanks,” I breathe out in relief, only to turn away quickly when the beam of a flashlight hits me.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
The voice sounds oddly familiar, even with the sharpness laced into it, when talking to me instead of the dog. It reminds me of Linden, who should still be sleeping in his bed.
Instead, I’m confronted with a scowling farmer who appears to have just returned from work.
He’s wearing dirt-streaked jeans and a frayed shirt that’s coated in a thin layer of dust. A B-Tech hat, similar to mine, is drawn deep into his forehead, but I can still spot the contours of a familiar mouth and jawline.
I’ve seen this man before—in a picture framed on Linden’s shelf.
“I’m sorry, sir, I…couldn’t sleep, and when I wanted to get some fresh air, the cat…
I wasn’t sure if it was supposed to go outside, and it ran right into the barn.
” I gesture behind me, then breathe a sigh of relief when the flashlight’s beam drops from my face to the ground between us.
Little black dots dance in front of my eyes, and I blink rapidly to chase them away.
“My name’s—” I start, but he interrupts me with a rough huff and a wave of his hand.
“You’re that Carolina boy, right? The footballer who cooks and sings.”