Page 9 of Harvest His Heart (Alphas Fall Hard Collection #6)

My mouth waters, not from the cinnamon, vanilla, and fruity sweetness filling the kitchen. But from his effortless strength. He stops for a moment, wiping his forearm across his brow, and I jerk my gaze from him back to the pile of dough in front of me.

“Pies, Lacey. Get back to the pies,” I scold under my breath, fully conscious of the crowd I address, piles of peeled, sliced fruit and heaps of golden dough.

The front door swings wide, and the lumberjack enters. My face goes red, knees buckle.

“You been standing near that oven too long?” he teases.

“Between the cookies earlier,” I say, nodding to a tin piled so high I can barely close the lid. “And now these pies, you could say so.”

“Pie?” he asks, corners of his mouth turning up, eyes hungry.

“Apple pie. Willow says it’s your favorite.”

“Not anymore,” he says gruffly.

“Oh?” I ask, instantly deflated.

“Much prefer the apple we shared yesterday—in the orchard,” he murmurs, sweat glistening across his broad shoulders and firm chest.

I look down, scrutinizing the cold dough squished between my fingers, trying to hold it together.

He clears his throat, and I force my eyes to meet his. He thumbs over his shoulder toward the new woodpile. “How about I get a fire going, grab a quick shower, and then lend a hand?”

I shake my head. “No, they’re my gift to you. A peace offering of sorts … for all the trouble I’ve caused.”

His eyes flicker with recognition at the unspoken simmer beneath my words.

“Already got more of a gift than I could ever possibly ask for. Worth all the trouble in the world … wrapped in my flannel. Could get used to that.” He pauses, one stolen glance, then wheels back around, heading for the door to gather wood.

The hearth glows brilliantly, crackling and flooding the cabin with a quiet peace as I continue working, determined to get a pie cooked before he emerges from his shower.

Of course, those two Navy minutes aren’t nearly enough, though he spends a little longer this time, emerging in gray jogging pants and another white V-neck T-shirt. His chill clothes—the deliciously painful death of me.

Padding across the room, his big, warm palm comes up, wiping my cheek. “You’re covered in flour.”

“Oh,” I sigh, looking at my feet.

He snags his finger under my chin, forcing me to look at him.

“Couldn’t sleep last night. Kept thinking about what went wrong, what went right.

What I wish I’d done differently in the orchard.

” He draws so close I have to crane my neck to look up at him, heat radiating from his body, a hair’s breadth from touching mine.

My hands are covered in dough. I hold them away from him, not wanting to cover his shirt, but needing him so entirely, my breath shudders in my throat.

“If I kiss you again, are you going to startle? Run off? Won’t do one thing that makes you feel uncomfortable, but…” His voice drops, eyes trailing to my lips.

“But?” I squeak.

“But one taste isn’t nearly enough, Lace.”

He leans closer, doesn’t take much because I’m the one who crosses the distance, standing on tiptoes, seeking his lips. His kiss is smoke and spice, not harried or frantic—confident, worshipful, like nothing could rush him.

I dissolve, melting against him, my hands still awkwardly suspended mid-air. His hands are fire, burning my flesh with each pass, large, possessive, steady and strong.

“Why aren’t you touching me?” he murmurs, lips brushing over my hot cheeks, tongue darting out. “Mmm. Not flour, sugar.”

“Because”—kiss—“they’re covered”—sigh—“in pie crust.” Nip and suck.

I drag his thick bottom lip back with me, playfully, before releasing it.

He growls deep in his chest, the rumble passing through me.

Grabbing my right hand, he licks dough off my fingers.

Heat curls low in my stomach, need exploding.

“Good—”

“Oh, God!” I gasp.

“What?” he asks, eyes going wide, reverie broken.

“The crust has raw eggs in it. If you get—”

His laugh cuts me off. “Farm fresh eggs from our own flock. It’ll be fine.”

“No,” I say, breaking his hold, beelining to the sink to wash my hands. They tremble against the water, not from fear but temptation.

He stabs his fingers into his thick, burnished gold hair. “Keep saying ‘no’ every time I kiss you, and I’m bound to get a complex.” But he says it lightly, teasing. Like he knows how much I need him.

I dry my hands on a kitchen towel, throat thick with anticipation. He grabs an apple slice, takes a bite, then closes the distance, feeds it to me. Sweet, tart. I lick the juice from his finger, and he freezes, face drained of color.

“God, Pepper, you set my soul ablaze.”

“Is that a good or a bad thing?” I whisper, so thirsty for another kiss I can barely speak.

Anson dives into me again, all hot breath and panting.

Lips, tongues, need boiling through my veins.

Hands in my hair, then palming my cheeks, gentle, reverential, and recklessly close to unhinged.

Like the man—a breathing contradiction I can’t get enough of.

His gray eyes are hooded when he pulls back, storming, electricity in his touch.

“Don’t want to rush,” he says, face conflicted. “But I like this. I like us.”

“I do, too, more than I should.”

“That a bad thing?” he asks, cocking his head to the side.

The corners of my mouth tilt up, eyes still brazenly stuck on his kissable lips. They taste like peace, security, and the throb of danger.

He steps back, reading me, giving me room. Intuitive, conscientious, like one of his hot-house plants.

A silence settles, sweet and thick as honey. The fire pops, flour dust hangs like snow, and the smell of baked apples makes the cabin feel like the safest place on earth. For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of our breathing and the low hum of the oven.

He looks at me like a man trying to memorize warmth—like he’s afraid it might vanish if he blinks. And maybe I am, too. Because for all the uncertainty waiting beyond these walls, this—us—feels like the calm before a storm.

He draws a slow breath, voice gravel. “Tough to be in the same room with you—excruciating torture.”

“A farmer and a poet.”

“Not like you. I looked you up on the internet last night. Read some of your articles.” He swallows hard. “You’re too good for me. So talented, gifted. The way you describe things, like I can feel them to the marrow of my bones.”

“What I described before is nothing like being here,” I confess, voice soft as the smell of vanilla and cinnamon rising from the oven. A whole new palette, with colors previously unknown. I want to paint this world into life, raw, aching, immortal.

“So, your stay here,” he says low in his throat. “Is good for your career?”

“Yes, and my heart.”

He grabs my hand, pressing it over his chest where I register the beat. Steady, strong, something I can count on. “Want you to think about staying … after you’re done with the story.” His eyes are warm, determined.