“What are you doing?” “I don't know,” he says, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them back up. “When it comes to you, Marnye Elizabeth Reed, I haven't the slightest idea. I thought you'd be a fast burn, fun way to pass the time …” He steps forward, that daffodil and leather polish smell of his tickling my nostrils. It's mixed with that fresh sweat scent that brings to mind all sorts of naughty things we could be doing in the dark. “Instead, you've become a slow burn obsession.” “An obsession, huh?” I whisper, finding it very hard to breathe in the dusky warmth of the barn.
