Page 31 of Flights and Sights

He sat back and gave me a winning smile, clearly pleased. “That good, huh?”

I smirked. “It was okay.”

Paxton shoved my shoulder gently and chuckled. After another moment, I moved my hand to his thigh again, sliding my palm along his skin until my fingers were under the fabric of his shorts. He reached for me and kissed me again, quickly.

“You don’t have to,” he murmured.

“I want to touch you.” I squeezed his thigh and his breath hitched.

“I know, but—”

Before he could finish his sentence, the sound of children running caught my attention, and my stomach sank. I hadn’t been lying. I did want to touch him. I wanted to see him, to make him come unglued the way he’d done to me just a few moments ago, but the sound of the kids was like a bucket of cold water being poured over us.

He gave me another little smile and a quick kiss. “It’s fine.”

“Later,” I said quietly, my stomach fluttering at the promise.

Chapter 15 - Paxton

Monday, two days after Family Field Day, I found myself working the bar in the taproom, letting myself get distracted by thoughts of Cal, the pressure of his soft hands in my hair, the taste of him on my tongue, the way he sounded when he came. Not long after the kids had come indoors, so had the rest of the family, and soon enough, I had headed home. The following day I’d worked and we hadn’t had a chance to see each other and now, every cell in my body was aching to see him again. It was a quiet day and I was alone even though we’d been open for a couple of hours.

After a while, I settled on a barstool and turned on the TV that was mounted in the corner, passing the time by watching baseball. I was engrossed in the game when the door to the taproom opened. I reluctantly tore my gaze from the screen to see Cal coming in, and immediately my mood brightened.

“Hey,” I said as I turned the volume down.

Cal gave me a shy smile and made his way to the bar, placing a messenger bag on the stool next to him. “Hey.”

“How’s the ankle?”

“Better. Still hurts, but not nearly as much. I can walk pretty normally, at least.”

“Good.”

We were both quiet for a moment before Cal pulled out his laptop and placed it on the bar. “Well, I guess I’d better get to work. Those grant applications aren’t going to write themselves. Neither is this article.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

He shook his head, his dark hair falling across his forehead. I had the urge to brush it away for him. “I’ve got it under control.”

He worked quietly for a while, occasionally asking me a question about the meadery, my suppliers, and the property I wanted to buy, before going back to work, typing away. A few customers came in here and there, but the taproom remained mostly empty for a long time.

Around four, Cal glanced up at me from his laptop, not for the first time, but with a furrowed brow, his lips pressed together. “Well, that’s that one, I guess.”

I frowned. “What’s that one?”

“We just got a response from the first application I submitted. It was a no.”

I took a slow breath and nodded. “Well, it’s just the first one, right?”

“Right. Just the first one.”

I tried to ignore the sinking feeling in my chest and stomach. “Now what?”

“I keep applying. We’ll find something. Don’t worry.”

Instead of dwelling on it, I changed the subject. “How’s the article coming?”

“Almost done. I was just about to send it off.”