In the Weeds (Lovelight #2)(32)

My forearms and shoulders are sore by the time I decide to leave the bakehouse. I took all of my frustration out on the dough, and I think I rolled out enough pie crust to blanket the entire acreage of the farm and then some.

I trudge my way through the fields, letting my palms pass over the bristly branches of the Christmas trees. The farm is no less magical now than it was during the holiday season, the trees so dense out in the fields that I can’t see the buildings or the narrow road beyond it. It’s just me and the evergreens, the sun high in the sky. I breathe in deep through my nose and smile.

Balsam. Cedar. Fresh cut grass and apple blossoms.

I don’t find Beckett out with the trees or along the fence that divides the land into neat quadrants, so I change direction and head to the barn instead. I pass a couple of farmhands I recognize from my last trip and give them a wave, a man passing by with what looks like a basket full of radishes. I shield my eyes against the sun with my hand.

“Have you seen Beckett?”

The man nods and points to a smaller barn behind the one they use for holiday decorations, the door propped open with a discarded tractor wheel. Finally. I let the full weight of my frustration guide my way over to the shed and I slip through the door, half-expecting him to bolt as soon as he sees me. It would be poetic, in a way, for Beckett to run from me this time.

But he doesn’t run. He doesn’t hear me at all. I step through the door into the small space flooded with afternoon light and almost faceplant into the wheelbarrow in front of me.

Beckett stands shirtless in the middle of the room, both arms braced above him as he winds a thick coil of rope around and around two parallel pegs. I watch the ink on his arms shift and flex with every rotation of his hands, the constellations and planets on his left arm a beautiful compliment to the flowers and vines on his right.

The smooth skin of his back is unmarked, his spine a strong column flanked with lean muscle. His body is conditioned by work, hardened and cut by days spent under the sun and in the fields. I remember pressing my fingers into that warm skin, how his hips rolled down into me, pinning me beneath him.

I swallow hard as he drops his arms and rolls his shoulders back with a sigh. He reaches for a t-shirt thrown over the edge of a large metal shelf and I clear my throat—shift my eyes away from the span of his firm shoulders.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding.”

Beckett startles and knocks his head on a low-hanging basket of garden tools. I get a glimpse of toned stomach as he turns and pulls his shirt down to cover himself. The reminder that I’ve been in bed with this man is like a string looping us together. It pulls taut and I sway forward, further into his space.

He rubs his knuckles behind his ear, his sweat-damp hair sticking up every which way. His hat is back on one of the shelves, a faded black snapback with an Orioles logo worn at the edges. There’s a red mark across his forehead from where it must have been pressing into his skin. I stare at it as he looks at me with lowered lashes, a sheepish look turning his cheeks pink.

That body with that face.

I never stood a chance in that bar, all those months ago.

I straighten my spine, gather my frustration close, and hold onto it tight with both hands. “Have you been sleeping in the barn?” It snaps out of me quick as a whip. Apparently I’m more annoyed about it than I thought.

“No,” he answers. His deep voice is even and calm, but he doesn’t look me in the eye. “I’ve been sleeping at the house.”

“When?” I shoot back.

“At night.”

I set my hands on my hips. His eyes narrow, studying the stack of spare tires behind me like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen.

“Beckett.”

His eyes reluctantly crawl back to mine.

“I’ve been getting in late. I’ve been—” he hesitates, so clearly looking for an excuse I have to fight not to roll my eyes. “I’ve got a project.”

“A project.”

He shifts on his feet like a man with something to hide. “Yes.”

“Is that project avoiding me?”

“No,” he draws out the word like it has a thousand vowels at the end of it, gazing over my shoulder at the open door with naked longing. I bet he’s fantasizing about running right out into the hills. “It’s—well, it’s complicated.”

This conversation is ridiculous. “Try me.”

He opens his mouth and nothing comes out. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone at such a loss for words.

“It’s a duck,” he finally manages.

A group of farmhands walk past the open door, their laughter carrying into the small space. I blink at Beckett and he stares right back. Is he serious? “A what?”

“I’m trying to figure out where I can put a duck,” he mumbles. His words are tucked under his breath and I have to strain to hear what he’s saying.

“And you can only do that in the middle of the night?”

“Ah, I don’t—” He lets his arms fall by his sides. I focus on the vine tattoo that curls from his wrist and around his broad forearm, all the way to his elbow. There are small white flowers on it, a new addition since the last time I saw him. “I thought you’d prefer it that way.”

“You thought I’d prefer you sneaking around?”