Page 101 of Saddle and Scent
“Mini dates?”
“To explore each other’s hobbies,” he says. “Yours, mine, all of it. To get to know each other again. The real stuff. Not just the flirting and syrup sex.”
I snort. “As if that’s not a whole personality.”
He winks. “Yours maybe. I’m more of a stables-and-coffee guy.”
I consider it. And for the first time in what feels likeyears, something in me unclenches.
“That actually sounds… really nice.”
His eyes crinkle with genuine affection. “It’s been eons since we truly knew each other, Junebug. Let’s fix that.”
I smile, slow and real. “Okay.”
He taps my thigh. “Go shower before the syrup crusts. I’ll handle the kitchen.”
I roll my eyes but stand up, syrup and cum sliding down my stomach in a slow, obscene drip.
“You sure you’re good?”
He smirks, eyes dropping to my mess-covered skin. “Let’s just say I’ll be dreaming of this moment next time I crack open the maple bottle.”
I laugh all the way to the bathroom.
20
RAIN AND REVELATIONS
~JUNIPER~
Mini dates.
The phrase keeps bouncing around in my head as I watch Callum through the kitchen window, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he works on something mechanical in what used to be Aunt Lil's outdoor garage. Wes had mentioned exploring each other's hobbies, getting to know the people we've become instead of clinging to memories of who we used to be.
It actually sounds like a good idea.
Terrifying, but good.
I'm still sticky from syrup and satisfaction, wearing nothing but one of Wes's oversized t-shirts and a pair of clean underwear. My hair is damp from the quickest shower in history, and I can still taste maple sweetness on my lips. The memory of what happened in this very kitchen makes my cheeks warm and my thighs clench.
Focus, Juniper.
There will be plenty of time to spiral into sexual chaos later.
Right now, Callum is elbow-deep in some kind of engine, and I'm curious enough about what he's discovered to ventureoutside. The man has always been magic with anything mechanical—cars, trucks, farm equipment, that ancient tractor that Aunt Lil swore was older than dirt but somehow still ran.
I slip on a pair of flip-flops and head out to the garage, which is really more of a three-sided shed with a corrugated metal roof that's seen better decades. The space is cluttered with the kind of accumulated detritus that speaks to years of "I might need this someday" thinking.
Aunt Lil was apparently a bit of a hoarder.
The more we discover, the more obvious it becomes.
There are boxes stacked to the ceiling, covered in dust and held together with hope and duct tape. Old farm tools hang from every available surface, some of them so rusted I can't even identify their original purpose. And in the back corner, partially hidden under a collection of tarps and what appears to be an entire dismantled chicken coop, Callum has unearthed something interesting.
"Is that a moped?" I ask, stepping into the relative shade of the garage.
He looks up from where he's bent over the small engine, hair falling across his forehead in a way that makes me want to brush it back. There's a streak of grease across his cheek and oil under his fingernails, and somehow he makes mechanical work look like art.
