All I Want (A Farmers' Market Story) (10 page)

“Have you thought about hiring some help?” he asked instead.

She was too tired to be irritated by the question. “Well, sure. But I’d have to find someone I trusted with the goats. Then figure out how much I could afford to pay them, and look into employee tax stuff, and it seems a bit much when I’m getting by all right.”

“But you could expand, if you wanted to.”

Meg shrugged. “I guess. I kind of like the way things are. I mean, if I found the right person, it’d be nice to have help. But it’s a lot to trust someone with my life, my heart, my soul. That’s what this place is to me, Charlie. So, unless you’re offering
yourself
for help, it’s not in the cards.”

“Um.”

She saw him look around the barn. Most of the goats had gone out the little door and were outside, but a few pranced inside, butting each other, hopping into the haystacks. His face remained carefully blank, but she knew he was recoiling inwardly. She just knew it.

Then those dark eyes met hers and he nodded, as if that was that. “Actually yes. I’d like to help out.”

She laughed. When his eyes narrowed, she knew she should stop, but she couldn’t help herself. “I’m sorry,” she said between giggles. “I can’t picture it. I just...can’t.”

“I told you I grew up on a farm.”

“Yes, and that you didn’t like it. Look at you.” She pointed to his dark-wash jeans, the preppy tennis shoes that wouldn’t last a day in goat poop and mud. He wore a T-shirt today, and based on how crisp it was, she wouldn’t be surprised if he’d ironed it.

He looked down at his outfit. “I’ll admit, I’m not dressed for working. But I didn’t come here intending to work. It doesn’t mean I’m incapable.”

As Meg saw it, she had two options. Continue to laugh at him, or let him do it. Let him see what helping out at a goat farm, making goat milk soap, would be like. Let him try and get it out of his system.

She’d be shocked if he lasted a day.

“So you want me to hire you,” she said, being very careful to say the words in a way that didn’t hint at the fact that she was eagerly awaiting the first time he shoveled poop out of the stall.

Poor Charlie might have grown up on a farm, but that didn’t mean he had any idea what he was getting himself into.

“Well, I was thinking more volunteer work.”

“Oh no, if you’re going to work for me, you’re going to be my employee.” She smiled at him. “I’d love the chance to order you around.”

“That can probably be arranged without payments or goats.”

Oh, crap, flirting alert. Her heart was getting all jittery at that sly smile of his, the way it slowly curved on one side of his mouth and then the other. Damn him.

“Well,” he continued, that amused smile suddenly focused, “I’ve already taken on what basically amounts to three consulting jobs for my brother and sister-in-law, and
her
sister and sister’s husband, so why not a little part-time goat farmwork? You can pay me minimum wage, and I’ll work until I get a real job.”

“A part-time job with me
would
be a real job, Charlie.”

He waved it away. “You know what I mean.”

“So, when you go on an interview for some big-shot corner office sales job of the century, and they ask what you’ve been doing while unemployed, you’ll say you worked at a goat farm?”

“No, I’ll say I spent some time consulting small businesses on expanding their sales reach, goat farming and farming of any kind not mentioned unless applicable. Who knows, maybe my future boss will have a goat obsession like you do.”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “It’s not an obsession.”

He crossed to her then, and it was only pride that kept her from stepping back. Because the closer he got, the more the air seemed to electrify. Those self-preservation instincts she’d carefully honed over the past few years were telling her to run.

But she wouldn’t run from the father of her child, or from the challenge of that surety he exuded having some effect on her lady parts. So she stood where she was, ignoring the way his eyes held hers so confidently, the way his body moved like it knew exactly what it was about.

Mostly she ignored that she wanted to touch him, or smell him, or figure out how he affected her so deeply, with just a look. Just proximity.

He stopped in front of her and took the stool she was still holding like a shield. He pried it from her fingers, which she held clutched for no reason that made any kind of sense.

Once he’d loosed it from her grasp and set it down, he took her tattooed arm in his hands, trailing a finger over the space just above her wrist, where the goat was tattooed.

“This,” he said, his voice suddenly sounding hushed, intimate, “is an obsession.”

She wished she had the wherewithal to argue, but she was afraid if she tried to speak it would just come out a sigh, because his finger kept tracing her goat, and there was something so ridiculously sensual about it she kind of wanted to die.

Or jump him.

CHAPTER TWELVE

C
HARLIE
DIDN
’
T
KNOW
what had changed, or what he’d planned on doing when he’d taken her arm. He probably could have pointed out the goat tattoo without touching it.

But here he was, tracing his fingers over the lines. Mesmerized by the way her skin goose-bumped and how there could be all this blue and white ink on her, but she felt smooth and soft.

She would feel like that everywhere. He should
know
that, not imagine it. He’d
impregnated
her; he should be able to know more than just the few snatches of memory his brain decided to hold on to.

Not the plan, Wainwright.
And yet he couldn’t seem to listen to that voice that had ruled him for...well, for a long-ass time. All those plans, all those rules, all that focus, and he couldn’t remember anyone who had ever made that voice sound like an annoying gnat rather than a life-guiding deity.

“Charlie.” Her voice sounded strangled and he was probably supposed to stop touching her, stop looking at the goat, stop wondering what the rest of her felt like. Under the loose T-shirt she was wearing, under those tight stretchy pants he wasn’t sure qualified as pants.

“I think we need to make a decision.”

Funny, she kept talking and he wasn’t at all sure she was saying words that made sense.

“A decision?” He’d been making a lot of decisions today. Well, taking offers, really. But still, moving forward, making progress.

Wait. What kind of decision was she talking about?

“To or not to. Like, if we’re putting that on the table, but I think it needs to be clear.”

“To...?” Or not to. Finally he forced his gaze to leave her tattoo, her arm under his finger, and meet those wide blue eyes. There had been a reason he’d come here. He couldn’t for the life of him remember it.

Because she was most assuredly talking about sex. Doing it or not doing it, which had been a debate in his head. Repeatedly. But he hadn’t planned on
broaching
it quite so...head-on.

He must have loosened his grip, because her arm slid away, and he felt that break in physical connection like something akin to a blow.

So he hedged, because of course he
wanted
it to be on the table, but even though she short-circuited his entire being, he still wasn’t used to
doing
what he wanted. There were responsibilities to weigh, plans to think of. “Do you
want
it to be on the table?”

She blinked at him, that beautiful shade of pink flushing up her neck and cheeks. It was only years of denying his more impulsive...impulses that kept him from stepping forward, cupping those cheeks, touching...

God, he wanted to touch her again.

What was she
doing
to him?

She whirled away, which didn’t help, because her ass in those ridiculous legging nonpants was something of a very major distraction.

“I don’t know,” she muttered, shoving her fingers through her unruly blond hair. “I don’t
know
.”

She whirled back to face him, poking an index finger in his direction. “You’re obviously Mr. Responsible. You tell me what the right thing to do here is.”

“Well...” Responsible. She wanted him to tell her the right thing to do. That was very much his usual wheelhouse. He knew, of course, the responsible thing to do was to say no. Sex should not be on the table. Not yet. But...

“You’ve probably never made a decision with your dick,” she muttered in disgust.

“Um, well, we’re in a situation that might claim otherwise.”

Her lips twitched, but she didn’t laugh. He found it odd he wanted to.

“Okay, your drunk penis is irresponsible, but your sober one is not. Sober Charlie’s penis is one of the most responsible penises I’ve ever met.”

“Please tell me what the hell we’re talking about, because I’ve completely lost track.”

She blew out a breath in a mix between humor and frustration. “Look, I think we’re attracted to each other or, even wasted, we probably wouldn’t have ended up doing the horizontal polka.”

“You didn’t just say polka—horizontal or otherwise. Please tell me you didn’t.”

This time she did laugh, and he laughed too, because he liked the way it infiltrated the air. Even with the smell of hay and animal poop—the hallmark of his childhood—her laugh made him feel like he was somewhere bright and fresh.

“Maybe we should have a no-touching, no-innuendo, no-flirting rule.”

“We could do that...”

“Why do you not sound convinced? You’re supposed to be a stick-in-the-mud who agrees with all stick-in-the-mud plans!”

He raised an eyebrow. “Responsible does not necessarily equal stick-in-the-mud. It certainly doesn’t mean no sex.”

“Charlie, that is
not
the point.”

“Well, it’s
my
point.”

“We can’t have sex. That’s the important thing. It would complicate...everything.”

“True, but—”

“How is there a but?”

“As you said, we’re attracted to each other, all polkaing aside. Just setting a sex moratorium might lead to what got us here in the first place.”

“Uh, no. No more the Shack for me. No more drinking.” She gestured at her flat stomach. “No more bad decisions. All my decisions are for the good of Seedling.”

“Yes, mine too. But I’m not sure what sex has to do with Seedling.”

“Charlie!” She stomped her foot and he had to work very hard not to smile with how exasperated she was with him. “You are being far too difficult about this. You’re being... You’re being...”

“A guy?”

She narrowed her eyes and he couldn’t seem to keep his mouth in a straight line. He liked the way energy and emotion sparked off her, in her expression, in her movements. She was so...open. He’d always dated contained, careful women. Always thought that was his type, that was what he wanted.

But he liked her spark, her flash. A lot.

“Hear me out here. It’s like...” He struggled for an analogy that would make sense considering their very unique situation. “Like when you work with someone you’re attracted to. Every day you walk into the office and they’re
there
. You have to walk by them, and see them, and it makes the air heavy. It makes your skin feel too tight. Day after day, they’re
there
, in your space, being that thing you’re trying to resist.” He wasn’t quite sure when his voice had gone low, kind of raspy, or when they’d taken steps toward each other.

Close. They were close. They shouldn’t be close, but he couldn’t resist. He’d never
not
been able to resist and it was fascinating, all in all, free-falling the way he did around her.

Which led to getting her pregnant and you not even remembering it.

But reason’s voice was just a whisper when she was near, the sharp intake of her breath and the faint blush on her cheeks serving only to spur him on. “So, every day you pretend. And you pretend. And you probably get a little more desperate every day until...”

He snapped his fingers and she jumped. He got no small amount of satisfaction from that. This wasn’t just
him
. It wasn’t some break with reality caused by upheaval. Whatever existed between them echoed in both of them. Maybe attraction was all it was, but it was mutual.

It was potent.

And, once again, he’d forgotten the point of being here.

* * *

M
EG
FELT
LIKE
she was
vibrating
. All those things he’d described—the heavier air, the skin being tight—added an unnatural heat and unabashed longing that should most definitely abash her. She felt like she was vibrating from the inside out.

She knew what it was to want, to long, to be desperate for something. She’d beaten that need. Time and time again, she’d crushed the desire to have something she knew was bad for her, despite the appealing sense of freedom and goodness it would briefly give her.

Charlie wasn’t a drug, or a drink, but he surely would be bad for her. Well, potentially. It would complicate things, no matter how yummy that complication might be...

It wasn’t just them. It wasn’t just her. She had to consider Seedling and the fact that Charlie wanted to be a part of that. So she had to stop being a hormonal, desperate mess ready to jump him at the slightest touch—and the smoothest, hottest explanation of attraction she’d ever heard.

She cleared her throat, waving a hand in the air. “You slept with people you worked with? That’s kinda sleazy.”

“No,” he said evenly. “It was just an example.”

“It sounded real,” she said, realizing too late her voice wasn’t infused with disbelief. It sounded a heck of a lot closer to jealousy.
Oh, ew. No.

“The point is, you do something like swear it off, and the next thing you know, you’re doing just that.”

“But you said yourself, you’re a guy with plans and all that stuff. How can you say you wouldn’t be able to stick to a plan?”

“Sticking to a plan is all about being reasonable and realistic enough to know when a plan won’t work.”

“I’m not going to have sex with you just because I’m attracted to you.”

His mouth curved, a lazy, self-satisfied move that she should have hated. It should have made him seem smug or unattractive, but all she could do was smile back.

“Okay, I’m not going to sleep with you
again
, just because I’m attracted to you.”

“Which is wise. Though I think we need to be careful about ultimatums and the like. We should do our best to navigate our attraction in a reasonable, adult manner, with what’s best for Seedling always in the forefront of our minds.”

She had to work hard not to grimace. But he was right. It was the mature, rational thing to do. “Absolutely,” she forced herself to say with far more conviction than she felt.

“After this.”

And then Charlie Wainwright shocked her for the second time in their brief, if intimate, acquaintance. The first had been him even
being
at the Shack in the first place, and now the second was his hand—surprisingly strong and a little rough—curling around the back of her neck, pulling her forward.

Pausing only a second before he lowered his mouth to hers in a swift, easy,
swoonworthy
move. Any memories of their previous kisses were fuzzy at best, far-off things hazed by alcohol. This kiss felt hazed by
fire
. The way his hand moved up her neck to cup the back of her head, the way his mouth angled so his tongue could enter. She had to be aflame; it was the only possibility.

There was a tinge of frustration to his mouth, the inescapable heat of whatever attraction thrummed between them. Curiosity. Exploration, as his tongue met hers.

She melted into it. Inevitable. Yes, acting on this was some kind of inevitability. She lifted to her toes and twined her arms around his neck so she could press her body to his. So she could feel all the things she couldn’t quite remember about the night she’d been naked with him, had sex with him, made a
baby
with him.

Suddenly seconds, maybe minutes, after denying the prudence of the action, all she wanted to do was take him to bed. Or to the ground. Wherever would work. She wanted to know what it felt like to have him inside her. She wanted, desperately, to be reminded of what Charlie Wainwright looked and felt like naked.

She wanted to know where his hands would touch, where his lips would taste. She wanted to touch and taste herself. She wanted... She wanted...

He ended the kiss, pulling away slightly and keeping his grip on the back of her head so she couldn’t follow where his mouth went.

It took seconds to manage the wherewithal to open her eyes, to meet his gaze.
God.
She couldn’t catch her breath. Couldn’t quell the riotous response of her body. Maybe it was pregnancy hormones, because a
kiss
couldn’t light her on fire. Not like that. It couldn’t make her yearn with the fervor she’d once felt for addictive substances.

“I just needed to remember what it was like,” he said in that gravelly whisper that skated along all the most sensitive parts of her. “Because I couldn’t remember what you felt like, what you tasted like. It’s been driving me crazy.”

“And now you know,” she choked out. “So it won’t. Anymore.”

“And now I know. And wish I didn’t because I think it might haunt me.” He blew out a breath, his big hand still cupping the back of her head, fingers tangled in her hair. She didn’t want him to remove it. Not now, not soon. She wanted that warm weight there, feeling like some kind of anchor to the whirlwind of sensation in the rest of her body.

“Who
are
you, Meg Carmichael?” he muttered, his gaze burning into her.

She didn’t have a clue. Because every time she thought she figured it out, something flipped. Something broke. Something unexpected lit her up from the inside out.

“Probably a mistake,” she thought, except she realized too late it hadn’t just been a thought. She’d said it aloud. To him.

She closed her eyes, embarrassment washing over her, and she tried to step away. Escape the way his gaze had softened.

He didn’t need to see her soft, insecure underbelly. She needed to protect that, to hide it. She’d tried to eradicate it to no avail, so she’d learned to bury it under confidence she’d mostly felt, easy smiles and quirky jokes.

Goats.

“Meg.”

That soft, slightly confused pity in his voice scraped. Hell, it downright cut. “I need you to let me go, all right?” she said, her breathing still uneven, her eyes still shut tight.

His grip loosened and fell away, and she nearly swayed from being on her own two feet. Wasn’t that dangerous? To forget that was where she always had to be.

She forced herself to open her eyes, to look at him, to keep her chin up and her shoulders back.

Fake it, baby, fake it.

“If you really want to help out around here, you’re going to have to learn some new skills.”