Page 4 of Harvest His Heart (Alphas Fall Hard Collection #6)

Chapter

Four

ANSON

Lacey runs a hand over the glowing wood counters. “Your kitchen is rustic perfection.”

“Thanks,” I murmur, not sure if it’s a compliment. But the relaxed look on her face sets me at ease. For once, she’s not putting up shields or shivering with an unexplained fear.

She opens a few wooden cabinets set into the river-rock walls. Then, she gasps, “I’m sorry I’m being so nosy.”

“I meant it when I said make yourself at home.”

Her fingertips go to the stone crockery on one shelf, a faint smile of approval. Pride burgeons in my chest. Making her happy suddenly feels like everything.

Crossing the space, she examines herbs hanging to dry. “Chamomile, mint, lavender. For more teas?” she asks.

“Teas and cooking.”

She points toward a bunch, eyebrow arching.

“Lemon balm and verbena, rosehip, anise hyssop, and catnip.”

“Catnip? Seriously?”

I nod. “Soothing for humans, too, when the leaves are steeped.”

“And the rosehip? What do you typically blend that with?”

“Cinnamon and honey. Maybe orange or lemon slices.”

“That sounds amazing.”

Though her face beams, I question my sanity going on like this. Tea and tisane recipes never won me a girlfriend. And this curvy, sexy, smart woman is definitely girlfriend material.

“It’s crazy how much you know about herbs and teas.”

I shift my weight. That’s it. She’s rethinking everything about me. “Kind of weird?” I ask, bracing for the truth.

“Kind of…” Her face flushes. “Honestly? Kind of sexy.”

I grin from ear to ear. Maybe I can be myself with this woman. Maybe I don’t have to keep up the tough, silent former Navy SEAL act the rest of the world expects from me. Well, at least the rest of the world outside of Off-Duty Ranch.

She watches as I pull ingredients from the fridge and pantry. Thawed, vacuum-sealed elk steaks, garlic, butter, herbs, carrots, parsnips, potatoes. Then, fresh kale, roasted beets, apples, walnuts, and goat cheese for a light salad. Finally, a loaf of fresh country bread.

I grab my well-notched cutting board as Lacey watches my every move.

“Your kitchen is so organized and well-stocked. Have to admit, I’m impressed.”

I grunt, too pleased by her proclamation to look up, falling in love with every moment together. The electricity crackling in the air. The faint smell of her apple blossom and vanilla perfume. The tension I could slice through with the large cutting knife I sharpen before the chopping begins.

Thwack, thwack, thwack. I make quick work of leeks, beets, potatoes…

“How do you do that without cutting yourself?” she asks, eyes rounding. I nearly nick my finger, the need to please her distracting.

I lift my gaze, drinking her in. “Come here,” I say gruffly.

She hesitates, that same look of fear crossing her face as earlier. Only I notice it’s less pointed this time.

“I’ll teach you.”

She stands in front of me, and I wrap my large body carefully around her without touching. Still, I’m close enough to feel the heat radiating from her. Intoxicating. Alluring.

My big paw dwarfs her dainty hand as I guide the knife with one hand and show her how to grip a parsnip, keeping her fingers safe as our hands move in unison. The scent of her shampoo mingles with garlic and earth, something wild and home all at once.

“I thought I had decent knife skills, but nothing like you, Iron Chef Cowboy,” she whispers, leaning back ever so slightly until my blood flames.

I swallow hard, willing my body to keep it together. But it’s a losing battle, want rushing straight to my cock. I have to pull away, turn, and adjust myself before she sees, muttering, “City girls need sharp knife skills, too.”

She eyes me curiously, her cheeks glowing, her pupils blown.

“How about you take over the vegetables. Show me those skills in action, and I’ll start on the elk steaks?”

“Elk steaks? That sounds amazing. Did you hunt it yourself?”

“Of course,” I say, avoiding eye contact. My whole body feels on edge, my desire highly inconvenient. I’m trying to build a rapport with her, earn her trust. The last thing she needs is to see me with a semi.

“Would you teach me how?” she asks. “Like you did with the knife?”

My eyes flicker to the cutting board. She could use another lesson. But my body? Not so much.

“Elk tag was archery only. I’m guessing you’re asking for firearms training, though?”

She stiffens slightly, her chin rising like the empress she is. “Yes, like you said. I should know how to defend myself.” Fear. It’s like an unwanted smell that enters the room. Again.

My fists ball at my sides. No telling what she’s been through. I’m coiled and ready to kill the motherfucker who put that subtle tremor in her chin.

“That’s right. You need to know how to defend yourself. So that you feel safe again.”

She looks away. I’ve hit the mark.

“Want to talk about it?” My brows furrow.

She’s breathing through her mouth now, voice raw. “Not yet.”

I nod, resigned to the fact I’ve crossed one line too many. I have to remind myself we only met a few hours ago, though it feels like much longer. “When you’re ready, then…”

“It’s just… I’m loving everything about this moment. For once, I don’t want that to ruin it.”

That or him? The question lingers in my mind and on my lips. But I respect her words and their meaning.

“Then, we won’t let anything ruin this,” I say with a wink. Her face relaxes. Reassuring her makes my whole goddamned life suddenly make sense. “Want to know the secret to perfectly pan-seared steaks?”

The corners of her mouth lift. “Yes, please.”

“Cast iron, garlic, and my secret herbal blend.”

She cocks her head, curiosity etched in her features. “Secret herbal blend? Do tell more.”

“Not on your life,” I tease. “Do I look like a one-night-stand kind of guy?”

Her jaw drops.

“I mean, when it comes to giving away my secret recipes?”

She giggles, watching my every move as I sear each steak with care, flipping it. “Rare? Medium? Well done?”

“Medium-rare, please.” The skillet hisses, smoke curling upward like incense. Garlic, butter, and rosemary blur the line between hunger and desire.

She gathers the root vegetables in a brown, covered casserole dish to roast in the oven. “What else can I help with?”

“Maybe that twenty-dollar kale salad?” I tease, nodding toward the ingredients spread out on the counter.

Delicious smells fill the cabin as we both work silently, a greater intimacy growing in the quiet spaces. The domestic places I didn’t even know I craved until now. Roasted garlic, savory meat, herbs and butter, the warm, sweet, yeasty fragrance of warmed bread.

I fill plates, bringing them to the dining room table, where lit candles cast a warm glow over the rustic wooden table. It’s a long table, built for a family, not a bachelor.

Lacey insists I sit at the head; I insist she take the corner next to me. Our eyes meet, and time stops. Breath stops. My heart stops.

She inhales sharply, gaze flickering away as if she can only stand so much intimacy. I’m plotting ways to kill whoever hurt her as I work to temper my voice, asking, “Strawberry wine? Cider?”

Her face looks torn. “As much as I want to say cider, I have to try this strawberry wine I’ve heard so much about. Not that I’m much of a drinker.”

“That’s what we talked about on the phone,” I say, rubbing my hand over my heart absent-mindedly as I head back into the kitchen, uncork a bottle, and pour it into two unmatched, handcrafted glasses.

“The one call you humored me with,” she says, an annoyed edge to her voice.

“Not much of a phone talker,” I excuse.

“So I learned.”

“Much prefer face to face.” I cross the distance to the table, handing her a glass, though I could set it down. I have to feel her. Even if only in the slightest way. Our fingers brush. Pure fucking fire.

Fire that flickers behind her gaze as I sit down, grabbing the loaf of bread and ripping into it. I catch myself, apologizing, “Sorry, maybe you would prefer me to use a knife?”

“Not at all,” she says, licking her lips. “It’s just … your hands look like they were made to do that.”

I chuckle at the bizarre compliment, pleased by the sensuality weighting her words. No, these hands were made for you. I hand her a chunk, hard-crusted on the outside, soft and almost cake-like in the center. Then, I push the butter keeper toward her.

She slathers her slice, and I appreciate the hell out of her enthusiasm. “Is this a product of the ranch?” she asks.

“Nope, but it’s locally sourced from the next-door neighbors.”

“Next-door neighbors?” she asks. “I got the impression you’re the only thing for…”

I chuckle. “Next-door neighbors about a quarter of an hour that-a-way,” I say, motioning.

She takes a bite of the bread and moans, eyes closed. For a second, every noise in the cabin disappears. The fire’s crackle, the ticking clock—gone. Only that sound, and the sight of her lips wrapped around a piece of bread, exists.

I shift in my chair, barely able to breathe. “Good?” I croak.

“Pure heaven.”

Not even close. But if heaven’s what she’s after, I could take her there. “Try it with the wine.”

She takes a sip, her face awash in pleasure. I could make her happy. That single thought changes everything.

“You’ll like the food, too,” I say, fighting to keep my head above water. But I’m drowning. Almost beyond hope.

I search my brain for something not related to my big hands and her even bigger pleasure. Got to keep it together. Show her respect and admiration … that I want this to be about far more than a farm-to-table cuisine book or hours spent on stolen pleasure hidden in the cornfield.

“Farming,” I manage, voice tight with the last remnants of my self-control, “is about more than survival. It’s about healing. Coming together. Building community. Building a life. Being a part of something greater than yourself.”

Her eyes flicker to mine, swirling with emotion. “That’s what writing does for me,” she admits softly. “It has helped me recreate the sense of connection that I somehow lost in every other part of my life.” Her voice trails off, bittersweet.

“Connection. It’s everything.”

She nods.

“Like cooking for me. It’s been a way to feel human again … after the military. A living, breathing, daily meditation. My Zen.” My voice softens over the last words, eyes lingering on hers longer than they should.

I raise my hand, palm her cheek, and brush a breadcrumb from her lip. My thumb grazes over her bottom lip, soft yet insistent. Her eyes drop to my mouth—

Buzz. Buzz.

Lacey nearly jumps out of her chair, gasping.

“Shit,” I mutter, heart racing.

She heads for the couch, digging through her purse and eyeing her phone. The cold glow of the screen illuminates her face, eyes round, lips pressed thin, skin sheet pale. Her chin trembles.

“What’s wrong, Lacey?”

She shakes her head. “It’s nothing.” But her words fall flat. A lie as her walls shoot sky-high again.

I stand, striding toward her. She stuffs her phone back in her purse, her face suddenly rigid. In cool tones, she excuses, “Dinner’s been amazing, but we need to wrap this up. I have to get back to my work. I have notes to take and so much to do.”

“Tell me what’s going on,” I urge.

Lacey forces a smile, though dark storm clouds edge over her face. “It’s nothing… Thank you for everything tonight. You don’t know how much this meant to me.” She bites her bottom lip, face unreadable.

The room feels colder already. Whatever ghost just texted her came right through my door.