2. Harlan

2

HARLAN

"Does that feel good?" The breathless question is whispered against my ear as soft, silky blonde hair floats over my chest.

I nod. Whatever she's doing, it feels good.

I reach out, attempting to grasp her hips, but for some reason…I can't. I can feel her pressing up against me. I can feel the motion of her grinding against my rock-hard erection.

So why can't my hands grip her hips?

I try again, but now I'm above her. She's beneath me. I'm looking down into ocean blue eyes and full red lips that steal my breath away.

How did we get like this?

It didn't matter. It felt good. So good. I lower down to kiss her, but her hair tickles my face. I move my head to one side, and she licks my face. Once. Twice. Three times.

That's when I hear it. Music. Loud music.

I try to open my eyes, but it feels like they are cemented shut.

The music gets louder.

Where is it coming from?

When my heavy lids finally lift, I realize that it's not a blue-eyed, hot blonde who's licking me; it's my cat, Dini. And the music blaring is my alarm clock.

It was just a dream. There was no hot blonde. Just a teacup calico kitty.

I moved my head away from Dini, who hopped onto the floor and began meowing loudly, demanding her breakfast be served. For a tiny thing, she was bossy as hell.

"Okay, okay. I'm up."

Frustration rolled through my body as I pushed off my sheet and sat up. When I did, the crisp morning air hit my groin, and another realization struck me. I hadn't just had a sex dream; I'd had a wet dream. I hadn't had one of those since I was fifteen and started having actual sex.

Fuck.

I really needed to get laid. It had been a year—no, longer since I'd gotten laid.

When was the last time I'd done the deed?

It took a moment in my sleepy haze for the answer to come to me. It was the brunette in Dallas. The cheerleader. That was…

Holy shit. It had been two years since I'd gotten my dick wet.

How could it have been that long?

I knew the answer; I just didn't want to think about it. My chin dropped down to my chest as I ran my hands through my hair in frustration and lifted my head.

There was a loud knock. It was not on my door, though; it came from my floor. It was a broom hitting the kitchen ceiling, which my room sat over.

"Wake up, Sleeping Beauty!" my grandad bellowed. "Ya got company!"

My eyes shot to my phone, and I saw that my wet dream had caused me to oversleep by fifteen minutes. My grandad was referring to my clients. I ran a bootcamp workout called Farm Strong, which I started nearly two years ago.

This hadn't always been the plan for my life. Up until a couple of years ago, my entire life revolved around baseball. I'd played in high school, college, in the minors, and then finally the majors. I'd spent one year playing for the San Diego Waves before a career-ending injury derailed my life. One second I was up to bat; the next I felt a pop in my shoulder, which turned out to be a torn rotator cuff. Two surgeries and six months of physical therapy later, I was released from my contract and had to face the fact that I was never going to play professionally again.

I came home to Firefly Island to lick my wounds and spent nearly nine months getting drunk and feeling sorry for myself. I started Farm Strong after returning from a trip to Dallas to visit my college roommate. Coincidentally, it was the same trip where I'd hooked up with a Cowboys cheerleader—which was a tick on my bucket, or should I say, fuck-it list—and had ended up being the last time I'd had sex. When I got home, things had gone from bad to worse. The night I returned from Texas, my grandma, Meemaw Mitchell—who, with my grandad had raised me after my dad passed when I was twelve—had a heart attack. She spent the next two months in and out of the hospital, had a triple bypass, and then contracted pneumonia. She passed away six months ago.

Meemaw had been the heart and soul of the family and had also run things on the farm. Grandad was a retired mechanic, and although he could fix a tractor, he didn't have anything to do with the animals or finances. Overnight, I grew up. One day, all I had to worry about was myself. The next day, keeping the family farm in the Mitchell name fell on my shoulders.

I wasn't a farmer, so I'd improvised. I'd always been an athlete and into fitness, and in what I can only believe was serendipity, my old roommate in Dallas ran a bootcamp class that was grossing him thousands of dollars a month. So, I'd started the same thing with a farm twist. It took off. And that's what I'd been doing ever since. It hadn't left a lot of time for a social life.

Sure, I met women in my class. Lots of women. Women who were interested and willing. Not to toot my own horn, but Arm Porn was a real thing, and my biceps were the equivalent of Kelis's milkshake, and they brought all the girls to the yard. Hell, I'd even started a calendar that was a huge Christmas seller. Women appreciating my physique was great for business, but I had a strict rule: I never dated clients.

Which was why I hadn't gotten laid in over two years.

"Meow," Dini asserted.

Fuck. The only pussy I had in my bed was demanding her breakfast, so I couldn't wallow in how pathetic that was. This pity party would have to be postponed.

I grabbed the sheets off my bed and threw them in the laundry basket. After a thirty-second, freezing cold shower, I threw on a pair of sweats, tennis shoes, a T-shirt, and a baseball cap.

It wasn't my typical Farm Strong "uniform," which consisted of Wranglers and a sleeveless flannel topped off with cowboy boots and hat, but I hadn't done laundry this week, so sweats were going to have to do.

I grabbed Dini on my way out of my room, and she cuddled against me. As I came down the stairs two at a time, Dini purred against my chest. By the time I made it to the kitchen, she was kneading her paws into my shoulder, which didn't feel great considering she was not declawed.

Grandad was seated at the kitchen table, the same spot he'd sat at drinking his coffee every day of my life. After slurping loudly, he slowly lowered his mug to the table as I bent over to set Dini down and grab her bowl to feed her.

"Nice of you to join us, grandson. Half the day's gone."

It was barely after five in the morning. But since my grandad was born and raised on this farm, he always ran on what he called "farm time." Which meant he was up at three. Every day. Rain or shine. Summer or winter. Regardless if time had sprung forward or fallen back.

Three o'clock every morning. And he did it without ever using an alarm. His internal clock was truly astounding.

Despite being born and raised on the very same farm, I was not a morning person. Something that was a little inconvenient since my bootcamp classes ran from five to eleven in the morning. After that, I had actual farm work to do, which usually lasted four to six hours. Once I got done with maintenance and animal care, there were spreadsheets, financial reports, and a lot of other business-related stuff I was trying my best to handle, but if I was being honest with myself, I was drowning.

"No escapes today," I instructed Dini, which was short for Houdini, as I petted her behind her ears.

Most of the animals I'd been raised with were outdoor pets, but not Dini. Every time she went outside, she got into trouble. There was the skunk, plus she'd already been hit by a car, and she'd gotten stuck up three trees. She'd lost all outdoor privileges, but she tried to escape every chance she got. She loved sunbathing in my next-door neighbor Miss Rhonda's breakfast nook, which would be fine if Miss Rhonda wasn't deathly allergic to cats.

"See ya in a bit!" I tipped my hat to Grandad and headed out.

The dirt area that I'd converted to a parking lot beside the barn was full, which meant I had a packed 5 a.m. class. I should be happy about that. Every single body that was there kept the lights on and the deed in the Mitchell name, but lately, every one of those cars just made me feel stuck.

All my life I'd wanted a family. I couldn't wait to have a wife and kids who, like me, would be raised on this farm. Despite losing my mom when I was three and my dad when I was twelve, I had a good childhood. That was thanks to my grandparents and the farm, which taught me discipline, empathy, responsibility, and hard work. I couldn't wait to pass those things on to my offspring. The problem was, my personal life was nonexistent, which made the chances of me starting a family in the near future slim to none.

As I rounded the corner to the barn, I saw that Weston, a nineteen-year-old college kid who was studying sports science at the junior college. I'd hired him last month to help with check-ins and paperwork. He had already split the class up into three groups. One group was doing the Feed Bag Carry, another group was doing the Tractor Tire Deadlifts, and the last group was doing the Hay Run.

"Everybody checked in?" I asked as I came to a stop beside him.

"Yep." He nodded, and his shaggy blond hair bobbed up and down. "You okay? I was just about to text you."

I shrugged. "Just overslept."

He eyed my attire. "You sure you're okay? I can run the classes this morning."

"I'm good." I grabbed the whistle from his hand and took over.

The next few hours passed in a blur until the final client's car pulled out of the parking area. Every class was the same thing. Just like yesterday, the day before that, and the day before that. That's what my life felt like, like I was living in a personal hell of Groundhog's Day .

"You sure everything's okay, bro?" Weston's concern clearly showed on his face as we reset the barn for the classes tomorrow.

"Yeah, man. I'm good."

He nodded as he picked up the basket of used sweat towels. "Oh shit."

"What?" I asked.

He bent over, and when he stood back up, he was holding an unopened box of Magnum BareSkin condoms. "These yours?" he asked.

That was the brand I used, but unfortunately, I hadn't in quite a while.

"Nope."

"You want ‘em?" He held out his arm toward me.

I wish I had a use for them. "Just toss ‘em in the first aid kit, and we'll see if anyone asks for them."

"Like a contraceptive lost and found?"

"Yep."

He shrugged as he opened the cabinet and put them in the white tin box with red lettering.

When he turned back around, he asked, "You stressed about tonight?"

"Tonight?" I questioned.

"The auction."

"Shit! Is that tonight?"

He nodded.

"I totally forgot about that."

"Who do ya think's gonna bid on you?"

I shrugged.

I had no idea. I wasn't even sure exactly what they were bidding for. I was just doing what I was asked and trying to stay in the good graces of the city council. At the last small business association meeting, Mayor Baldwin asked if I would be willing to donate my time. I'd agreed before I found out that I'd have to wear a tux and put myself up for auction like a steer.

"If you need me to run the classes tomorrow, I can," Weston offered as I pulled the barn door shut.

Once I did, I took off my hat and ran my hands through my hair as I turned toward him. "Thanks, but I don't plan on it being a late…" My words trailed off as I lost my train of thought when I saw an angel.

Long, golden blonde hair shimmered in the sun and fell over her shoulders, framing a baby doll face. This angelic creature's flawless skin glowed, and even from this distance, I could clearly make out her perfect cherry-red lips and huge eyes. I couldn't see what color they were, but they were round and framed with dark lashes.

She reminded me of the woman who had been in my dreams. Same hair. Same lips. Same face.

The ethereal being turned to pick up a box, and when she bent over, my chest constricted painfully. On full display, like a billboard in Times Square, was the most perfect heart-shaped ass I'd ever seen. Her worn denim highlighted every curve and hugged her body like a second skin. I lost the ability to speak, think, and, hell, even breathe.

She had the face of an angel, but a body built for sin.

As she stood back up, her long locks fanned out in the air, and I would swear it was a Pantene commercial come to life. If the Pantene commercial was rated NC-17 because what I was feeling was not in the PG or even R category.

"Don't plan it on being what?" Weston prompted.

"Who's that?" I asked, unable to tear my gaze away from the angelic, curvy goddess.

Beside me, Weston turned to follow my eyeline. "That must be Miss Rhonda's niece, Daphne. She mentioned she was coming into town for the weekend 'cause you know, her grandma is being honored at the gala tonight. She's a producer, or director, or somethin' and lives out in California."

"California," I repeated automatically.

She was only here for the weekend. That didn't seem like nearly enough time. Hell, I wasn't even sure the rest of my life would be enough time to get this celestial creature out of my system.

"Hey, that means she'll be at the auction tonight." Weston slapped his hand on my shoulder. "Maybe she'll bid on you."

If she did, I'd be the luckiest SOB that ever lived.