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“Keeping tabs on me?” he asks, and my eyes roll back.Caught.“That’s alright. I like it when you watch me.”

“Okay, never mind.” I wave my hand in his direction, and he catches it with his. His long fingers wrap around mine, thumb rubbing my palm.

Is this an erogenous zone?

His knee lifts slightly to keep the wheel in place.

“When you play a sport at the level I did and come from a small town, it’s bound to happen.” He drops our hands to the space between us and I let out a breath that I hadn’t realized had been stuck in my throat.

“I couldn’t imagine getting so excited about a rugby player. No offense.”

“I kind of like that you don’t give a shit about who I am.”.

“Now if you were a Formula 1 driver, that would be a different story.”

“Ahh.” He nods his head.

“You want to talk about sprint weekends, Westin Wright, or which tracks I think should be brought back—I’m your girl. Rugby?” I make an X with my arms and shake my head.

“You really know how to puff up a guy’s ego, don’t ya, love?”

And you really know how to make my chest tumble by calling me that.

“You can take it though, can’t you?”

The truck rolls to a stop and his eyes bore into mine. “You still want to see the sights tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”Where did that breathy whisper come from?

“I’ll take you.”

“Yeah?” I give him my most mischievous little grin.

“See if I can take any more of what you’re gonna giveme.” Good God. I’ve never not gone after a man I was attracted to, but something tells me I might be in over my head with this one.

“I’ll pack a picnic,” I say, halfway out the door.

“It might be a little windy for that.”

“Who knew such a big guy could be so scared of a little wind,” I tease him, closing the door behind me.

“Sweet dreams, Nova,” he calls through the open window.

I run up to the front steps, and I don’t need to look behind me to know he’s waiting for me to get inside, but I glance back at him anyway.

I’m. So. Screwed.

Knox

By all accounts,I should be exhausted right now. I’ve slept roughly ten hours in the last forty-eight, but I let the excitement that bubbles in my stomach at the mere thought of spending the day with Taylor get me up and to the main house.

I peer up the stairway, wondering if she had decided to sleep the day away again instead. The bottom step creaks loudly under my boot, and I freeze when I hear a familiar laugh beyond the kitchen door. My fingers slip from the wood banister and I walk toward the kitchen, leaning my ear toward the swinging door.

“I’ve always used oil. I never thought of trying it with butter.”

“Oh yes, freshly churned butter will make all the difference,” my mum responds. “I obviously don’t do the churning anymore,” she pauses. “But it gets done nonetheless.”

“You might just catch me out there milking the cows and churning the butter next week.”