Page 46 of Chasing the Sun

My mouth went dry.

I’d never seen Callum Blackwood fight, but I’d heard the stories from my sisters. He was trained to take down enemies before they even saw him coming. A man who moved through war zones with the kind of quiet, lethal precision that made people hesitate before crossing him. And now, here he was—hauling crates like they weighed nothing, scarred muscles shifting beneath sun-warmed skin, every inch of him honed for battle.

I hadn’t meant to objectify him, but good lord, that man was made to carry things.

He moved with effortless power, rolling a shoulder before crouching low and bracing thick, corded arms around the wooden frame. His fingers flexed, forearms taut, veins rising as he lifted like itwas nothing.

Muscles pulled, his shirt stretching tight across his back, and I was not prepared.

Warmth unfurled in my stomach, molten and slow, as I watched him carry the heavy crates to the door and set them down outside of the barn, just as I’d asked.

Then he turned, shaking out the tension in his arms. His jeans rode low on his hips as he worked. The heat inside the barn turned thick and heavy, beads of sweat trailing the ridges of his throat.

A lump formed in my throat. Callum should never have been in that barn.

Butdamn, did he look good in it.

We kept working, the quiet stretching long between us, the space between us shrinking by the minute. Callum didn’t just move things. He dominated the space, a storm rolling through the barn, determined and commanding, like he belonged there.

And maybe, in some way, he did.

I watched as his fingers absently traced the worn wooden beam beside him, hand gliding over it in a way that almost felt ... reverent.

Like he was ruminating over the lost possibilities.

I blinked, watching him, as a stark realization washed over me.He wants it for himself.

I swallowed hard, wrapping my brain around the fact that I’d possibly uncovered the reason Cal Blackwood was so contentious toward me. Maybe he’d wanted the farm for himself and my restoration plan had gotten in his way.

I didn’t say a word. Instead, I yanked a bundle of rope from a dusty crate. “This needs to be tossed,” I said, absently throwing it in his direction.

He caught it, scowling. “You needed me here for this?”

“What can I say?” I grinned. “Turns out I like watching you lift heavy things.”

Callum sighed through his nose. “Christ, woman.”

I smirked and turned back to the stack of crates, reaching for a particularly large one. But the moment I bent over to grab it, Callum was suddenly there, chest at my back, his arms bracketing mine as he reached for it first.

Heat poured off him.

I froze, hands still on the crate, my heart slamming against my ribs, but he didn’t move.

Neither did I. I just stared at the tattoos inked across the back of his hand.

I could feel every inch of him behind me—broad chest, solid thighs, the brush of his stomach against my lower back. He hadn’t meant to get this close. It had just happened, and now we were both standing there, breathing like we had just run across the field.

“Move,” he said, voice low.

I didn’t.

Instead, I turned my head slightly, my pulse hammering as I peeked just enough to catch his expression, andfuck.

His gaze was heavy, heated, locked on my mouth like he was barely holding himself back.

I licked my lips, which was a mistake. His hands flexed, grip tightening around the edges of the crate, his chest rising and falling in a way that made my thighs press together.

I wanted to press into him and feel all that strength against me.