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"You don't cook."

"I'd learn."

My chest swells. I turn in his arms. Face him. His gray eyes are soft in the lamplight. Sawdust in his beard.

"This is real," I say. "Whatever this is. I need you to know I don't do casual."

His hand comes up. Tucks a curl behind my ear. "Nothing about you is casual, Kennedy Brooks."

My mouth finds his. Slow this time. Tender. His arms tighten.

Outside, the bluegrass trio plays something sweet and the string lights sway in the October wind.

CHAPTER FIVE

RHETT

Saturday morning. Kennedy is in my bed.

Not the shop couch. My actual bed, in my cabin, where I brought her at midnight after locking the shop because I wanted to wake up next to her in a place that has pillows and sunlight instead of sawdust.

She's asleep on her stomach with her twist out fanned across my pillow. One arm tucked under her head. The sheet pooled at the small of her back. Brown skin glowing in the early light coming through the window. Gold hoops on the nightstand next to a glass of water I set there for her at two a.m. when she was too wrecked to move.

My hand rests on the curve of her lower back. Warm. Soft. She breathes slow and deep. Peaceful in a way I've never seen her because Kennedy Brooks doesn't do still. She does motion, activity, the constant forward thrust of a woman who thinks stopping means falling.

Right now she's stopped. Right now she's here.

Something dangerous is happening to me. Something I swore off three years ago when I loaded my truck and drove away from everything. This feeling in my chest. This stupid, fragile, terrifying warmth that keeps growing every time she opens her mouth or brings me food or says my name in that voice that makes the second syllable sound like a prayer.

She stirs. Rolls toward me. Brown eyes blinking open, unfocused, finding my face.

"Hi."

"Morning."

"What time is it?"

"Six."

"Festival opens at ten." She stretches, arms above her head. The sheet slides lower. Her breasts are bare, dark nipples tightening in the morning cool. She catches me looking. Doesn't cover up. "See something you like?"

"Fishing for compliments before coffee."

"Before coffee, before brushing my teeth, before my first committee text of the day." She rolls closer. Presses her body against mine, skin to skin. Her thigh slides between my legs. "Which means I have approximately four hours to be a regular human being before I turn back into the Fall Fest pumpkin."

My cock is already hard against her hip. Has been since I woke up. She reaches between us. Wraps her fingers around me. Slow stroke from base to tip.

"Four hours is generous." My hand slides between her thighs. Warm. Already wet. My fingers drag through her folds, finding her clit. Her grip on my cock tightens.

"Mmm." Her eyes flutter shut. "Two hours minimum."

"We can work with two."

No rushing. Saturday morning. No texts, no clipboard, no festivals. Just her hand on me and mine on her, stroking slow, building together. I roll her onto her back. Settle between her thighs. Her legs open easy, wrapping around my hips, and the feel of her naked body under mine makes every nerve ending fire at once.

My mouth traces down her neck. Her collarbone. Between her breasts. I take my time. Tongue circling one nipple while my thumb works the other. She arches up, fingers in my hair, pulling.

"Lower." Her voice is thick with sleep and want.