“Wanting you makes it hard to ignore that I’ve been lonely. That maybe I need more than fourteen hours a day of hard labor and a bed in the bunkhouse. I need you in my bed. In my kitchen…” I snorted. My mother would stage a feminist intervention if she could hear that. Griff shook his head. “That came out wrong. But every time I see you in my kitchen you look happy as a clam. You smile, and you get this look on your face like you’re in the zone. It’s nice. Makes me want to throw you over my shoulder and haul you away with me.”
