Slow Burn Cowboy. Maisey Yates

Чтение книги онлайн.

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      A DAY OFF was exactly what Lane needed to get her head on straight. She was tired, that was the thing. Overtired and emotionally taxed. It was why she had acted like such a weirdo last night when Finn had touched her.

      And why she had been persistently weird about it all the way home, and while she was trying to go to sleep.

      What he had said had continued to play over and over in her mind.

      When a woman spends the night with me, I don’t do any of that.

      She was a curious creature by nature, and his saying something like that forced her to try and imagine all the things he might do. Which had ended very quickly because the images she’d conjured had been awkward and strange and had left her stomach feeling tight and flipped inside out all at the same time.

      Normally, she did her best to never imagine Finn doing anything remotely sensual. He was a constant in her life. And he was a man, yes, and she wasn’t blind. But when she’d met Finn she’d been in such a terrible, vulnerable place, and he’d been the friend she’d needed. She’d spent the ensuing years resolutely keeping him in that category.

      It had taken Rebecca’s almost hooking up with Finn to jolt Lane into finally acknowledging that he was, indeed, a man.

      And then there was what he’d said last night. About what he did and didn’t do when a woman spent the night. It left a lot to the imagination. And her imagination was a bright and inquisitive thing.

      So today, she was doing her best to keep it dampened by puttering around in the garden. She had kept herself outside, and all forms of media shut off. No internet. No radio. No TV. No chance of upsetting images infiltrating her home.

      Being on the ground, up to her elbows in dirt, was much more satisfying than catching a glimpse of the Ghost of Teenage Mistakes Past on the news.

      Anyway, she had plenty to do. There was enough lettuce that she was going to have to bring it to the store if she had a hope of using it all. Picking and processing that, separating it out into individual plastic bags so it was ready for people to take home as premade salad mix, had eaten up a good portion of her time.

      Then she had gone to wander around in the thicker part of the woods around her property. Her knee-length lace dress kept getting snagged on sticker bushes, but she didn’t mind. She minded more when the raspberries and blackberries twined around her legs and left little teeth marks in her skin.

      But there were no prizes for timidity when it came to picking blackberries. The good ones were typically on the very top of the bushes, reaching up toward the sun. She hummed as she dropped the plump fruit into milk jugs she had cut the tops off.

      They made for handy berry buckets, and they were cheap and disposable so if the juice stained the inside it didn’t much matter.

      She didn’t mind the typically gray weather on the Oregon coast, but she very much prized the summertime. She closed her eyes, allowing the sun to bathe her in gentle warmth as she continued her work.

      The mild weather through the winter and slightly earlier warmth of the summer had ensured that the berries ripened a little bit earlier than usual. And she held out hope that even more would ripen between July and August.

      Little containers of the berries would fetch a decent price in the Mercantile, and anything extra would go to Alison, for pie and pastries and maybe for that jam she was thinking of asking Alison to supply her.

      She wondered if Cassie would want any for The Grind, for a kind of special scone or biscotti. The thought had Lane humming to herself, imagining all of the baked goods she could talk her friends into making for her.

      She liked her own baked goods too, of course. But sometimes things just tasted better when they were made for you.

      She bent, grabbing her half-full container of blackberries by the handle, then scooping up the one she’d managed to fill most of the way up with raspberries, as well. With her free hand, she held on to her dress, trying to keep it away from the sticker bushes as she picked her way back through the thick foliage until she got to the well-worn path that would take her back to her house.

      She paused for a moment in a clearing, allowing a shaft of sun to fall over her bare arms. She relaxed, holding the heavy buckets down low at her sides as she closed her eyes and tilted her face up. She listened then. To the birds, and the faint sound of the breeze ruffling through the treetops.

      She breathed in, that heady mixture of soil, wood and pine that was only headier in the damp forest as the temperatures rose.

      Then she heard the sound of car tires crunching on the gravel driveway that led to her house. She paused, frowning. СКАЧАТЬ