FarmBoy

by Kayt Miller

  “Hi, Izzy.”

  Looking over toward the kitchen, I smile again and nearly melt when I see Nash wearing one of my mom’s aprons as he drains pasta from a large pot into a strainer. “Honey, I’m home!” I say with a laugh.

  Nash plays right along. “Isabelle, how was your day, dear?”

  It makes me laugh. “Good. I need a shower.”

  “Go ahead. I’m waiting on the garlic bread. You’ve got ten minutes.”

  Sweet. “Okay.” I turn toward the stairs and move up as fast as my tired, sore legs will take me. In the bathroom, I strip out of my coveralls, then remove my jeans, tee, and socks. Turning on the water, I step beneath the spray and moan. My body aches, for sure, but hot water does wonders to ease that soreness. After I wash my hair and body, I spend a few minutes shaving. When I’m all clean, I step out and wrap myself up in a towel. I run a small dry towel through my hair to squeeze out the excess water. I’ve been too tired to do anything with my hair lately, so I’ve been letting it airdry; then I put it up in a ponytail or a bun. That’s it. I don’t bother with makeup either. What’s the point?

  Pulling a comb through my hair, I brush my teeth and apply moisturizer to my face and body. In my towel, I step out of the bathroom so I can head to my bedroom, but the minute I’m in the hallway, I run into a hard chest. “Nash,” I say, startled.

  “Isabelle.” Nash’s voice is deep and rich.

  I look up at him, expecting to see a smile or even a smirk. That’s not what I see. He looks serious. “What’s wrong?”

  Without a word, I feel him nudge me until my back is against the wall. Next, he slides one hand behind my neck and into my wet hair. I know what’s coming, so I close my eyes and wait for his beautiful lips to touch mine. When they do, his kiss is hungry. He’s never kissed me quite like this before. I open for him, and his tongue sweeps deep into my mouth. I lift my arms and wrap them around his neck to pull us closer together. However, I didn’t think that through because my hands were necessary for keeping my towel up. I feel it move downward, past my chest. I attempt to press closer to him to keep it from slipping the rest of the way, but he’s already stepping back. When the towel hits the floor, I’m not sure what I expect. Oh, yeah, I am. I expect him to turn and run as soon as he sees me in all my naked glory, but he doesn’t do that. Instead, he growls as he runs his palm over his pants. The front of his pants. “My god, Isabelle.”

  I know I should probably bend down and grab the towel and make a run for it, but I’m too busy watching him. He’s aroused. I can see it for myself. “Where’s Andi?”

  He hasn’t stopped looking at my body. Up and down his eyes go. “Watching SpongeBob.”

  “Oh.” My hands move up, but I can’t decide what I should cover first. Boobs? Stomach?

  When I choose both, Nash growls again. “No. Hands down, Isabelle. Let me look at you.”

  “Nash.” I practically choke out his name. This is overwhelming.

  He steps close to me, still looking down at my body. “I’m not going to be able to resist much longer, honey. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I want to touch you everywhere.” He leans down and kisses my lips softly then moves to my neck. “I want to kiss and lick you everywhere.” He moves to the other side of my neck. “I want my cock so deep inside you, you’ll feel me for days after.”

  Something about his last sentence bothers me. “But only once, right?” That’s what he said. He’d do it with me “once.”

  “More than once. All night.”

  But…. “For one night.”

  “One magical night.”

  I put my hands on his chest and push. He moves far enough away for me to bend and grab the towel. I quickly wrap myself up so I can get to my bedroom. With my door shut and Nash in the hallway, I lean my back against the door. My body is still charged with sexual energy, but it’ll pass. I search the floor for my sleep leggings. When I find them, I slide them on, forgetting underwear. Ugh. Pushing those back down, I grab a clean pair of panties and try again. When I’m dressed in an old sweatshirt and sleep leggings, I open my bedroom door. Honestly, I didn’t expect him to still be in the hallway. But there he is nonetheless. “Nash—”

  He doesn’t let me say more. “We need to talk.”

  29

  Nash

  She’s ignoring me. Not five seconds ago, I told her “We need to talk” and she walks right past me saying, “I’m starving.”

  What the hell?

  I just had her naked against the goddamn wall, and she pretends either I don’t exist or that shit didn’t happen. Well, that’s bullshit. “Isabelle,” I say, but she’s already descending the stairs. “Babe?”

  “Food smells good, Nash.” She hasn’t even turned her head to look back at me. “Thanks for cooking again.”

  Fine. If this is how it’s gonna be, fine. “No problem.” I can play that game too. “Andi,” I say loudly enough for her to hear me. “Supper. Wash up.”

  I hear her little voice respond from the Harmons’ family room. “Okay, Daddy.”

  Stomping into the kitchen, I stir the sauce and toss the bread back into the oven to rewarm. The noodles look like they might need to be reheated too, but the sauce will do that. I pull dishes from the cupboard above the dishwasher and begin the plating process. I’ve cooked for Isabelle almost every night since we got back from the hospital. There were a couple nights I had to grab something from the diner for all of us since I’d been busy working at my farm while also helping some here, me and about ten other farmers from around town.

  I grab three small bowls and add salad to them. I’m not sure what kind of dressing either one of them will want tonight; they seem to change their minds, at least Isabelle does, which means Andi does too. Whatever Isabelle has, Andi has the same. So, I grab the three kinds of salad dressing from the fridge and set it on the counter.

  “I’ll get those,” says a smiling Isabelle. She picks them up and places them on the kitchen table.

  Faker. That smile isn’t real. I know she’s pissed. Or maybe she’s sad. Mad? Yeah, could be. But it serves her right. She didn’t let me clarify. When she said, “But only once, right?” I wasn’t thinking. I was enjoying. So, I said some bullshit about once, all night long, or something along those lines. See? I can’t even remember because I was in the moment. But she wasn’t. No, she was back in my living room—back to the day I propositioned her. After all this fucking time, she thinks I’m going to treat her like one of my old hookups. Jesus, it pisses me off. After all this… after everything we’ve been through and done together, she still thinks I’m playing a fucking game.

  Well, that shit ends now. After dinner. It ends after dinner, when Andi isn’t right there. “Hope you’re hungry, ladies. I piled your plates with pasta.” And I did. There’s no way either one of them will eat it all, but I had to try. I swear Isabelle’s lost ten pounds since her dad’s accident. Probably because all she does is work and sleep.

  “I’m very hungry, Daddy,” my kid says with a smile. “And I don’t even care that you made pasgetti again.”

  She can’t say spaghetti, and it’s the cutest damn thing in the world. I hope she always calls it “pasgetti.” And she’s right. I can really only make a couple of things well—spaghetti and anything grilled. So, I’ve made pasta for them four or five times. They don’t seem to mind, though. “Maybe I’ll make some steak tomorrow night.”

  “Nash,” Isabelle says as I set her plate in front of her, “you don’t need to keep coming over here to cook for me. I’m more than capable.”

  “Babe, I promised your dad.”

  “Oh?” Isabelle’s fork was on its way to her plate when she said that. I watch as her cheeks flush pink. And I know right then that I should never had told her that. Now she thinks I’m only here because of Bruce. Fuck.

  Setting the utensil down on the table, she smiles at me. It’s fake. “Well, thank you, but this isn’t necessary. I’ve been cooking for myself for years.”
Reaching out, she picks up the bottle of fat-free French dressing and adds it to her salad. Looking over at Andi, she arches a brow. “You want to try French tonight?”

  “Yeah,” Andi says, reaching for the bottle.

  She’ll probably like it. It’s sweet.

  “So, I’ve decided to store two-thirds of the yield.”

  I nod as I bite into my spaghetti. Mm, al dente. A little too al dente, but it’ll have to do. I concentrate on chewing up the semihard noodles before I respond. “Good plan. I’m holding back half, but maybe I should do more.” I nod, thinking about Isabelle’s decision. “Hard to tell what’s going to happen with these fu—” I look at my kid and change my words. “—frigging tariffs.

  “I know,” she says, nibbling a small piece of lettuce. She hasn’t touched her spaghetti.

  I thought she was hungry.

  “You need to eat, babe. You’re gonna lose those soft, round curves.”

  Guys, you know what you should never do? Talk about a woman’s body at the dinner table. Or probably anywhere. Why? Well, simple, they don’t like it. Take this, for example. Isabelle’s face didn’t blush this time; no, it went all pale. Scary pale. Then she set the fork down that had a little piece of salad on it and stood up from the table.

  “I’m not feeling very well. Would you mind if I call it a night?” She pushes her chair back with her legs. “You can leave the dishes. I’ll get them in the morning.” Turning to make her way toward the stairs, she stops and moves around the table. Leaning down, she kisses the top of Andi’s head. “Sorry, Andi. I’m pooped.”

  Andi nods. “See you tomorrow at school.”

  “Yep, you sure will.” She won’t look at me as she rounds the table again and makes her way to the stairs. “Night.” Her voice sounds weird when she says that last little word. It cracked.

  Fuck.

  After Andi and I finish eating, I send her back to the family room to watch a little television while I clean up my cooking mess.

  She thinks I’d leave this for her to clean up? Yeah, right.

  After everything is put away and washed up, I start the dishwasher and fold up the towel in my hand. Poking my head into the family room, I see she’s watching that pony cartoon. “Andi, I’m going up to check on Isabelle. Back in a minute. Then we need to head home. Yeah?”

  “Okay, Daddy.”

  Making my way up the stairs, I do my best to step quietly. I’m not trying to sneak up on her, but if she is, in fact, asleep, I don’t want to wake her up. Her door is closed, so I lean in and press my ear to the door to listen. When I do, I hear a sniffle.

  Goddamn it. I knew it.

  Turning the knob, I push the door open just enough for me to enter; then I close it back up.

  “Nash,” she says, sounding stuffed up, “go home.”

  I step up to the bed. “Isabelle, we need to talk.”

  “No, we don’t.” She rolls over and gives me her back.

  Fine. Kicking off my boots, I pull up the blankets and slide in behind her. She tries to scoot away, but her tiny fucking bed is ridiculous. The squeaking alone would drive me mad. I can’t believe she still sleeps in this shit. “You need a new bed.”

  “My bed is fine. It’s made for one.” Her voice has gained some strength. Too bad I’m not taking the hint.

  I reach my arm out and wrap it around her middle and pull her closer to me. “We’re going to talk now, babe.” She doesn’t rebut me, so I start talking. “Earlier, when you made the snide little comment about ‘one night,’ I was too busy trying to get my dick to settle down to understand what you were insinuating.”

  She makes a scoffing noise, but I’m gonna ignore it.

  “I think we’re past that one-time bullshit, don’t you?”

  She says nothing.

  Softening my voice, I whisper, “Babe, will you look at me, please?”

  I wait a second. Or maybe it was closer to fifteen. She huffs a breath out, then rolls over to face me. I smile.

  “Thank you.” I kiss her nose. “This thing with Ivy—”

  She starts to roll back over, but I hold her closer. “No, let me say all this. Then, if you still want to give me your back, I’m fine with that.” Isabelle stays put. “I’ll start over. This thing with you and me started long before Ivy came back to town.” I run my hand over her silky hair. It’s still a little damp from her shower, but it’s mostly dry. “And you know it.”

  She looks into my eyes but says nothing.

  “All it did, when Ivy got here, was label it.” This stubborn woman is still silent—not that there’s anything for her to say. “I know I shouldn’t have announced to everyone at the bar that we were engaged—”

  “You mean everyone in town,” she says in a husky voice.

  “Same difference.” I chuckle. “That was wrong of me. But part of me wanted to believe it was possible.”

  “Possible? What do you mean? Possible that you’d want to marry me?”

  I don’t like the way she worded that. “No, that it was possible that you’d marry me.”

  “Here’s a tip for you, Nash.” God, I wish she didn’t sound so mad at me. “If you want to marry someone, ask them, even if it’s just pretend. Don’t just shout it to the drunks at the local bar and expect it to happen. Proposals take time and planning. Everyone knows that. Otherwise, it’s not special, and that means the other person isn’t special. He or she is just there to make things easier for you, and that’s all she’ll ever be. Convenient.”

  What the fuck? Those words didn’t just come out of her mouth. She’s thought about them. A lot.

  Now she rolls over. “Good night, Nash.”

  “You didn’t let me finish.”

  Turning back, her eyes tell me everything I need to know. “I’m tired. I want to go to sleep. Besides, it’s past Andi’s bedtime.” But she’s not done. “I meant what I said about cooking for me. And don’t worry, I’ll tell my dad that you’ve done as you promised. No worries there.”

  God, she’s pissing me off.

  I can tell this just isn’t the time to talk, so I slide out of her tiny bed as the thing moans like it’s on its last leg.

  She definitely needs a new bed. Mine.

  30

  Isabelle

  I can’t sleep. How can I when everything that happened tonight crushed me? There were too many signs that this thing with Nash was all an illusion, and that was before. All tonight did was finally make me recognize that whatever was between me and Nash was just a figment of my imagination. And that sucks.

  Blinking, I try to get my clock into focus and groan when I see the time is 3:15 a.m. I’m so damn tired. And hungry. I should have eaten dinner, but I couldn’t seem to choke down the pity food Nash made me.

  Don’t get me wrong, I know my dad meant well and, probably, so did Nash, but knowing the only reason he was being nice to me was because my dad asked him to? Well, that just broke me. For over a week, I’d get done with work and skip back up to the house because I knew he’d be here, waiting for me. And no, it wasn’t about the food, because the man cannot cook. Nope. Not a lick. But I ate it because I thought he was doing his best because he cared about me.

  Nope.

  He did it out of obligation to the farming brotherhood. Bruce Harmon asked him to feed his daughter, so he did. Period. Full stop. That’s all there was to it.

  Placing my palm over my heart, I push on my chest to try to get it to stop hurting. It doesn’t work. I feel the burn of tears again, but I shake it off. “I’m done crying.” Sliding out of bed, I search for my slippers. It’s getting colder outside, which means it’s colder in the house. I should turn on the furnace, but I’m not ready to give up just yet. Finding one slipper by the closet and the other beneath my bed, I slide them on and make my way down to the kitchen. “Cereal.” That sounds good. I hope we still have some. I need to get to the store; I just haven’t had the time.

  Flipping on the kitchen light switch, I let my eyes adjust. I blink
a few times and notice that the kitchen is all cleaned up. I’m relieved. It was nice of him to do that, even though I asked him not to. But Nash does what he wants. I know that for sure.

  At the fridge, I pull out the milk and set it on the kitchen island. As I turn toward the pantry, I see it. A note.

  Great.

  Picking it up, I see most of it is written in Nash’s hand, but there’s a section at the end from Andi. I read hers first.

  Izzy,

  Thanks for having us for dinner again. I love eating supper with you. You should move in with us after your daddy gets better.

  Love, Andi.

  Ha! Well, it’s a sweet note, but we all know she just wants me for my dollhouse. Okay, that wasn’t fair. I know Andi likes me.

  Before I read Nash’s much longer note, I search the pantry for cereal. We must be out of all of the good ones because all that’s left is shredded wheat. I grab the box, because even shredded wheat sounds good—as long as it’s topped with lots of sugar.

  After making up my bowl, I put things away and take the bowl, along with the letter, back up to my room. Turning on my bedside lamp, I lean my back against the wrought iron headboard and wince. It’s not comfortable thanks to the metal flowers and leaves that poke me in the back. I tuck a pillow behind me, and now I’m good. Eating a bite, I chew as I hold up the letter close to the light.

  Isabelle,

  I’m sorry about tonight. Things were said that, I feel, you misunderstood. So, since you won’t listen to me, I’m writing what I wanted to say. First of all, you can stop thinking I only want you for one night.

  “Yeah, he wants two.” I scoff as I take another bite of my cereal. It’s good. Sugar is the nectar of the gods.