“He’s not very good at driving,” I whispered, just to break the thick, charged silence.
A low chuckle rumbled through his chest, and I felt it vibrate through my own body. “Engine stalled. Probably a clogged fuel line.”
“Of course you know that.”
“It’s my job to know that.” Then he corrected himself, his voice going flat. “It was.”
The word hung in the air between us. The wound he’d come here to escape. The reason for our whole stupid charade.
I turned my head to look at him. In the gloom, illuminated only by the faint, distant moonlight filtering through the trees, his face was all sharp angles and shadows. The arrogant, broody racecar driver was gone. In his place was just a man, shrouded in darkness, looking tired and a little lost.
My heart gave a painful, sympathetic ache. It was a real feeling. I shoved it down. *Rule three.*
“Thank you,” I said, my voice soft. “For … you know. The hay.”
He just nodded, his gaze dropping to my mouth.
The air grew thick, heavy. The distant sounds of the annoyed crowd faded away completely. My whole world narrowed to the few inches of space between our faces. He was so close. Too close. My brain was screaming at me to move, to lean away, to re-establish the six inches of buffer space our contract demanded.
My body wasn’t listening.
In a slow, mesmerizing movement, he lifted his free hand, the one that wasn’t still loosely holding mine. He brushed his thumb across my cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle.
“You have hay in your hair,” he murmured.
His fingers threaded into the stray strands near my temple, carefully working out a piece of straw that had gotten tangled there. His touch was feather-light, but it sent a cascade of warmth skittering down my spine. My breath caught in my throat. I couldn’t have moved if the tractor had spontaneously exploded.
His hand lingered, his thumb stroking my temple in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. His eyes held mine, dark and searching in the gloom. The intensity I’d seen in the pumpkin patch was back, tenfold. He wasn’t looking at me like a business partner. He wasn’t looking at me like his best friend’s sister. He was looking at me like a man looks at a woman he is about to kiss.
And God help me, I wanted him to.
My own rules, my own vows of independence, my fear of my meddling family—it all burned away like mist in the morning sun. There was only this man, this moment, this strange, terrifying, undeniable pull.
He leaned in.
I leaned in.
My eyes fluttered shut. My lips parted. The scratchy scent of hay and the cool, clean scent of him filled my senses. I could feel the warmth of his breath, just a whisper away from my mouth. One more inch. One more second.
“Are you guys—are you kissing?!” Olivia’s high little voice cut through the silence like someone slamming a toolbox lid.
A dozen brilliant beams of light suddenly stabbed through our private darkness.
My eyes flew open. Across the wagon, a chorus of phone flashlights had been activated, flooding our little corner with harsh, invasive light. The spell was broken. We sprang apart, the three feet between us now feeling like a gaping chasm. My face was on fire. Mario swore under his breath, turning away so quickly his shoulder bumped the side of the wagon.
The moment was gone, brutally murdered by twenty-first-century technology.
“What was that?” my mother’s voice called out, sharp with suspicion. “Lily, are you alright over there?”
Before I could answer, another light flashed, this one brighter, quicker, and more deliberate than the phone beams. A distinct, single flash.
A camera.
My heart stopped, then plummeted straight into the soles of my boots. I whipped my head toward the source of the flash.
There, standing on her bench to get a better angle, was June. She was lowering her phone, a triumphant, predatory glint in her eye. She’d seen it all. The proximity. The intimacy. The almost-kiss. And she had documented it.
She gave me a little wink, a silent confirmation of her journalistic coup, before turning to show the picture to the woman next to her.
