Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 16582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 83(@200wpm)___ 66(@250wpm)___ 55(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 16582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 83(@200wpm)___ 66(@250wpm)___ 55(@300wpm)
“You barely know me, Parker.”
“My cows and goats love you. That’s enough reason for me to think you’re not here to murder me while I sleep.”
A single tear slides down my cheek as I chuckle, and Parker wipes it with his thumb. “What’s your middle name?”
“Keith. You?”
“Elle.”
“Hmm.”
“You wanna know why?” I can’t resist rolling my eyes. “My parents had their honeymoon in Paris and London. Elle as in similar sounding to the letter L. My dad wanted to name me Paris London Page, but Mom said that was the kind of name kids get bullied for. They compromised and used Elle, spelled E-L-L-E, instead of London. As if Paris is any better. Do you know how many times I had to hear ‘Oh, like Paris, France?’ growing up? If I had a dollar for every question, I’d have enough money to buy your entire farm.”
Parker’s face splits into a smile. “Well, Elle spelled E-L-L-E, we’d love for you to stay on the farm. No pressure, obviously, but I also wouldn’t mind going with you to the city and introducing my fist to your boss’s face.”
I laugh out loud. “You wouldn’t dare!”
“Wanna bet?”
I open my mouth to answer, but he wraps a hand around the back of my head and presses his lips to mine. Just like that, I forget what I was thinking.
7
PARKER
The damn tractor won’t start. Again. I swear to God, it works on random days when I don’t need it, but when I do, it simply … goes to sleep. It’s like it feeds off my frustration.
I’ve been out here all morning, tools scattered in the dirt, sweat sticking to my back like glue. The humidity’s thick enough to chew, and I’m two more failed engine cranks away from launching a wrench into the horizon.
With a grunt, I strip off my shirt and throw it to the ground.
One of my golden retrievers, Otis, who stayed at the neighbor’s farm during the festival and came home just now, lets out a slow, unimpressed huff from where he’s sprawled under the shade of the old pecan tree. Doris, who also just returned, sits beside him, tongue hanging, eyes tracking my every move.
“Stop judging me,” I say, wiping grease on my jeans. “You two just sleep and fart all day. You also just had a mini vacation. I never did.”
Another turn of the key. Another sputter. Still no roar of life.
Jesus Christ.
Inside the house, Paris is working on her laptop. I can picture her curled up in my flannel again, legs tucked under her, coffee within reach. She blinked at me yesterday like I’d grown a second head when I gave her the Wi-Fi password.
“You have internet?” she said, like I was someone who powered his stove with firewood and never knew what modern plumbing was.
“I’m a farmer,” I told her. “Not an alien.”
That memory makes me smile … until I remember the tractor isn’t gonna start itself. I’ll probably just toss it in the ocean or sell it or, if worst comes to worst, bribe someone to take it off my hands.
The tractor groans once, coughs, and dies. Again.
I stare at it, jaw tight, chest damp from the humid air. There’s a streak of grease on my forearm, and I’ve already run through three different ideas of how to destroy this thing with minimal evidence.
Gravel shifts behind me, and I turn.
Paris walks toward me with a cold glass in hand. She’s wearing one of my old shirts, too big on her, so it slides down one shoulder. Her eyes take their time traveling up from my jeans to my chest, lingering just a second too long at the line of sweat running down from my throat.
I drop from the tractor, boots hitting the ground with a thud. Paris hands me the glass without a word, her fingers brushing mine. The cold hits my throat in one long pull. I barely breathe between gulps.
I set the empty glass on the hood behind me. Her gaze doesn’t waver.
She tilts her head. A slow drag of her gaze down my stomach. “I was going to ask about lunch, but suddenly, I’m hungry for something else.”
“Oh, yeah? What do you have in mind?”
Her breath catches just as my palm lands flat beside her, braced against the curve of the tractor’s rear wheel. Her back meets the metal with a soft gasp. She doesn’t pull away, doesn’t break eye contact.
That look in her eyes makes something tight and primal unravel inside me.
“I just wanted to bring you iced coffee.”
“Hmm. In nothing but my shirt and boxers on?”
At this, she smiles slyly. “Oh, you think I’m wearing your boxers?”
Desire slams into me in full force, and I slide a hand under the shirt, groaning when my fingers touch the soft curls of her pussy. “Fuck, baby. You’re killing me.”