“Coming!” I yell towards the closed bedroom door.
When I open the door, Grant is standing there with two mugs of coffee, looking unfairly attractive in worn jeans and a fitted t-shirt that does nothing to hide the muscles I'd traced with my fingertips on last night.
“Morning,” he says, his voice morning-rough in a way that makes my stomach flip. “Thought you might need this.” He offers me a mug.
“Thanks.” Our fingers brush as I take it, sending electricity up my arm. “I was just... making a call.”
“I heard.” His eyes crinkle at the corners. “You look good in my bed, by the way.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I should have stayed. I just needed to...”
“Process?” he supplies, leaning against the doorframe. “Yeah, I get it. This thing between us... it complicates things.”
“Understatement of the year,” I mutter, taking a sip of the coffee. It's perfect—just the right amount of cream and sugar. He's been paying attention.
Grant watches me over the rim of his mug, his eyes warm. “Any regrets?”
“About last night?” I meet his gaze, feeling my pulse quicken. “Not a single one.” I confess, the words coming out strangely easily.
The smile that breaks across his face is worth the admission.
“Good. Me neither.” He shifts, suddenly looking less confident. “I was heading down to the garden to clear away some brush. Want to join me? No pressure to talk about...anything.” His voice dips low, but there’s an unexplainable look in his eyes.
“I should work on my article,” I say, though the thought of fresh air is tempting. “But maybe I'll bring my laptop down there? Change of scenery might help.”
His smile returns. “Perfect.”
***
An hour later, I'm settled on a blanket at the garden edge, my laptop open but largely ignored as I watch Grant work.
He’s methodical in his movements, stripping off his shirt as the morning sun intensifies, revealing this tanned skin and defined muscles that had been pressed against me last night. Sweat glistens on his back and shoulders as he hacks at undergrowth with practiced efficiency, swinging a machete, amachete, like this is some kind of small-town cowboy survival fantasy I didn’t know I had. Each swing is smooth, powerful, and honestly a little obscene.
Sir.
What in the actual hell.
This is some kind of weird botanical foreplay. And it’s working.
He takes another swing his bicep flexing.
Oh my.
Ovaries, be still now.
I try to focus on my article, I really do—but my eyes keep drifting to him.
I’m supposed to be writing about “Finding unexpected connections in unplanned destinations,” but all I’ve found is the urgent need to fan myself and climb the muscular, sweat dripping, hardworking man in front of me like a tree.
There's something hypnotic about the rhythmic swing of the machete, the way his forearm flexes with every swing, the play of muscles beneath his skin.
I force myself to look away and type something, anything.
“Connection blooms when you least expect it—”
Lies. What’s blooming is myneedto jump this man before he trims another fern.
I clear my throat and drag my eyes back to my screen. I type three words and delete them immediately. He swings again. My thighs clench like traitors.
