Chapter 9 #2
By the time we make it to the creek, dismounting is both a relief and a loss. My legs are jelly, partly from the ride and partly from feeling every breath, every heartbeat, every involuntary response of his body against mine.
"Picnic," Nate announces, pulling a backpack from Storm's saddlebag. "Hope you still like turkey sandwiches with too much mustard."
"You packed a picnic?" I watch him spread a blanket under the huge oak tree we used to study under.
"Auction purchase includes lunch." He's unpacking containers with the efficiency of someone who planned this down to the last detail. "Sit."
I collapse on the blanket, grateful to be on solid ground where I can put some distance between us. "This is where you told your dad about us too wasn’t it?"
He pauses, sandwich halfway to his mouth. "You remember that?"
"You called me after. You were so nervous about telling him you were serious about someone."
"He said I should marry you before I screwed it up." Nate's laugh is bitter. "Should've listened."
The opening is there, and I take it. "Tell me about your dad. The real story. Not the sanitized version you've been selling everyone."
He sets down his sandwich, stares at the creek for a long moment. "Pancreatic cancer. Stage four by the time they caught it."
"When?"
"Three months before graduation. Gave him maybe six months. He lasted eight."
The timeline clicks into place with horrible clarity. "That's why you took the California position. It had the best salary. For medical bills."
"Experimental treatment was based there too. Insurance wouldn't cover it." His voice is flat, factual. "Hundred thousand dollars for maybe two more months."
"Nate..."
"He asked for you at the end." The words come out rough. "Kept saying 'Where's Harper? Get Harper. Don’t want you alone through this.'"
My eyes burn. "Don't."
"I told him you were in DC. That you were happy. He said to take care of you anyway." His laugh is hollow. "Even dying, even confused from the pain meds, he knew. Said 'Take care of Harper. She's your person.'"
"He didn't even know you'd left me."
"I told him. One of his lucid days. Told him everything." Nate picks at the grass beside the blanket. "He called me an idiot. Said pride was a stupid reason to lose someone. That he'd give anything for five more minutes with Mom, and here I was throwing away a lifetime with you."
"Smart man," I manage through the tightness in my throat.
"I'm sorry, Harper. You should've been there. You loved him too."
"I would've been there." The words come out fierce. "Bills, treatment, all of it. I would've been there for every second if you'd just told me."
"I know that now."
"Do you? Because you're still making decisions for both of us. The documentary, the farm visits—"
"I already took it off the market."
The words don't compute. "What?"
"The farm. I was going to sell it. But I couldn't."
"But... why?"
"Because." He finally looks at me. "Our initials are still carved in that beam in the barn. Your favorite horse's grave is by the north pasture. The loft still has that blanket from... Anyway. Some things shouldn't be sold."
I stare at him, processing. "You were going to sell our place?"
"It's just my place now, Harper. Has been for some time."
"Right." The word comes out smaller than intended. "Of course."
We sit in silence, the creek babbling beside us, both lost in thoughts of what was and what still could be.
"Half a day left," he says finally.
Half a day. Then what? Back to being strangers who share too much history? Or something else?
I don't know anymore.
"It's hot," I announce, standing abruptly from the blanket. The emotional weight of talking about his father, the farm, all of it—I need space to breathe. "I'm going swimming."
"Harper, the water's freezing."
"Good. I need cooling off." I'm already pulling off my hoodie, revealing the tank top underneath. "You coming or are you chicken?"
"I didn't bring swim stuff."
"Neither did I." I kick off my shoes, then shimmy out of my yoga pants before I can overthink it, standing in my tank top and plain black underwear. "Live a little, Dr. Wilder."
His eyes go dark, tracking down my bare legs. "This is a terrible idea."
"Probably." I wade into the creek before he can respond. He's right—it's freezing—but the shock of cold water is exactly what I need to clear my head. I go deeper, up to my waist, gasping at the temperature.
I turn back to see him standing on the bank, frozen in indecision. Then he mutters something that sounds like "fuck it" and strips off his shirt and jeans in quick, efficient movements. His boxers are dark blue and leave very little to the imagination.
"This is dangerous," he says, wading in after me.
"Swimming?" I ask innocently, moving deeper until the water hits my chest. My tank top clings to everything, transparent now, and I watch his eyes track every detail.
"Being nearly naked with you is dangerous," he corrects, reaching me in three long strides through the water.
"Then get fully naked." The words slip out before I can stop them.
"Harper..."
"What? It's my auction day. I can request whatever I want."
His hands find my waist under the water, and I can feel the heat of him through the thin, wet fabric between us. "Is that what you're requesting?"
My hands slide up his chest, skin on skin, feeling the way his muscles tense under my touch. "Maybe."
"Maybe isn't good enough." His thumb traces the edge of my underwear where it sits on my hip. "I need clear, enthusiastic consent or nothing at all."
"How very modern of you."
"Harper." His hands tighten on my waist, and I can feel him hard against my stomach through our wet underwear. "Yes or no?"
Instead of answering, I kiss him.
It's nothing like our almost-kisses, nothing like the careful dance we've been doing.
This is six years of want crashing together, his hands tangling in my wet hair, my body pressed against his with only the thinnest barriers between us.
He tastes like mustard and memories and something uniquely Nate that makes me moan into his mouth.
His hands are everywhere—my waist, my back, sliding under my tank top to find warm skin. I wrap my legs around him in the water, and we both gasp at the contact, at how little separates us now. He walks us backward until my back hits a smooth rock, giving him leverage to press harder against me.
"Wait," he gasps, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes. "Wait."
"Why?" I'm panting, clutching at him, my legs still wrapped around his waist.
"When we do this, it's not going to be because of some auction. Not because you bought a day."
The rejection stings even as I understand it. My body is screaming for him, has been for years, and the thin wet fabric between us feels like both nothing and everything.
"Then when?" My voice comes out more desperate than I’d like.
"When it's just us. No time limit. No transaction. Just us."
I want to argue, but he's right. We've already cheapened this enough with boundaries and professional distance and auction purchases.
"Just us," I agree, still wrapped around him, feeling every inch of him against me.
"Soon," he promises, pressing his forehead to mine, and I can feel him trembling with the effort of restraint.
I unwrap my legs, putting distance between us even though every cell in my body protests. The cold water does nothing to hide his obvious arousal through his soaked boxers.
"You have a situation over there," I say, trying not to stare.
"I'm aware." His voice is strained, and he adjusts himself without shame.
"Creek's not helping, is it?"
"Currently standing in freezing water, practically naked with you, and it's making everything worse."
"We're going to have to ride back like this."
"Don't remind me." He groans. "The ride back on Storm with you pressed against me, in wet underwear?"
"Could always walk back naked and dry," I tease.
"Harper Lane, you really are going to be the death of me."
"More than likely." I'm already wading toward shore, very aware that my wet tank is completely see-through. "But what a way to go."
The ride back is exactly the torture we both knew it would be. Wet underwear and warm sun. Every movement of the horse rocks me against him, and I can feel his control fraying with each passing minute.
By the time we get back to the barn, we're both wound so tight I'm surprised we don't combust.
"This evening is all that's left," I say, heading for my car.
"What do you want, Harper?"
I turn to look at him, taking in the way his henley clings to his chest, the barely controlled want in his eyes. "Dinner. Cook for me."
"That's it?" His voice is rough.
"We'll see what happens." I let my voice promise everything—all the things we didn't do in the creek, all the things we've been avoiding for years.
His hands clench at his sides. "Seven o'clock?"
"I'll be here."
I get into my car before I can change my mind, before I can run to him and lose myself in the feel of him. In the familiarity of him.
"Harper?" he calls as I'm about to drive out.
I turn to look at him.
"Wear something comfortable," he says, but his eyes say something else entirely.
"Comfortable. Got it."
"And Harper? Maybe bring a change of clothes. For tomorrow."
The implication hangs between us—that I'll need fresh clothes, that what I wear tonight won't survive whatever happens.
"Presumptuous," I manage.
"Hopeful," he corrects, looking smug as ever.
I drive away, thighs still trembling from the memory of being pressed against him, from the promise of tonight.
Seven o'clock. Four hours to decide if I'm brave enough to stop lying to myself about what I want. About what we both want.
I should probably shower. Definitely need to shave my legs. Maybe find underwear that isn't practical.
Who am I kidding? We both know exactly how tonight is going to end.
The question is whether we'll survive what comes after.