79. Marnie

Dusty is filthy.

His hands are stained with grease. He’s even got a little smudge by his jaw. His forearms and chest are sweaty.

And I love it.

I love the way he smells. Like soap and fresh air and good, honest sweat. I kind of want to run my tongue along his neck to see how salty he tastes.

But first things first. I need to know if I’ve made the right decision.

He will either be pleased, or seriously freaked out.

I’m almost shaking, afraid to form the words, but one of us needs to take a leap of faith. There’s a part of me that knew that I was the one who had to make the first move. There’s an icky power dynamic that I want to scrub from our situation, but it is what it is. I’ve decided it’s time to woman up and deal with things head on.

“Do you like your new job?”

“Yeah.”

His answer is automatic.

I tilt my head, trying to gauge the truth in his reply. He’s always been very good at wearing masks. It’s how he survived, but I don’t want him wearing those masks around me.

I run a finger down his jaw, and his breezy smile falters. There it is.

The truth.

“Do you like it better than bees?”

He takes a deep breath through his nose. “No.”

“How about lavender?”

He tilts his head, peering at my face. “No, not better than lavender.”

“If I asked you to, would you quit that job?”

He tenses up next to me. “Why?”

“I’m going to need a farm manager, and Jerry Lind said he was busy.”

There’s a heartrending pause, and then he gives me a slow, lopsided smile that’s like the sunrise. “You wouldn’t trust Jerry Lind to pour piss out of a boot if the instructions were on the heel.”

I laugh. “You’re damn right I wouldn’t. I need somebody competent. Somebody that knows their way around bees.”

“You keep talking about these bees.”

“I keep talking about our bees.”

He gives me a funny look. “What are you talking about, Marnie? Aren’t you selling?”

“Not unless somebody gives me a reason to.”

I fiddle with the edge of my shirt. It’s his shirt, actually. I found it in one of the dressers. It’s big and soft with the words Silver Bend Football emblazoned on the front. I didn’t ask if I could borrow it. I just assumed he wouldn’t mind. But now, sitting here in a stolen shirt, I start to wonder if I’ve made too many assumptions about the two of us. It’s too late now. I’ve started this thing. I need to finish it—like ripping off a band-aid. Words burst out of me in a desperate rush. “I want to stay with you. I want to grow flowers and make honey.”

What a childish declaration. My cheeks heat up and I force myself to meet his gaze. He’s got a little frown on his face.

Not the reaction I was going for.

“But what was that deed on the counter?”

“You saw that?”

He winces. “I didn’t open it, but it’s labeled. Deed of sale.”

“That’s for my house in Lincoln.”

I hesitate, feeling unsure. I wish I could organize my thoughts and start over. “This all sounded a lot better in my head. I don’t want you to feel like I’m pressuring you, though. And I know we’d still need to grow standard crops, but I want to see what happens with all your side projects. I didn’t really have any interest in agriculture until I met you and now it’s gotten under my skin. But if you’re not part of it, I’m out, too. I don’t want to work with anyone else. You’re young, so maybe you want freedom to explore other options, but if that’s the case, I’d rather know now.”

I’m rambling, words spilling out of me like maybe one of them will fix all the words that came before. Fear grows in my heart. Have I misjudged the situation? Am I taking a young man with the world ahead of him and clipping his wings?

Maybe he sees that fear in my eyes, because without warning, his hand slides behind my neck and he tugs me to him.

His kiss is fierce and deep.