Should’ve worn panties. Definitely should’ve worn panties.
I curl my knees to my chest, sip the tea—chamomile with a touch of honey and lemon balm—and sigh.
“This is delicious,” I hum. “Another of your mom’s creations?”
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Her and Gemma, my older sister. Gemma’s always loved planting—herbs, mostly. She loves the flowers, it was her favorite part of Honey Bea, but she’s got a hell of a green thumb. She created the recipe for the tea, and the salts.”
“You guys have quite the operation here,” I murmur around another sip. “What else do you make?”
Kade pauses for a beat, exhaling roughly, knees tightening around my shoulders. “I’m not really sure what they make or sell these days.”
There’s something thick, something painful, in his voice, and I turn, catching his eyes.
“Because you’ve been away?”
A sharp, tense nod. I kiss his knee—the only thing I can reach at this angle.
“You’re back now,” I whisper. “That’s what counts.” Grinning, I turn back around and shrug. “Besides, your mom has a newassistant who’s eager to learn the ropes around here, so for all you know, you might get replaced as her favorite child soon.”
His bark of laughter is magic to my ears, and the way he squeezes my shoulders, digging into my tense muscles, is magic to my system. I groan, body softening in his grip, and he takes it as his cue to work out the knots there.
“No doubt in my mind, darlin’. My mama loves you already.”
Warmth spreads through me, and I hide my happy smile in my drink.
Once I’m nearly a pile of happy goo, he moves to my hair. I watch with rapt attention as he picks up a bottle of leave-in for curls and squirts some into his palms. A sweet, sugary scent fills the air a second before his big, calloused hands begin working it through my hair.
My breath catches and the teacup almost slips.
“You’re… you’re doing this?”
“Of course I am.” He scoffs. “May not know what the fuck I’m doing, but Colby wrote a step-by-step list.”
“A list,” I repeat, dumbstruck.
I kind of just figured he was waiting on me to dive in and do it myself.
“If I can birth a calf in a thunderstorm and disarm a roadside IED, I can do your damn hair, baby.”
And just like that, he slips into the role of caretaker.
And I…
God, I let him.
His hands are slow, tender, never rushing. Massaging, detangling, moving with care. The silence between us is warm, and natural.
The sun climbs higher, casting golden light over the fields outside. The fire crackles softly. A tutorial plays low in the background, but I tune it out, content to sip my tea, nibble a cracker Bea packed, and revel in this luxury.
When he’s done prepping me, the blow-dryer hums. Warm air flutters over my curls, his fingers tugging gently, shaping. Quickly, the rhythm and sounds lull me into tranquility, but it’s the love and care in his movements that comforts me and heals me all at once.
But it’s the occasional rough glide of his calluses against my neck, my ear and throat, my scalp, that wake me up in a different way. I clench my thighs tighter, and my clit throbs in time with my heartbeat. Under my stolen shirt, my breasts are heavy and aching, my nipples begging for his touch.
I’m raw and wet and so very empty, but I loathe the idea of stopping him.
No one’s ever done this for me.
I think back to that day in the grocery store when I ran into him. The way he looked at me. Hovered nearby. Followed me like a shadow.
