“Daphne’s pretty solid,” I say with humor. When she glances up at me under her lashes, her lips curving into a faint line, I take her hand and lead her to the picnic. “They’ll keep each other company while we enjoy the meadow.”
Her cheeks flush a bright red, and I laugh.
“Not what I meant,” I say.
Not yet, anyway.
The thought surges through me, and my half-hard dick roars to life. Fuck, I cannot be thinking about why I invited her up tothismeadow right now or I’m going to be a goddamn mess through this lunch. I arrange myself on the blanket, trying to take pressure off my constrained dick. Cinnamon blooms around me, conveying my arousal despite me trying to be more discrete.
Her blush grows, bleeding down her neck and onto her chest, disappearing under the neckline of her simple shirt. After a long moment, she closes the distance between us and settles onto the blanket beside me.
“Did your mom make this picnic, too?” she asks with a smirk.
I offer her the nondescript leather bag full of our lunch. She pulls out the french dip.
“Nope. I bribed Hudson, instead.” I grin and grab the sandwich, unwrapping it for her before she can manage. “No way I’m letting you see how bad I am at cooking yet.”
She smiles. “It is the one thing I haven’t really seen you do this summer. Well, technically, I haven’t seen you fly. But I know you wouldn’t have the seniority with the wildfire crews if you were bad at it.”
She’d looked up how my job worked?
God, she really is perfect.
“Didn’t expect you to become an expert on fire pilots,” I admit.
She shrugs and drops her eyes. I put a finger under her chin and urge her to look at me.
“I like it,” I whisper.
Lavender weaves around us.
“So you’re a really good pilot, you know your way around the horses. You probably can handle the cattle at the Monroe Ranch, too, though Beau seems to like it more than you. And that doesn’t even bring up the fact you’re a phenomenal dad.”
Her praise shoots through me. Damn, I want to kiss her right now. I run my thumb over her chin.
She purses her lips and cocks a single eyebrow. “And yet you can’t cook.”
“Nope.” I pop the “p”. I grip her chin and kiss her, forcing myself to pull away before it can become more involved.
She giggles and follows me, keeping her mouth barely brushing mine. “Well, at least it proves you’re actually human.”
I hum with my amusement. My chest is light, a happiness sitting under my sternum I haven’t truly felt in a long time, bolstered by her smile and relaxed body and the subtle lavender of her scent weaving around us even now.
“What kind of sandwiches did you convince Hudson to make?” she asks, pulling away and focusing on the food.
“He didn’t let me pick. He said they were french dip when he dropped them off last night.”
Her smirk sends a jolt down my spine, as does watching her lips part around the end of the sandwich as she takes a bite.
“This is so good,” she moans.
Cinnamon floods the air, stronger than the wildflowers blooming throughout the meadow and her own scent that’s still circling us. Her cheeks heat, the blush racing down her neck and onto her chest. Her throat ripples with her swallow.
Am I a masochist? Pretty sure I’m a masochist. Because there’s nothing quite like the torture of watching her lips spread around the sandwich and her throat move with her eating. Holy hell, I want it to be me that’s making her throat move like that.
And now I’m hard. Again.
“What’s that look for?” she asks.