by Natasha Deen
“It’s okay, I’ve got him.” Her voice trembled and came out husky.
She knelt down, bent her head over her son, and in steadying herself, put her hand on Nate’s knee. And the instinctual move undid her. It was just a kneecap, but God, so different from hers. Hard and warm like hers, but Lord, so male. She imagined its smooth roundness between her legs, gently nudging her thighs apart, the heavy weight of him as he leaned his body into her, the crisp sensation of his hair against her skin, and the deep, building tension that would explode into welcome release when they reached ultimate, physical possession.
So lonely. So alone. A queen-sized bed and a king-sized emptiness to go along with it.
“Aya?” His fingers curled around hers. “Are you okay?”
Bone against bone, flesh against flesh, warmth against warmth. It would be so easy to fall into him, bury and burrow in, and let the tides sweep her where they may. The waters lapped at her toes, calling her into the deep, wide ocean she had missed for ten years. Wet, salty, it teased her, tempted her. But deep in the dark recess where sanity and repercussions dwelt, she knew the undertow swirled beneath the surface, waiting to take her in, drag her under and drown any hope for a happy ending. So she pulled away, until she once again stood on the desolate beach, and stared into a watery world she could never enter, and a life she could never know.
Aya forced levity past the leaden feelings invading her. “I’m okay, just lost my footing for a moment.” She met his gaze, though she could hardly bear to make eye contact. Then she gathered Spencer in her arms and walked away.
****
On Monday, in the wake of bills waiting for payment, loneliness and sexual hunger ebbed from a tidal wave to a trickle. Credit card slips, mortgage payments, and phone notices towered on her desk, a paper and ink riptide that threatened to pull her into an undertow of debt. She sighed, the sound as heavy as the weight on her chest. Pushing the loose strands of hair from her face, Aya sat down.
After an hour’s worth of addition, subtraction, and paper cuts, she was ready to shred the bills, forget about modern conveniences, and live by candlelight rather than electricity. No matter how she worked the numbers, her hold on the farm remained precarious. Right now, the cows paid to maintain the status quo, but one interest hike, one bovine with the sniffles, and the land would fall to the bank, and by proxy to Mason St. John.
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to rid them of the dry, gritty feeling. Maybe she should raise her prices; maybe she should look at expanding, or maybe she needed to consolidate. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe she should win the lottery—maybe she should marry a billionaire. A smile borne of black humor, marred her lips.
“I wonder if Mr. Mason St. John needs a wife,” she muttered to the computer screen.
“Who needs a wife?” Nate asked as he came into the room, followed by Pops.
“No one,” Aya said hastily. She shut down the Excel files, averting her eyes from the measly amounts netted for a month of back-breaking, muscle-straining, tendon-pulling labor. “Is dinner ready?”
“Yes. Spencer is setting the table.” Pops’ shadow fell across desk. “How did we do this month?”
Her hands corralled the loose papers, pens, and clips into drawers, shoving the bills into piles and relegating the desk into a loose semblance of order. “We did fine.”
Pops folded his arms across his thick chest; his head cocked in silent, sarcastic opposition to her statement.
“Okay,” she amended. “We did okay.”
Pops rubbed his forehead. The swollen knuckles of his fingers and wrinkled skin spotlighted his age and bashed her over the head with guilt. He was too old to be worrying about her. And she should be able to keep the family together, and on their ancestral land.
“Aya, we can’t keep going like this. If the bank forecloses, we’ll lose everything. Take Mason St. John’s offer. At least we’ll have money to rebuild our lives.”
She glanced at Nate, who shrugged and took a seat in one of the time-worn chairs. He stretched his long legs in front of him, rested his hands on the scarred wooden armrests, and waited.
“Pops, I think this should be a private conversation.”
“Why? It concerns all of us.” Pops’ gruff words roughened the air. “If we can’t afford to pay Nate, he oughta know.”
Pride-filled energy crackled along her spine. “I can pay him,” she retorted. “If I couldn’t, I never would have hired him—no matter what Dennis said about his ability to help the farm.”
Nate shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“You’ll never find a proper spot in that seat,” she told him. “Use the pink one—it’s not the manliest color, but you’ll feel better in it.”
“I think I’ll just stand,” he muttered, rising from the chair.
He stood by the window, hands in his back pockets. The late afternoon light caressed his hair and face with a warm, honeyed glow.
She pulled her wandering thoughts from the meandering path of fantasy back to reality. “I can pay you, Nate. It’s not millions, but it’s the best I can do.”
His eyes slid in her direction, but as soon as their gazes connected, he wrenched away. “It’s fine.”
Lord, was she losing his support before she had a chance to get it? “Dennis said I was lucky to have you. You’re a hard worker, and if anyone could help me, it was Nate Love.” She used her smile like an olive branch, hoping to pull him to her side, but he didn’t smile back. If anything, he looked queasy.
“He gives me too much credit,” he said gruffly.
“You’re damn good at milking cows, but a hard worker’s of no use to a bankrupt farm.” Pops’ gaze snapped at Aya.
Nate glanced at him, but then shook his head and turned to look out the window. “I’m just here to lend a hand, do what needs to be done.”
“Things will work out,” Aya said. “You’ll see.”
“I may not own a farm, but I know a losing proposition when I see one.” Nate’s iron gaze manacled her. “You don’t have enough capital to expand or increase profits. You need to downsize—great rid of some of your stock.”
His words hit her with the force of a billy-club to the temple.
“I can’t sell my cows.” A childish note chimed in her voice.
He scowled. “If Jim’s right, you don’t have enough finances to set up the farm for grain production.”
She shook her head. Tears pricked the back of her eyes. “Don’t make me give up my cows,” she pleaded to both of them. “I don’t know if the next farmer would treat them well—what if he abused them? Turned them over to some soulless farm that keeps them in cages, doesn’t let them wander in the fields?”
“Jesus, Aya!” Nate’s voice thundered across the room. “This isn’t a goddamn petting zoo! It’s a business, and if you want to save it and your family, then you’ll have to sacrifice the cows.” He took a hissing breath; the sides of his nose pinched with frustration. “It’s business, and if you want to get ahead, you’ll have to think with your head, not your heart.”
“You may as well tell her to grow an extra arm,” her grandfather said as he dropped into the chair opposite the desk. “Aya doesn’t know how to think with anything other than her heart. It’s what got her into this mess in the first place.”
She trampled her feelings of despair, stomping them into submission and surrender with the memory of her parents, and their dreams. “Dad loved this farm, so did mom. It was their whole life.”
“You were their whole life,” Pops countered. “Do you think this is how they wanted you to live? Limping from one bill payment to the other, separated from life, and raising a child by yourself?”
She lifted a protective shield of anger, hid her fears behind the gruffly spoken words, “Being a single parent wasn’t my first choice, either. But if I’d stayed with Daniel, I’d have two children instead of one.”
“Sell to Mason,” Pops pressed. “Take the money and run to life, Aya.”
She closed her eyes. The hot tears burned like pepper.
“Tell her, Nate. Tell her to pick up the phone and call Mason St. John”
Aya opened her eyes, but the tears refused to be repressed and made Nate’s form a blurred watercolor of denim and cotton. The silence between the three of them grew, heavy, oppressive.
“Tell her to sell.” The iron in her grandfather’s voice pushed his point.
With the heel of her hand, she brushed the tears from her eyes, taking in every crisp detail of Nate, from the hesitation in his eyes, to the twitch of his mouth as he tried to talk and failed.
“It’s Aya’s decision,” he finally said. His eyes met hers in silent support. “I’ll help you anyway I can. But you have to give serious thought to the cows.”
Sell her animals. The pain in her heart and the weight in her chest renewed themselves, and took the strength from her legs. She collapsed into the chair, her head bowing until her forehead touched the cold surface of the desk.
“I’ll think about it. Tell Destina I’ll be late for dinner,” she mumbled.
Aya listened to the men’s footfalls as they left the office. And when they had closed the door behind them, she wrapped her arms around her head and cried.
Chapter Five
“What the hell was that all about?” Jim grabbed Mason’s arm. “Between the two of us, we could have gotten her to sell—or at least consider it.” The intensity of his glare ebbed as wariness began to lurk in his blue eyes. “Is this some ploy—you’ve decided to drive the farm into the ground and snap up the land when the bank forecloses?”
“No!” Mason’s gaze jerked to the closed office door. “No,” he repeated in a quieter tone, “not at all.”
“Then what the hell is wrong with you?”
There was no better question to ask, but he didn’t know the answer. “I don’t—” He gestured helplessly. “She was crying—I’d just told her to sell her cows—I didn’t have the heart to drive in the stake.”
Jim snorted. “I’ll have to let Trump know the next time the two of you are in the midst of negotiations, all he has to do is cry, and you’ll crack like a goddamn egg!” His mouth curled in disgust as he stomped away. He slammed to a stop and turned around, slow and worn out. Worry bleached the color from his face and stooped his shoulders. He sighed and swore softly. “That was uncalled for—I’m sorry.” He walked back. “I’m afraid for her, for Spencer. She’s not a businesswoman—” Jim ran his hands through his hair, pulling at the short, silver strands with agitated movements. “Come, let me show you something.” He turned away and headed toward the basement.
Mason followed. The temperature of the air around them dropped as they headed down the carpeted steps. Here, the radiant heat from the sun couldn’t penetrate the concrete and drywall, and the floor lay cool, quiet. Jim led him to a white bedroom door, opened it, and flicked on the overhead, fluorescent light. Old toys, Spencer’s baby crib, and cardboard boxes were stacked neatly against the walls. At the end of the room, a mid-height shelving unit sat, and on each level, glass vases, bowls, and goblets.
“Aya made those,” Jim said, nodding to the bookshelf. “That’s her passion, her talent—glass-blowing.”
Mason strode to the bookshelf, studying her work with a collector’s eye. Aya didn’t just have talent—she possessed it, wielded it, and made it her willing servant. He took a vase from the top shelf. Sitting on a short, round base, the urn spread outward, its edges billowed and unfurled like a flower. At the top, its curling lines flowed and rippled as if a gentle, invisible wind caressed its delicate sides. A burgundy-colored ribbon of glass highlighted the tip of the frosted object. The effect of the colors, the ripples, left him with a sense of beauty so effortless and graceful, it stole upon him with soft steps and coaxed his breath away.
Mason set it down and picked up a wine goblet. The glass sat on a long, delicate stem, and the receptacle strove upwards with soft, curving grace—reaching toward the sky as if it would escape the bonds of its molecules and take flight. It was flawless—smooth, classic art that seemed to be more than heated sand, but an ethereal creature caught in mid-movement. The hands that made these objects weren’t the hands of a worker, but of a lover. One who adored her art, lived for it—and her devotion was evident in every sparkling creation of light she sculpted.
“Why hasn’t she pursued this—sold to a gallery? I would buy this,” he said, twirling the glass one way, then another. “I would buy it in a heartbeat, no matter the cost.” He handed it to Jim, letting it go with the reluctance of a man forced to give up the Mona Lisa.
“I know. This is her strength—this is her passion. But she’s denying who she is, what she was meant to be. Farming may let her survive, but her art is what will let her live.” Jim placed the glass on the shelf. His fingers curled away from the stem, slow, heartrending, as if he too, was letting go of a dream. When he turned to face Mason, his silver-blue eyes held the sad edge of a parent bestowing punishment. “I know you care for her, but you can’t let her tears move you. Mason, you must be stronger—crueler,” he added softly, “if only to be kind. We have to get this land—we have to help her see what is true and valuable.”
He squeezed Mason on the shoulder and started for the door.
“I’ll be along. I just want to take another look.”
The older man nodded and left.
Mason turned back to Aya’s creations, letting the unassuming grace and beauty of her work—and what it spoke of the woman behind the art—fill his senses. Jim’s counsel was easily spoken and brutally hard to follow. Aya’s crying didn’t just move him. It broke him. Twisted him, and shredded his soul into millions of infinitesimal pieces until there was nothing left but the tattered remains of good intentions and a worn, smooth path to hell.
Ironic that both of them sought to fulfill their parents’ dream. Torture, the latent attraction between them, if acted upon, would destroy them both. If past lives and reincarnation existed, he must have done something terrible to deserve this exquisite damnation, this intricate, sharp pain.
He stole one last look at her artwork, committing every detail to memory, then went back upstairs.
Mason crossed the foyer and stood at the office door, his hand on the doorknob as every nerve-ending vibrated with the urge to break through the oak barrier, to confess his deeds, seek her forgiveness, and comfort her.
But he couldn’t.
Shouldn’t.
Wouldn’t.
When she found out she’d let her nemesis into her home, she wouldn’t just hate him, she would despise him, and her contempt would taint every sweet memory he held of her. So Mason stood, his forehead resting against the door, and listened to her quiet sobs, letting her pain saturate his body with desolation and regret.
****
The steps creaked under her weight as Aya moved down the stairs and into the basement. Once at the bottom, her pace faltered. She’d heard Nate and Pops come down here, knew what her grandfather had shown the younger man. But Aya hadn’t gone into the room in years. What was the point? It wasn’t a storage area but a cemetery, a place where her dreams had died and obligation had been born.
She pushed herself forward. Once more, regret and shame halted her. This time, at the closed door. Taking a breath, she curled her fingers around the knob and stepped inside. Aya flipped the switch, and yellow light filled the room, highlighting every object. A bitter smile curled her lips.
Her art.
How precious.
How stupid.
Tears pricked the backs of her eyes, but she wouldn’t cry. Couldn’t cry. It had all been such a stupid dream, anyway. Being an artist. Selling her work to galleries. Seeing her vases in store windows. Who had she been kidding? The industry was cut-throat and the chances of her making a career of it was nothing more than youthful fantasies. She had to take care of Spencer, and playing at the starving artist when there was a child to feed, bills and college tuition, braces and proms, wasn�
��t going to get it done.
The anger, the frustration—with herself, Daniel, the economy—spiked through her. Aya grabbed the glass bird, the sculpture she loved most. Ripping it off the shelf, bitter at the memory of how proud she’d felt when she formed its wings, pained at the remembered sweat and heat of the fire, she lifted the bird over her head.
“Don’t do it.” Nate’s voice, quiet, came behind her.
“It’s taking up space.” She didn’t drop her hand. “If I cleared out this space, we could take a renter.” His footsteps sounded beside her, then his heat and the solid frame of his body brushed against her.
Nate took the bird from her fingers, put it on the shelf. “It’s beautiful, Aya. Don’t do something you’ll regret.”
The weight of her life, her mistakes, pressed against her heart. Dropping her head, she turned so he wouldn’t see her tears.
“Your grandfather is right,” he said. “You should sell.”
“But my parents—”
“This isn’t about your family.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “This is about mourning and—” He took a breath. “—your inability to let go. Stuff isn’t family. Tying yourself to the land isn’t honoring them, and selling won’t sever the connection.”
“You don’t understand.”
“About family obligation?” He gave a harsh laugh. “Believe me, I do.” His fingers pressed into her flesh, turned her into him.
Unable to resist the comfort, she gave into the strength of him. He wrapped his arms around her, held her close. Aya pressed her ear against his chest, listened to the steady, powerful beat of his heart.
They stood immobile and she breathed in the scent of him. Her senses twitched, awakened. With every inhalation, she became aware of him as a man. Hard lines, long legs, thick hair. Strong. Gentle.
God. She wanted him. Aya felt it in her nerves, in the increasing rhythm of her heartbeat.
As though he sensed the shift in her, Nate stilled. Held her for a moment, then stepped back, and assessed her. In his eyes was compassion and understanding.
