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He leans forward, lips parting around the fork. Eats slow. Like he’s tasting more than just potatoes and cheese. “Mmm. Damn. That’s good.”

“I told you at the farm, you don’t have to worry about a single thing,” I remind him. “I’d take care of everything.”

“You did.” He nods. “And I believe you.”

“Good,” I say, and this time, my voice goes soft. “Because I really thought you’d be the one. The one who’d just… come with me. No fight. No shouting. But you were too precious to risk losing.”

His whole face goes tender. His gaze drops to my mouth.

And I can’t help myself, I lean in.

That first brush of lips is a slow burn, gentle and reverent, like we’re both trying to memorize the exact shape of this moment. His breath catches, and mine does too, and then he kisses me back.

Really kisses me.

His mouth is warm, soft at first, then firmer when he tilts his head just slightly and opens for more. There’s the faint taste of sharp cheddar on his tongue, something earthy and familiar beneath it, and I moan into his mouth because of course he tastes like comfort food and sex.

One of his hands, big and calloused, all strength and patience, lifts to my thigh where it’s braced on the mattress beside him. His fingers curl around it, anchoring me like he’s already claiming space on my body. He kisses like he means it. Like he’s got nowhere to be but here. Like he’s already mine and he knows it.

My pulse trips. My whole chest aches with it.

When I pull back, his breath follows mine, shallow and uneven, lips still parted, kiss-drowsy and completely wrecked in the best way.

And the look in his eyes is devoted.

I may never recover.

“You ready to hear the plan?” I ask, my voice a little hoarse.

He nods, slow, like he’s still tasting me on his tongue.

I explain it to him in detail.

Then he sits up. “Guess we better get to work. You’ll need to uncuff me. I’ll let you put them back on later if you want.”

And just like that, I’ve got another one.

God bless America.

And goat theft.

Chapter Seventeen

Wade

She unlocks the cuff.

Doesn’t make a big deal out of it, doesn’t flinch or fumble, just slides the key in and turns it with a little click that feels louder than it should.

It’s a quiet kind of trust, that gesture. I clock it right away.

She could’ve kept me tied up. Hell, I was expecting it. But she didn’t. She looked me in the eye, said I was needed, then uncuffed me like I was already hers.

And maybe I am.

The second my wrist is free, I stretch it, slow, easy, and reach for her. Not rough. Not rushed.

Just a tug at her waist, my hand curling into the soft fabric of her shirt, guiding her between my legs like we’ve done this before.