Page 3

Hannah

The storm rolls in just after midnight, tearing through the quiet of my farm with a vengeance. The first crack of thunder rattles the windows, and I shoot upright in bed, my heart pounding. Rain lashes against the roof, and the wind howls like a living thing, wild and furious.

I throw on my boots and grab a flashlight, heading for the back door.

My bees will be fine—the hives are sturdy, built to weather storms—but the rest of the farm is another story.

I step outside into the chaos, the rain soaking me instantly.

It’s cold and sharp, slicing through the humid summer air.

The garden is a mess. My tomato plants are flattened, and the trellis for the beans looks like it’s about to give up entirely. Worse, one of the fence posts near the far end of the property is leaning heavily to one side, barely holding up the wire.

“Damn it,” I mutter under my breath, pushing wet hair out of my face.

There’s no fixing it tonight. The storm is too fierce, and I’m already shivering. I’ll deal with it in the morning, I tell myself, trudging back to the house. But as I climb into bed and listen to the storm rage on, I can’t shake the feeling that something’s coming.

***

By morning, the storm has passed, leaving the air crisp and cool. The damage is worse than I thought. The bean trellis is a total loss, and a fence post has snapped clean in half, leaving a gaping hole in the perimeter.

I tie my hair back, roll up my sleeves, and grab my toolbox. If I wait too long to fix the fence, the deer and wild critters will move in, and I’ll lose what’s left of my garden.

The morning sun is warm on my skin as I work, but frustration builds with every swing of the hammer.

The post is heavier than I expected, and the ground is still wet and stubborn from the rain.

By the time I manage to wedge the new post into the hole, I’ve worked up a sweat, and my arms ache from the effort.

“You’re doing that wrong.”

I yelp, nearly dropping the hammer, and spin around to find Cameron standing a few feet away. His hands are shoved into his pockets, his expression unreadable as usual, but I notice a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he’s hiding a smile.

“Jesus, Cameron,” I say, pressing a hand to my chest. “You scared the hell out of me!”

“Sorry.” Though he doesn’t sound all that sorry.

I narrow my eyes at him, trying to ignore the way my heart is racing—not from fear but from the sight of him. He’s wearing a plain gray T-shirt that clings to his broad shoulders and chest, and his jeans are streaked with dirt, like he’s already been working this morning.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

“Driving by,” he says with a shrug. “Saw the fence. Figured you’d need help.”

I raise an eyebrow, crossing my arms. “You just happened to be driving by?”

His lips twitch again, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he steps closer, his gaze flicking to the broken fence.

“You’re never going to get it steady like that,” he says, nodding toward the post.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I mutter, picking up the hammer again.

“Move,” he says, his voice low but firm.

I blink up at him, startled by the command in his tone. “Excuse me?”

“Move,” he repeats, already reaching for the post. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

I open my mouth to argue, but the look in his eyes stops me. It’s not just stubbornness. It’s concern.

With a sigh, I step back and watch as Cameron takes over. His hands wrap around the post, and I can’t help but notice how big they are, how strong. He holds the post steady with one hand while using the other to drive it deeper into the ground, his movements sure and efficient.

“See?” he says, glancing at me over his shoulder. “You’ve got to angle it a little, so it stays in place.”

“I knew that,” I lie, crossing my arms.

He smirks, just barely, and turns back to the post.

As we work together, the tension between us slowly eases. Cameron doesn’t say much—he never does—but his presence is steady, grounding. He hands me tools without me asking, and when the hammer slips from my grip, he catches it midair like it’s nothing.

“Show off,” I mutter, but there’s no heat in my voice.

Cameron just grunts, his lips curving into the faintest hint of a smile.

By the time we finish, the sun is high in the sky, and my skin is sticky with sweat and dirt. The fence looks better than it did before the storm, and I can’t help but feel a little proud, even if Cameron did most of the heavy lifting.

“Thanks,” I say, wiping my hands on my jeans.

He nods, stepping back to survey our work. His T-shirt is damp with sweat, clinging to his back, and I have to force myself not to stare.

“You didn’t have to help, you know,” I add, my voice softer now.

“I wanted to,” he says simply, his eyes meeting mine.

Something in his gaze makes my stomach flip—something raw and unguarded. For a moment, I think he might say more, but then he looks away, his jaw tightening.

“Cameron,” I say hesitantly, taking a step closer. “Why do you keep showing up like this? Helping me?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His hands are shoved into his pockets again, his shoulders tense.

“Does it bother you?” he asks finally, his voice low.

“No,” I say quickly, shaking my head. “It’s just… I don’t get it. You’re always so distant, like you’re afraid to let anyone in. But then you show up and do things like this, and…” I’m unsure how to finish the sentence.

Cameron’s jaw clenches, and for a moment, I think he’s going to walk away. But then he turns to face me, his gray eyes stormy and conflicted.

“Hannah,” he says, my name coming out like a sigh.

“Yes?” I prompt, my heart pounding.

He takes a step closer, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. The air between us feels charged, like the storm never really left, and I feel the heat radiating off his body.

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he says quietly, his voice rough.

“Then tell me,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

His hand twitches at his side, like he wants to reach for me but is holding himself back. “You don’t understand. I’m not… I’m not who you think I am.”

“Then show me who you are,” I say, stepping closer until there’s barely any space between us.

The tension is unbearable now, a tight, electric pull that makes my skin prickle. Cameron’s eyes search mine, and for a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me.

But then he steps back, his expression hardening.

“I can’t,” he says, his voice cold and final.

Before I can say anything, he turns and walks away. His broad shoulders turn the corner around the house, and I hear the sound of his truck starting up soon after.

I stand there, staring after him, my chest aching with confusion and something else I can’t name.

What are you so afraid of, Cameron Barrett?

The question lingers in the air, unanswered, as I turn back to the fence and try to ignore the hollow feeling in my chest.