“You didn’t let me finish,” he said, crunching the leaf in his hand. “Maybe next time you’ll wear the boots . . . and nothing else.”

His gaze burned into mine and I crushed my lips to his fiercely, my entire body going up in flames of lust.

He ended the kiss by wrenching his lips from mine, both of us breathing heavily. Emotions warred in his face: keep kissing me stupid in the mud, or clean me up? Chivalry triumphed over ribaldry.

“You still want to see my barn?” he asked, dipping his head down for one more kiss, sweeter this time but still white-hot.

I gulped. “I can say with all sincerity that I’m literally dying to see your barn.”

He laughed, slipped his arm around my shoulders, and took me and my muddy boots across the yard.

This man, this man right here, was going to be the death of me.

The barn truly was an engineering marvel. In an age of steel beams and corrugated metal siding, this thing was built to last. The outside was gorgeous of course, all that stacked fieldstone and cheery painted wood, and the inside was dim and cozy.

It was amazing that over two hundred years ago, someone took the time to design style into a building that was made for necessity. A turned post here, an embellished cornice there. Nothing fussy or fancy, but the workmanship that went into this structure was fascinating.

And it was huge! How it could also be cozy was beyond me, but even though there must have been fifty stalls set into the long side walls, each spread thickly with soft-looking hay and big enough for a cow to lie down, spread out, and even read the Sunday Times, the barn was segmented into several sections, making it feel less huge.

“And this is where all the cows sleep?”

“Not so much in the summer, but always in the winter.” He walked just behind me as I explored, running my fingers along the smooth beams and weathered wood. “When it’s nice out they like to be outdoors as much as possible, but when it snows? My girls like a warm bed.”

“Who doesn’t?” I murmured, looking back at him over my shoulder. “This original structure is incredible, and the repairs and additions look almost flawless—they blend beautifully.”

“Additions?” he said.

“Run your gaze along the ceiling, and you can see where the wood dovetails,” I said. “It’s a different wood—oak, likely—where the original part is chestnut. It’s really rare to find a barn made of chestnut.”

“It is?”

“Oh yeah. New York State, and eventually the entire country, was hit with a huge blight in the early 1900s that killed nearly all of the native chestnut. American chestnut is essentially nonexistent these days.”

“You don’t say,” he mused as he walked behind me. “And how does an advertising executive know about chestnut?”

“My dad’s in construction in the city, doing renovations. I lived on his job sites when I was a kid, practically grew up surrounded by architectural salvage. Some kids had dolls; I loved to line up staircase spindles like little toy soldiers. Except I couldn’t ever play with anything made out of chestnut. It’s so hard to find, people pay top dollar to have it added back into their brownstone.” I turned in a full circle, marveling once again at the detail, stopping when I caught his gaze.

“What?”

“You surprise me,” he said, his eyes sharp and assessing.

His expression unnerved me a little, almost as though he could see right through me, seeing more than I usually reveal. I changed the subject. “Do you know much about the family that built the barn?”

“A little. The previous owners told me some.” He shrugged. “And people in town love to talk about their shared history, so I’ve picked up some bits and pieces here and there.”

“They are a chatty bunch, aren’t they?” I laughed, thinking about how many people stopped by this morning over pancakes to talk to a “new face in town.” “You, however, not so much.”

“Nope.”

He grinned at me, a teasing expression on his face.

“Did you grow up here?”

“Nope.”

Hmmm. “Are we playing twenty questions?”

“I don’t play games.” He took a step. “At all.” He took another step.

“Games can be fun,” I answered, standing my ground. Dating was a game, sex was a game, life was a game, for those who looked at it that way. Make your own rules, try not to run over anyone on the board, or at least make them think they wanted to be run over when it happened.

“You sure talk a lot for a girl who only said oh and yes forty-eight hours ago.” He took another step. So did I. Toward him.

Aaaaand cue soundtrack: “Simple Things,” by Miguel.

“You make me nervous,” I admitted, naming the feeling that had taken root deep in my tummy. The butterflies, the racing pulse, the tingling in my fingers and toes.

“I do?”

“Mm-hmm.” I nodded, taking that last step to just in front of him, my toes nudging at his. Other feelings were beginning to take over. A slow warmth was starting to spread, moving those nervous tingles further through my body. “But right now you make me . . . other things.” And then I stepped forward again, driving him backward, step by step, into one of the stalls. His hands came up, and I mirrored his, like that game of shadows you played when you were a kid in dance class, except here our hands touched. Fingers tangled. I ran my thumb down the center of his palm, and I could see his breathing change. He lightly pinched the skin between my ring and pinky fingers, and why this made me shudder, I don’t know . . . but I did.

I moved forward again, and suddenly I’m in charge, and I’m running this crazy train, and he was up against the back of the stall, and I pressed into his body. On tiptoes, I opened his arms and wrapped them around me, closing them tight around my hips, the way I already knew he liked to hold me.

Did he always like to hold women this way, gripping tightly? Or was it just me? Did he like the control, or did he just love the feel of a woman under his fingertips? Did I feel different from most women he’d been with, with actual curves to hold on to? I breathed through another shuddery shiver as I imagined him holding on to those very curves, his hands tightening as he guided me up and down on his . . .

Time to stop imagining what he was like and actually enjoy it. Still on my toes, I leaned in, inhaling that autumnal scent that was concentrated in this lovely warm spot in the exact center of his throat, where I could see his pulse beating.