Page 38 of Nate Hayes

Fifteen minutes later,we were both in sweats and boots, Willa scooping feed while Pancake stared at me like she was still waiting for an apology.

“Stop glaring at him,” Willa told her. “He brought pie.”

We walked back to the house hand in hand, the cool morning breeze brushing across our skin.

Once inside, Willa put on coffee, and I rummaged through her fridge. “Do you always have this much butter?”

“I make my own butter.”

“I bake when I’m stressed.”

I looked over my shoulder. “You gonna be stressed today?”

She laughed. “Are you asking for biscuits?”

“I’m just saying if love tastes anything like the peach pie you made me, I’m about to fall even harder.”

Soon the kitchensmelled like butter and brown sugar. Willa moved around like she’d done it a thousand times—me in her kitchen, barefoot and shirtless, stealing sips of her coffee and kisses in between.

She leaned against the counter while the biscuits baked. “This feels dangerous.”

“Because you made something with bacon fat or because you’re falling for me?”

“Both,” she said, laughing.

I crossed the room, took her hips in my hands, and kissed her like we hadn’t just spent the night tangled together.

“I want more mornings like this,” I said into her hair. “All of them, if you’ll let me.”

“I want them too,” she whispered. “Even the ones with goat riots and burnt toast.”

“Deal. As long as we eat breakfast like this.”

She looked up at me. “Together?”

“Half-naked and in love.”

The oven timer dinged. Pancake bleated. And Willa just shook her head.

“Welcome to the rest of our lives,” she said.

And I couldn’t wait for every messy, sweet, heart-full minute of it.

21

Willa

The Farmers Market was buzzing, the scent of fresh bread and kettle corn dancing in the air, and the chatter of locals filling every corner of the little town square.

I had my homemade soap display set up under the blue-striped canopy, Pancake tied loosely to the post, chewing hay and pretending she didn’t love attention.

Nate was helping unload more baskets from the truck. He looked sinfully good in jeans and a faded black tee, his ballcap turned backward like he’d just stepped out of a country music video.

It had only been a week since the barbecue and the night we fell into bed and out of fear—and I still couldn’t stop smiling.

But that smile grew a little tight when I saw the group approaching.

Nate’s family.

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