My breath rushes out. “No, you don’t make me relaxed. You make me hungry. And wild. Maybe a little crazy.”
“Me, too.” He kisses my forehead before continuing in a husky voice, “I can’t wait to drive you wild again tonight. And don’t worry about dinner. It’s my turn to cook at the house, so I’ll bring leftovers with me.”
“Okay,” I say, his words making me feel strangely shy. Fucking me is one thing; feeding me is something else. Something that makes me feel cared for in a way no one has cared in a long time.
And though I know it’s dangerous to appreciate him too much, I can’t help but whisper, “Thank you. For being so sweet.”
He grunts. “I’m not sweet. I’m grouchy, and I’m about to prove it by kicking my nephews out of bed and making them help with chores because I’m beat from staying up late banging this smoking hot woman who can’t get enough of my cock.”
“Well, I heard it was the best cock,” I say seriously. “How was she supposed to control herself, I ask?”
His laughter warms me nearly as much as the final kiss he presses to my lips before heading out the door. When he’s gone, the room immediately feels colder, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. Because he’s going to be back tonight. And we’re going to get to do this all over again.
And maybe by this time next month…
I close my eyes and lay a hand over my belly. I swear it feels different. I feel different. And maybe, just maybe…
“Maybe baby,” I murmur as my eyes close and I stretch like a cat who lapped up every bit of cream and lived happily ever after with a litter of gorgeous kittens.
Chapter 11
Dylan
One week later…
It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that when the pumpkins get ripe they all get ripe at once and must be picked immediately. At least, it’s a truth universally acknowledged if you’re a pumpkin farmer or have lived next door to a pumpkin farmer for most of your life.
When I see Mr. Stroker toddling up the hill in his starched khaki overalls, swiping a bandana across his forehead in the early morning heat of our third Indian Summer day in a row, I know what’s coming.
So do the twins.
Blake pumps his fist in the air, biting off another giant hunk of the turkey sub he made for lunch. “Yes! Pumpkin tossing time. I’m going to kick your ass so hard this year Jacob. I’m tossing two hundred. At least.”
“Oh no, not today!” Jacob shakes his head, as if he can banish the old man if he rocks his head back and forth enough. “Raney and I were going to the fair. I already have tickets.”
“Looks like it’s time to call Raney and make your apologies.” I do my best to keep the disappointment from my own voice. It’s Sunday, my one day off, and a certain dirty librarian and I had plans to take a picnic, some books, and no clothes down to my secret swimming hole.
I want to see Emma naked and jumping off my makeshift diving board into the river more than I want oxygen, but when duty calls, it calls.
I shoot off a text to Emma, knowing better than to let the twins overhear me talking to a girl. They pretend not to care about “the old folks’ love lives” but they haven’t stopped giving Rafe shit since he made it his mission in life to make a mockery of Chastity Sutter’s first name.
Dylan: Sorry, I won’t be able to take you swimming this afternoon, after all. It’s harvest time for the pumpkin patch. Mr. Stroker’s on his way up the hill right now.
Emma: Bummer, but I understand. You’re sweet to help him every year. He told me you won’t even let him pay you.
Dylan: Lies. The twins and I take home as many pumpkins as we can carry.
Emma: LOL. So, what’s that? Three pumpkins in exchange for a day of back-breaking work?
Dylan: Don’t insult our manliness. We can carry at least two pumpkins each. Jacob has monkey arms, so sometimes he can manage three.
Emma: Oh, well, I stand corrected. ;)
Still. You’re all sweet, and I won’t believe any different. Be sure to pack water bottles for everyone. It’s going to be another hot one.
Dylan: I heard. Will do. You stay cool, too, princess, and don’t read any naughty books in the nude without me. Especially not with your glasses on.
Emma: I’ll try, but you know how wild we librarians get on our days off…
I laugh, and Jacob is immediately there, peering over my shoulder. I hit the home button on my phone and slip it into the pocket of my jeans fast, but not too fast, hoping to avoid arousing suspicion.
“Who was that?” he asks. “Uncle Rafe? The asshole who was smart enough not to come home last night?”
“Don’t call your uncle an asshole,” I say by way of answer, jabbing a thumb toward the door. “I’m heading out so Mr. Stroker doesn’t have to walk all the way up the hill. Get your brother and meet us in the patch in fifteen. And bring the water cooler and cups. We’re going to need ’em.”
And we do. Holy shit, we do.
By midmorning, we’re swiping sweat out of our eyes every few minutes. By noon, we’ve shed our shirts and are tossing pumpkins half naked, causing more than a few collisions on the bike trail as teenage girls get too busy gaping at the twins to keep their eyes on the road.
The third time I see a girl go head over handlebars, I can’t help but laugh.
“I hope you two are behaving yourselves with the girls at school.” I cast a meaningful glance first at Jacob, who’s taking a water break from cutting pumpkins, and then at Blake, who has put the tractor in neutral while he devours an apple like a starving man.
We have our system down to a science by now, smoothly moving through the rotation of pumpkin cutter, flatbed-surfing pumpkin catcher, and tractor driver in fifteen minute intervals to keep any one of us from getting too miserably sore from the grunt work of cutting and tossing.
“I am,” Blake says, mouth full of apple. “But Jacob’s a total whore.”
“I am not.” Jacob flips his brother the bird as he laughs. “You are so full of shit. I’ve been with Raney since winter break last year.”
“Really?” I ask, surprised. “Why didn’t I hear a word about her until a couple of months ago?”
Jacob shrugs, squinting out across the field toward the trail. “I don’t know. Wanted to keep it quiet I guess.”
“In case she dumped his ass,” Blake pipes up.
“Fuck you,” Jacob says, good naturedly. “I like privacy sometimes, dickhead.” He shrugs as he turns back to me. “And it’s different with her. It’s nice when we keep things just between the two of us.”
“I get it.” I smile, amazed the pint-size squirt who used to beg me to give him piggyback rides through the barn is becoming such a man. “That’s how it should be. When it’s right. And real.”
“Yeah.” Jacob takes a breath, grinning as he swipes his arm across his sweat-soaked forehead. “It’s totally like that.”
I’m thinking how much I’m enjoying keeping things “just between us” with Emma—we’re not teenagers in puppy love, but a simple, straightforward, friends-who-fuck relationship is about as good as it gets as far as I’m concerned—when a girl in a red sundress and a big straw hat waves from the bike trail.
At first I think it’s one of the boys’ many admirers, but then I catch a glimpse of shoulder-length blond curls and the signature sway of her hips.
Damn, but that woman knows how to move her hips. Memories of the past seven nights at Emma’s place and all the incredible things her hips have done to my body threaten to give me a pumpkin-patch-inappropriate hard-on, but I fight it off with a long, cold drink of water.
“Who’s that?” Blake asks as Emma starts across the field, toting a jug in her arms.
“Our new neighbor,” I say. “The one who bought the Parker place.”
“That’s her?” Jacob grunts in apparent surprise. “I haven’t seen her up close yet. Dude, she doesn’t look old enough to own a winery.”
“Must be rich,” Blake observes. “Wo
nder how she made her money? Whatever it is, that’s what I want to major in in college.”
“There are more important things than money,” I say. “You should pick a career you love. Something you’ll get excited about waking up to do every day.”
“Screw the money,” Blake says in a softer voice as Emma draws closer. “I just want to work with girls who look like that.”
Jacob laughs, and I shush them both, warning them to be on their best behavior as I jump down from the flatbed and hurry to meet her, not wanting her to get too close to the twins. They’re usually fairly oblivious, but I’m afraid I’ll do something to give our secret away. I don’t mind people in town thinking Emma and I are an item, but family is a different story.
“Hey, you.” She stops beside a monster pumpkin we decided to leave on the ground and roll home in a wheelbarrow later, peering up at me with a grin. “Looks like you guys are tearing through it.”
I smile, making sure to keep my back to the boys. “We’re doing our best. Hoping to have some time to play at the end of the afternoon.”
“Play time sounds nice,” she says, the husky note in her voice going straight to my dick. This woman does things to me, sexy, wild things I wouldn’t be at all interested in resisting if there weren’t witnesses present.
“I brought you some lemonade,” she continues, holding up the lightly sweating brown jug. “Homemade with fresh lemons from my tree.”
I reach for the jug, touched. “Thank you. That’s thoughtful.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Nah, I just don’t want you to pass out from heat stroke before I’ve had my way with you.”
“Oh yeah?” I fight the urge to wrap my arm around her waist and pull her curvy body close. Not only are the twins watching, but I also happen to be repulsively sweaty. “So you have ulterior motives?”
“Yes, I do.” She glances over my shoulder. “You going to introduce me to your nephews?”
“They’re hellions, but sure, come on over.” I nod before turning back to the boys. “We’ve got Jacob on pumpkin-cutting duty and Blake taking point on tractor. Boys, this is Emma Haverford. She brought us some lemonade.”
Blake is off the tractor in a hot second, beating Jacob to the jug, though his brother isn’t far behind him with our cups.
“Thanks, Miss Haverford,” Jacob says. “I was dying for something other than water.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Blake agrees. “Uncle Dylan only lets us bring water.”
She grins, clearly charmed. “You’re both so welcome.”
“I’m just trying to keep the sugar intake respectable around here,” I say, defending myself. “The way your dad told me to.”
“I only used a little sugar. And please, both of you, call me Emma.” She glances around, lifting a hand to shade her eyes. “Is Mr. Stroker around? I wanted to say hello before I headed for home.”
“Nah, Uncle Dylan sent him home,” Blake says, pouring his second glass of lemonade. “He’s a worrywart.”
“It was too hot,” I say. “Older people struggle more with heat than we do. We’ll save the last row and ask him to come out and help at the end of the day when it’s starting to cool down. That way he can be a part of things without hurting himself.”
Emma’s expression softens. “Sounds wise.”
Jacob nods. “Uncle Dylan’s the smartest person I know. Even though he didn’t go to college like Uncle Tristan.”
“And he’s funny,” Blake adds, stepping closer as he lifts his third glass of lemonade. “When we were kids, he used to do this Elmo impression that slayed. Absolutely slayed. Hard.”
“Elmo, huh?” Emma asks, clearly fighting a smile.
“And he dresses up on Halloween and runs with us in the mud run every year,” Blake continues. “Not like our dad who is a total fun-killer.”
“That’s enough, boys,” I say, catching on to their not so subtle attempts at matchmaking.
“And he’s not bad to look at.” Jacob jabs a thumb toward my bare chest. “If you don’t mind a little age on the model, that is.”
“Stop it. Now,” I say, rolling my eyes as Emma hides her grin behind her hand. “Age on the model, my ass. Quit trying to set me up and get back to work.”
“But you’re a catch, Uncle Dill.” Jacob laughs as I lunge for him and just barely miss. He backs away, arms held up at his sides and a shit-eating grin on his face. “It’s okay, old man, I can slow down if you’re having trouble keeping up.”
I point a warning finger at Jacob and then one at his brother, who is yucking it up beside him. “Keep it up, and we can start doing five-thirty get-the-eggs wake-up call instead of six.”
Blake presses a hand dramatically to his chest. “That’s cruel and unusual punishment. We’re growing boys. We need sleep.”
“I’ve read that teenagers really do need more sleep than adults,” Emma says, coming to their defense because she’s a sweetheart and has no idea that beneath their boyish grins and good manners, these two are Trouble with a capital T.
“See? Emma gets it,” Blake says, batting his long lashes in her direction. “Thanks, Emma.”
“Five minutes,” I warn, eyes narrowing. “And then it’s back to work.”
The boys retreat to the shade of the tractor, laughing and muttering to each other in their secret twin language, as I turn back to Emma. “Sorry about that.”
“Why on earth would you be sorry? They’re adorable.”
I snort. “Wait until you get to know them better.”
“I hope to get the chance.” She pauses, brow furrowing as she seems to think better of the words. “Well, I guess I… Considering the terms of our arrangement, I’m not sure if I’ll…”
A sharp yelp of distress sounds from the edge of the field, mercifully interrupting the conversation before I’m forced to come up with an appropriate response.
Chapter 12
Dylan
Emma spins to look over her shoulder. I lift a hand, shielding my eyes as I squint toward the bike trail. The yelping has been overshadowed by loud cursing as a man in skin tight biking clothes picks himself up from the dirt next to his overturned bicycle.
Just a few feet away, Mrs. Mumford’s bulldog, Cupcake, is cowering in the ditch beside the trail, her tail tucked hard between her legs.
Emma and I start across the field at a jog that turns into a run as the thrown biker takes a menacing step toward the dog.
“Hey, what’s going on?” I insert myself between the douchebag and Cupcake. “Everything okay over here?”
“Your dog ran into my bike,” he spits, jabbing a shaking finger at Cupcake. “Ran right into my front wheel, sent me flying over the fucking handlebars.”
“Cupcake isn’t my dog, but I’m sorry about that. Are you okay?” I reach for my cell and tug it out of my jeans pocket. “You need me to call for an ambulance? Or help you carry your bike somewhere?”
“No, I don’t need an ambulance.” His face goes red, emphasizing the light gray stubble on his chin. “I need to be able to use the trail without someone’s dumb mutt doing thousands of dollars of damage to my property.”
“At least you’re not hurt,” Emma pipes up from behind me, where she’s crouched beside Cupcake, running a gentle hand over the whimpering dog’s back. “Cupcake can’t say the same. I think her paw is pretty messed up, Dylan. There’s some blood, but she nipped at me when I tried to get a better look.”
“You should put the damned dog down,” Douchebag shouts.
I see crimson, but before I can tell him to shove his fancy bike up his ass, Emma, in a don’t-fuck-with-me voice I’ve never heard from her before, says, “If you hadn’t been going too fast, then you would have been able to stop before you hit the dog. The speed limit on this trail is fifteen miles per hour, and I’m sure you were going at least thirty. All the street bikers do.”
The man’s face flushes a deeper red, but before he can say something he’ll regret—I will ensure he regrets it if he turns his tem
per on Emma—she pushes on.
“And the fact that you have more concern for your property than you do the welfare of another living creature is telling. If you were thinking clearly, I’m sure you wouldn’t like the story it tells.” She points a finger down the trail toward town. “So I suggest you take your bike, go on your way, and spend some time reflecting on your priorities.”
Biker douche’s upper lip curls. “And I suggest you shut your mouth, bitch.”
I turn back to him, squaring my shoulders and leveling him with a glare that immediately has him taking a step back. “Leave. Now.”
“You depend on tourism,” he says, his voice edging higher as he scuttles toward his bike. “You rednecks would all be on welfare if it wasn’t for our money. You should be kissing my ass.”
I take a step forward—one step—but that’s all it takes to send the spineless piece of shit scrambling onto his bike. He weaves unsteadily for a few moments—too busy looking over his shoulder to make sure I’m not coming to deliver the ass-beating he so richly deserves—before finding his balance and taking off toward town. Fast.
“Fifteen miles per hour, jerk!” Emma shouts after him. “Slow down! What if you hit a kid next time?”
But the man doesn’t slow down, of course. Because some people are determined to be assholes, no matter how many opportunities you give them to behave themselves.
As soon as he rounds the corner, I join Emma at Cupcake’s side, holding out a hand, which the dog begins to lick like her life depends on it.
“Hey, there baby, how are you?” I bring my other hand to her scruff, gently scratching the wrinkles around her neck the way she likes while I study her front paw. “Looks like your leg got tangled up pretty good.”
Emma hums in concern. “It does. I’m no doctor, obviously, but I’d bet at least one of her toes is broken. She needs to go to the vet.”
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