The kind of home I feel like we’ve been living in for the past week. We haven’t really, I know. We’re just guests. But… It doesn’t feel like that. Not while I’m right here in the middle of it.
None of this feels temporary. Not even the way Sasha is glaring at me right now, head cocked, those shrewd green eyes of hers flashing. She knows that something’s bothering me, and she’s not going to let up about it—like anyone in a relationship wouldn’t.
Except this isn’t a relationship. She’s about to turn tail and run, in less than two days, as soon as we officially declare this farm ready for sale.
“Seriously, Grant,” she says, and I can’t help it. I relent a little, relax at the sound of my name on her perfect, smooth, so-fucking-kissable lips. “Tell me what’s wrong. Please.”
“Farm’s looking great,” I say instead, squinting past her at the fields. We haven’t gotten around to seeding those yet, but we’ve tilled them. They’re almost in workable order. Too late in the season for any produce this year, but next spring they’ll be ripe for the planting. For whatever lucky owner wants to come and try their luck at growing anything out here.
A frown line appears on her brow. But she follows my gaze nonetheless, and studies the place alongside me. “We’ll be finished by tomorrow or the next day, don’t you think?” she agrees softly.
“Easily. Maybe sooner if we hustle on the fence and the back garden.”
Now it’s her turn to sigh and run her hands through her hair. She stretches, and I can’t help it—my gaze drops to trace her curves. The tug of her breasts under her tight T-shirt, the way her flat belly peeks out between the hem of that shirt and the edge of her tiny, sexy little jean shorts.
“I never thought it would look this good this fast,” she admits, her voice low. “When I first pulled up here…” She laughs and shakes her head a little.
I smirk. “You were very concerned, I seem to recall. About the fence, the house, the tire swing…”
She snorts. “Well. There’s one thing we still need to fix. That tire swing is definitely a death-trap.”
“I don’t know about that,” I counter, raising an eyebrow. “It always was sturdy.” There it is again. The reminder that she doesn’t even remember. The two of us taking turns on that swing, me pushing her so high she screamed. Her trying and failing to push me hard enough to get any momentum at all. Us standing on opposite sides, winding it up and letting go so it spun, and pulled us apart, both of us shrieking, hanging onto the rope for dear life as it spun.
“I bet we’ll get a lot more than you first expected,” Sasha says, eyes still on the property. Because of course. That’s all she sees in this place. Future money. A burden to offload on someone else.
“I’d reckon so,” I reply, my tone carefully, painfully neutral.
“What do you plan to do with your share?” she asks, head tilted. Oblivious to what she’s doing. To how I’m feeling.
“Don’t know.”
She turns to look at me at last, frowning, head tilted in concern. “You don’t know? It’ll be a decent chunk of money. You must have some plans for it.”
I wanted this farm. I wanted to be the one to take it, turn it back into what it used to be in its heyday. Or at least turn enough profit to keep going, to build a life here. A life for me, and…
It doesn’t matter.
“You know me. I’m just a simple country man,” I mutter. “Don’t have any big lofty plans in life.”
“I didn’t mean that,” Sasha protests. “I just meant… Surely you were thinking about… after…”
“Probably not as much as you. I’m sure you can’t wait to get on home to your fancy new life. This all must seem way too simple for you. Boring and slow, just like all us townie folks.”
“Grant, what—”
“That’s fine, Sasha. You like what you like. You always have. You’re exactly the same girl you used to be.”
Her frown deepens now, creasing her forehead. “What are you talking about?”
“You don’t even remember. That’s the worst part. How can you be mad at someone for something they don’t even remember doing?” I laugh and run my hand through my hair again. Then I tighten it into a fist, grimace, tug at my hair as I spin back toward the house.
“Of course I remember,” she spits as she steps in my way, barring my path.
That throws me.
My brow furrows.
“I remember everything, Grant Werther. You’re the one who didn’t. You forgot that of course I know how to handle a hammer and climb a ladder—we built a whole tree house together. You forgot that we used to be friends before you got all high and mighty in high school, running with the jocks. You even forgot me—when I got here all you talked about was my mama and me leaving town. Like you didn’t even remember those summers.”