Page 125 of Saddle and Scent
Heat floods my cheeks as I realize how carried away we got, but Callum doesn't look embarrassed at all.
If anything, he looks smugly satisfied, like he's just proven a point he's been wanting to make for years.
"Back to work," Beckett says, but there's warmth in his voice that takes any sting out of the words. "Lake time is contingent on actual progress."
The rest of the morning passes in a blur of steady labor punctuated by moments of charged awareness. Every time Callum moves within arm's reach, I feel the phantom pressure of his hands. Every time our eyes meet across the workspace, I'm transported back to those breathless seconds when nothing existed except the possibility of surrender.
Wes keeps up a steady stream of jokes and observations designed to break the tension, but I catch him watching me with hungry eyes when he thinks I'm not looking. And Beckett works with the kind of focused intensity that suggests he's using physical labor to burn off energy that might otherwise demand a very different kind of outlet.
By the time we break for lunch, we've made impressive progress. The barn's skeletal frame has been reinforced and straightened, and the foundation work for the new siding iscomplete. It's starting to look less like a disaster zone and more like a building with genuine potential.
"Not bad for a morning's work," Callum says, surveying our handiwork with satisfaction. "Another day or two and we'll have her looking like new."
"Another day or two of this heat and I'll be a puddle," I complain, pulling off my hard hat and shaking out my sweaty hair.
"Good thing we're going swimming then," Wes says with a grin. "Cool water, cold beer, and all the time in the world to appreciate our handiwork."
The promise in his voice makes my stomach flutter with anticipation. Because afternoon swimming with three gorgeous Alphas who've been looking at me like I'm dessert all morning sounds like exactly the kind of trouble I'm ready to get into.
Even if it means admitting that maybe, just maybe, I'm not as interested in taking things slow as I keep pretending to be.
The sexual tension that's been building all morning feels like a storm front moving in—inevitable, electric, and impossible to ignore.
And judging by the looks I'm getting from all three of them, I'm not the only one who can feel the pressure building toward something that's going to change everything.
The only question is whether I'm brave enough to let it happen.
25
WOOD AND WHISKEY
~JUNIPER~
The lake is perfect.
After a week of steady rebuilding, the guys have transformed what used to be a neglected swimming hole into something that belongs in a magazine spread about rustic retreats. The water itself was always beautiful—clear and spring-fed, with a natural rock formation that creates the perfect diving platform—but now there's infrastructure that makes it feel like an actual destination rather than just a convenient place to cool off.
Beckett and Wes have been collaborating on a stone path that winds from where we park the trucks all the way down to the water's edge, each stone carefully placed and leveled so we can walk barefoot without worrying about sharp rocks or uneven ground. The path is bordered with wildflowers that seem to have sprouted overnight but were clearly planted with intention—black-eyed Susans and purple coneflowers and some kind of trailing vine that releases the sweetest fragrance when you brush against it.
Callum built wooden benches positioned to catch both morning and evening light, their simple lines complementing the natural landscape without overwhelming it. There's also a changing area constructed from weathered cedar that provides privacy while maintaining the rustic aesthetic, and a small dock that extends into the deeper water where the current creates natural pools perfect for floating.
The finishing touch is a collection of stone sculptures that I suspect Beckett created during his stress-baking phases—smooth river rocks balanced in impossible configurations that somehow manage to look both deliberate and organic.
"You guys have been busy," I say, settling onto one of the benches after our afternoon swim. My hair is still damp, and I'm wearing one of Callum's flannel shirts over my bathing suit because the evening air carries just enough chill to make the extra layer welcome.
"Figured if we're going to be spending time down here, might as well make it comfortable," Wes says. He's sprawled on the dock, still shirtless and gleaming with water droplets, looking like some kind of lake god who decided to take human form.
"Besides," Beckett adds from where he's arranging our impromptu picnic on a flat boulder, "you seemed to like it here. Made sense to invest in improvements."
The casual way he says 'invest' makes my chest warm with feelings I'm not ready to examine too closely. Because there's an assumption of permanence in that word, a suggestion that this isn't just a temporary arrangement but something worth building for the long term.
I'm discovering that I'm much more of an outdoor person than I ever expected. Maybe it's because I feel safe here in a way I never have before—surrounded by three Alphas who've made it clear that my wellbeing is their top priority, free to explore andexperiment and just exist without constantly looking over my shoulder for threats.
Or maybe it's because everything about this place feels like home in ways I'm only beginning to understand.
"I never thought I'd be the type to prefer mud between my toes over city sidewalks," I admit, wiggling said toes in the soft grass. "But there's something about this that just feels right."
"That's because you were always meant to be here," Callum says quietly. "Some people are city creatures, some are meant for wide open spaces. You're the latter."
