Page 42 of Scotch on the Rocks

The cradle of his arms tightened. “Damn right, I did.”

I shook out my hand, saliva dripping in globs. “That was disgusting.”

“Want to do it again?”

I grinned despite myself. “Absolutely.”

His laugh rumbled through me, and he stepped back to retrieve the sack. “Both hands this time.”

I cupped them both eagerly, a childlike lightness I’d rarely felt as anactualchild brightening my insides.

“Just as before?” I eagerly hooked my arms over the fence, and he followed. Both of his hands gripping the wood this time. His chest to my back. Hips cradling mine in a near perfect curve.

“Just as before,” he said and I felt the words like a caress down the collar of my coat. There was no reason for him to be this close, and yet I couldn’t summon a single word of complaint as the cow dove in again. “There … you got it.” His tone filled with pride.

I was laughing. No,giggling. Unable to recall the last time that sound had passed my lips.

“Still hate me, sweetheart?” The words were a whisper on the shell of my ear.

Sweetheart.That was new.

I swallowed. “Undoubtedly.”

“Good. Just making sure.”

I didn’t even have time to consider what that meant whenanother russet head appeared. The second cow was bigger, easily brushing the first aside to get at my hands.

“Woah, not so fast,” I chided, when another blustered its way through, mouth open so wide I could smell its breath. Count its teeth. Callum unfurled from me, reaching forward to stay the newcomers at the exact moment I recoiled. Too entrenched in the mud, my feet refused to follow, suctioning me to the wet earth. My arms flailed as the fence tipped. No,Iwas tipping, falling, hands searching for purchase. Callum shouted my name. His fingers grazed my sleeve. But not quick enough.

Cold. That was the first sensation to return.

Cold, wet mud. It seeped through my leggings. Coated my hands where I’d braced myself. And the—

“Fuck, Juniper. You okay?” Callum was bending over me, reaching to lift me to my feet. But halted, expression grim.

“Is that—”

“No.” I immediately cut him off. “No, no, no …”

His entire face changed. It was like witnessing a domino effect as his grin rippled into his eyes. “Itis—”

I squeezed my eyes shut, blocking him out. “Don’t say it. Don’t you fucking dare.”

“I have to. It’s like pulling off a plaster … Ready?”

I shook my head. Frantic. If he didn’t say it, it hadn’t happened.

“Juniper …sweetheart.” I heard him take a breath, as though steeling the both of us. “You fell in shit.”

His words were the breaking of a dam. The smell rushed in, so potent I gagged, bringing my hands up to cover my mouth.

“No.” He caught my wrists. “Don’t touch your face, just in case.”

I gagged again at the thought, glad I’d had so little for breakfast, or I’d be wearing that too. I cracked my eyes, finally taking in the state of myself. Every inch was coated or splattered. My feet were still stuck in their little mud hole, my hands streaked with wet muck, crusting beneath my nails. It even dripped from my hair.

“I … I don’t know what to do.” I was about to bloody cry. I could feel the tears rising inside me like a tidal wave.

“Just … try and hold still for now.” His full lips wobbled. “I’ve got a blanket in the bag.”

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