Page 73 of A Bittersweet Summer

The sun has set, darkness coating his room.

“Okay,” I whisper.

He tucks me into the crook of his arm, and I nestle there, comforted by the steady rise and fall of his chest—by the beat of his heart.

And there, in the dark quiet of Wes’s room, I close my eyes and fall into him—wholly.

Twenty

Wes

Awarm weight presses down on my chest when I wake to the sound of birds outside.

The dim light of early morning filters through the window. Outside, a foggy haze settles over the grass where horses graze, and when I look over to the clock, I curse my body.

Years of waking up to do chores have conditioned me to go without an alarm. On the rare occasion that I do sleep in, a flurry of thoughts occupy my mind until the sleep is hardly worth it at all—so light I might as well get up anyway.

But with Cass draped over me?

I want the morning to come slow and sweet, like honey dripping from a jar.

With one arm draped across my chest, I look at Cass, where she lies. Her breaths are steady, golden hair sprawled across her bare back. On her side, I see the tattoo of a sunflower. It’s right over her ribcage in a spot I had the privilege of touching—offeeling—last night.

Nails click on the hardwood in the hall until Mud’s wet nose is poking my arm, his tail a windmill behind him.

So much for sleeping in.

“Shh,” I whisper, pressing a finger to my lips. “I’ll feed you. Just hold on.”

Carefully, I peel Cass’s arm off me, getting one last look at the curve of her back, the way it dips down where the blanket is pulled over her. Once I’m standing, I get the sudden urge to crawl back in bed, wake her with kisses until she manages to notice my hard cock.

I’d rock into her slowly—leisurely—like we have all the time in the world.

Mud pokes my arm again.

“Alright,” I say, scratching him behind the ear. “I’ll get up.”

When I’m finally dressed appropriately in a pair of flannel pants, we amble down to the kitchen where I see that summer sunrise pouring onto the worn, wooden floors.

I dump food into Mud’s bowl and grab what’s left of Roe’s sourdough loaf.

The counter is soon piled with bread, a bowl, a carton of eggs, and utensils. I set to work on French toast, swearing I’ll make it up to Rosemary since I’m using the last of her pride and joy. Maybe I can get Lennon to bake a replacement loaf and put it in the bread box in the middle of the night. It’ll be like a parent replacing a dead hamster with a new hamster from the pet store. Roe will hardly notice.

The drip of the coffee pot and the sizzle of the pan greet the sun as it rises just above the horizon. Grabbing my phone, I check the time again.

“Shit,” I mutter, knowing I have a very short window of time to make this breakfast thing happen for the both of us. The difficulty with working on a farm is that you are responsible for the care of numerous animals, and you cannot take a break or wait hours before getting your chores done.

Things have eased up recently. Cass’s presence, along with Roe’s extra help has made a decent dent in the number of odd jobs we fell behind on. Unfortunately, Roe won’t be here forever, but if I can hire one extra farm hand—give them more of a full-time position, it should take care of it.

The biggest thing will be moving some funds around. Without the draw of the housing at the end of the drive, or in Rosemary’s case, my house, the pay will have to be higher for a full-time position. Lessons have been going well, but it’ll be tight.

I make a note to crunch some numbers when I get the chance.

The coffee pot beeps, and I’m glad I had the foresight to bring some of the coffee syrup up from the barn when I went out to get Mud last night. If not, Cass would be stuck with shitty coffee just like her first day at the farm, and I can’t have that.

“It smells good in here.”

I turn to find Cass standing in the entrance to the kitchen, one of my t-shirts kissing the tops of her thighs. Her hair is mussed, skin practically glowing.