Not only on the hayseed, but in order to contain his words of love and devotion, the honey-laced poems he’d undoubtedly been creating in his mind ever since I had the nerve to blow into his town, his world, and make him change his mind about anything and everything he’d ever believed in. I had a sudden vision of being thrown down on a cushiony pillow of hay, one strand in his mouth as he lazily drove into me, his jaw tight and clenched. I wondered if my skin would slip against his, or would it create just enough friction to set fire to everything in between. He was glowing to be sure, his skin tanned a deep and outdoorsy bronze, slick with sweat and promise.
oh boy.” I walked farther in, sunbeams pouring through the space between the old barn boards, illuminating the golden strands of hay, making the entire space glow. Once more, with the stunning curve of his spine as it dipped toward the small of his back, each vertebrae carefully selected and placed into position by the hand of God, or at least someone with a sense of divine proportion. Once more, with the no shirt and the hot.
Once more, with the pitchfork and the awesome. Internally wincing at how terrible those names were, I poked my head around the corner carefully, not wanting to get hit with a mouthful of hay again. Pulling myself out of the car, I headed toward the barn, where I could hear the faint rustling of hay.
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