Page 27

It’s two in the morning when I finally stumble through the front door of Mrs. Mayberry’s old home.

The faint buzz of exhaustion is humming beneath my skin, yet I feel wired.

Typical for me after a long night shift.

Exhausted, yet horny, with nowhere to release all the adrenaline that’s coursing through my veins.

My shift ran late, but it was a slow night—the kind where I even managed to sneak away for dinner during the lull, a rare treat of Mac n’ cheese and green beans.

The house is wrapped in that deep, velvety quiet that only comes in the middle of the night, and I expect nothing less than darkness and the faint creak of old floorboards settling to welcome me.

What I definitely don’t expect to see is Regan wide awake sprawled out on her back in the middle of the living room floor like she’s making friends with the ceiling.

Her eyes are glassy and fixed on some point beyond what the rest of us can see.

“Are you okay?” I whisper, though there’s no one else here to hear me.

Scarlett moved out to stay in one of the cottages two days ago when the realtor dropped off the keys, leaving the house eerily still and the tension between passing Regan every morning palatable.

The front door wasn’t locked again, something I remind myself I need to talk about with her.

Yeah, we’re in the middle of nowhere in the country but I don’t want to take any chances.

And I certainly don’t want to be worried about her safety while I’m trying to work.

“No,” she replies flatly, not even flinching, not even turning her head. Her voice is hollow and empty with no emotion behind it.

I approach her slowly, like she might bolt if I move too fast. My heart races and suddenly I worry what this means for me. For us . Is she backing out?

“What’s wrong?”

She finally moves slightly, just her hand, pressing against her chest like she’s trying to keep her heart from breaking free.

“I’m overwhelmed,” she breathes out, the words tumbling in a rush.

“I never stress out. I… I make plans, sure, but I don’t lose sleep over them.

But this? This feels different. It feels like I…

like I’m unraveling. The wedding isn’t just a wedding.

It’s supposed to be a freaking showcase.

A Marshall family production, starring my brainchild our new wedding business.

My vision . My gamble. If it fails, it’s not just me that falls on my face—it’s my whole family,” she sighs.

“The whole Marshall name will go up in flames because of me.”

“Regan,” I start, but she steamrolls right over me, her voice picking up speed like she’s afraid to stop.

“Cash has his chicks, Colt has the distillery and breweries, Lawson’s the marketing and sales genius that drives and tracks the revenue.

And me? What do I have? A fledgling wedding business that could crash before it even takes off.

This was supposed to be my thing. My stamp.

But what if I… what if I suck at this? What if I can’t pull it off because I don’t even understand it?

Mrs. Mayberry knew love; she lived it with Mr. Mayberry.

Even when he was gone, she kept his memory alive.

Me? I’ve never felt that all-consuming, gut-punch kind of love that makes you want to stand in front of everyone and say, ’ Yeah, I’ll pick this person forever.

I vow to always love and protect them . Their dreams are my dreams now.

’ How do I sell a dream that I’ve never experienced? ”

“Regan,” I say again, my voice dropping lower now, more gravel than words, a warning or maybe a plea for her to listen to me. I crouch beside her, close enough to feel the tension vibrating off her in waves, but she doesn’t even blink.

She clutches a crumpled sheet of paper in her fist, lifting it to the sky like it holds answers, like it might steady her spiraling thoughts. But it doesn’t. Not even close.

“And maybe I’ve bitten off more than I can chew,” she whispers, her eyes darting across the scattered words full of unchecked boxes.

“We just moved in. The cottages aren’t even cleaned out.

People will be walking through them like it’s some curated tour, judging every speck of dust that remains.

The pond is murky. The barn’s still a disaster.

Cash has the outdoor setup finished on the farmstead, but it feels like we’re holding this whole thing together with duct tape and prayer.

Something’s going to slip through the cracks, I can feel it.

And when it does I…” She trails off, her voice finally breaking, not into sobs but into heavy silence like she can’t form a coherent thought.

"Regan,” I say, my hand closing gently but firmly around her wrist trying to ground her to where she is. Her head jerks up, blue eyes snapping to mine, wide and glassy under the dim glow of the living room lamp.

“Good,” I murmur, holding her gaze. “I’ve got your attention now.”

She blinks, her breath catching, and for a second, all her spiraling thoughts seem to still as we gaze into one another’s eyes.

She looks so damn pretty in the late evening light filtering through the window, her hair a tousled halo around her, the light catching the bits of red and making it look like it’s on fire, lips slightly parted from the rush of her rambling.

I’m bone-tired, muscles aching from my shift, but none of that matters right now.

I’m off tomorrow. I can sleep then. Right now, she needs me more than I need rest. And if I’m being honest, there’s something endearing about watching her unravel—this woman who’s usually unflappable, now a mess of lists and worries.

It makes me want to anchor her because I know what it’s like to spiral into the unknown.

To feel like I don’t know where I’m going next and need someone to help guide you.

“Give me a list of five things I can help you with tomorrow,” I say, voice low, steady.

She shakes her head, biting her lip, the stubborn streak I’ve come to know flashing in her eyes. “No, I can handle this. You’ve been working all night, saving lives, and I don’t want you waking up to help me. I have my brothers. I can do this.”

I arch a brow. “I didn’t ask. I’m telling you to give me the damn list. I’ll check those things off tomorrow first thing when I wake up.”

She blinks again, surprised by my insistence. “Are you… are you sure?”

“We’re a team, Regan. The money that this property earns is business for both of us. It supports what I plan to do with the barn. Let me be part of your team.”

She hesitates, her resolve crumbling as she studies my face like she’s trying to find a loophole, an excuse to say no. But finally, she exhales, shoulders sagging just a little before she pushes to stand up. I meet her stance.

“Okay,” she whispers. “That would be really nice.”

“What are the five things you can assign to me?”

She glances down at the crumpled sheet of paper in her hand. “Um… let me see. I wrote this last night when I was in bed spiraling, so some of it might not make much sense.”

I smirk, waiting.

“I need the lawn here mowed. Cash is handling it at the farmstead.”

“Done.”

“Flowers… I placed the order with the florist, but they need to be picked up tomorrow morning. I know it’s two days early, but Scarlett and I will get the bundles together ahead of time for the tables. There are flowers for the venue next door and then for here, and the cottages.”

“Got it. What else?”

“The pond. I want to be sure it’s as clean as possible on the surface.”

I nod, stepping closer, the space between us shrinking with each beat of my heart.

She notices—I can tell by the way her breathing picks up, the slight tremble in her fingers as she scans her list. I don’t stop.

I like the way she feels my presence before I even touch her.

I like knowing that she can’t help reacting to me as much as I react to her.

“What else, Regan?” I whisper, my voice a soft rasp that seems to pull her gaze up, locking it with mine.

She swallows, her throat working as she glances back at the sheet, then at me again. “I… Oh…” Her cheeks flush red as her eyes scan over the list rapidly.

“What did you write?” I press. “What’s the next thing?”

The flush creeps down her neck and across her chest, a delicate pink spread that’s fucking adorable. She never gets embarrassed around me, which means whatever’s on that list is going to be good.

Before she can tug it away, I snatch the paper from her hand, my eyes scanning over her scribbles until I hit number thirty-five:

Give myself at least three orgasms so that I stop freaking out about how this is going to go and stop thinking about Hayes sexy face.

I glance up, a slow grin spreading across my face.

“Well,” I say, folding the paper neatly and sliding it into my back pocket because I’m not going to let her look at this anymore tonight, “that’s one item that doesn’t have to wait until morning.”

My lips twitch at the corner, eyes darting back to Regan who’s watching me wide-eyed, like I just read her deepest, most guarded secret out loud.

“I told you, I wrote that when it was super late and I was freaking out,” she blurts, her voice pitched a little higher, like maybe she thinks speed will cover her embarrassment. “I might have been drunk, too.”

“I see that.” I lean in slightly, letting my grin tug a little wider. “So, how were you planning on crossing that one off the list?”

Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, a nervous habit I’ve noticed she does when she’s flustered. “Well…” she starts, voice trailing off, “I have… toys, you know, that I’ve moved in.”

“Hmm.” My hands find her hips, thumbs brushing over the curve like they belong there, like they always have because I’m not waiting to touch her anymore and I’m not in the mood to hold back.

I love how thick her hips are. Just the feel of her beneath my palms is a spark, dragging me back to that night seven years ago when everything between us was new and electric and painfully temporary.

“Is that something you’d like my help with?” I ask.

“Getting the toys out?”

I deadpan, “The orgasms, Regan.”

She swallows hard, her lips parting slightly before she nods. “Yeah, I mean… if you want to. If you don’t think that’s a bad idea.”

“We’ll treat it as part of the wedding checklist,” I say, like it’s the most logical thing in the world when it’s definitely crossing a line. One that we’ve both firmly put in place.

“Yeah,” she echoes, her voice soft. “That makes sense.”

It doesn’t.

It makes no sense at all.

But here we are, and I just got off shift. Horny like I always am after working all night, flustered from living with a woman I can’t stop thinking about being inside and feeling like I’ve been edged by her for seven years.

“Take me to them,” I murmur, my thumbs still tracing circles on her hips.

“Take you to what?”

“Your toys. Lead the way.”

She hesitates, eyes flicking to mine, searching for something—maybe hesitation, maybe doubt. But all she’ll find is the quiet thrum of want and desire that I’ve felt deep in my bones for days now.

She moves, turning slowly, her steps light as she leads us toward the stairs. I follow, every part of me tuned to her, the sway of her hips, the curve of her back, the tension coiled tight in the space between us.

When we reach the guest room she’s been sleeping in, a low growl escapes me because this room is less than half the size of mine and it pisses me off that she has such little space to stretch out while I’m living like a king.

“Grab the toys. Meet me in my bedroom.”

She pauses, hand hovering over an open bedside drawer. “Um… how many?”

I tilt my head, pretending to think. “How many do you have, Regan?”

Her cheeks flush pink. “Four.”

I shake my head and chuckle. “Bring them all.”