“Thanks, Shawn.”
“We’ll be heading home now. Ain’t nothing more we can do, and we’re beat.”
“Bye, Mr. Cameron,” said Owen, waving goodbye with a warm smile.
“Thanks for being here for Miss Margaret, Owen. She’s lucky to have you.”
Shawn gave him a curt wave and closed the window before rolling his pickup down the dirt road. Bypassing the tasting room and continuing directly to Margaret’s cottage, Cameron parked his car and shut his door as softly as possible.
He turned the front doorknob, shaking his head with annoyance to find it unlocked. Clearly they’d need to have another conversation about her safety. He locked and bolted it, slipped out of his shoes, and crossed the sitting room to the stairs. He took them two at a time, then tiptoed across her tiny room to stand beside her bed.
And only then did the stress of the past week, the emotional conversation at last night’s dinner, and the worry from her texts this morning fade away.
Her face, smudged with mud, was framed by a tangle of chestnut hair. She was undeniably lovely, and he was going to do whatever it took to deserve her because life without Margaret had been bleak and unfocused . . . and life with her was warm and good, productive and brilliant with hope.
Carefully he sat down in the C created by her body and gently smoothed the hair from her forehead.
She took a deep breath and sighed. Her eyes fluttered open for a moment, then closed again. But the way her lips tilted up told him that she’d seen his face.
“Cameron,” she murmured, half asleep. “You’re here.”
“I told you I was coming for you,” he whispered, leaning down to press his lips to her forehead. “Go back to sleep, baby. I’m here. I just wanted you to know that I came as soon as I could.”
“Are you okay?” she asked, eyes still closed, her voice thready.
“I’m better than okay. I’m with you.” He stroked her hair gently, forehead to crown, forehead to crown.
“Mmm,” she hummed. “That feels so nice.”
“I’m going to go downstairs and let you sleep.” He kissed her forehead.
“No,” she said, opening her eyes again. “No. Don’t go.”
“You need sleep, baby. Shawn said you did the work of three men.”
Tears sprang to her eyes, as if she’d just remembered what had happened last night. “We didn’t save them. The vines. We tried to cover them. I tried to pull others and replant them in pots, but . . .”
“Hey. Shh. Shh. We’ll buy more grapes. More vines. Whatever you need.”
“I . . . I don’t know if I can,” she said, and Cameron remembered that her trust fund wouldn’t be replenished until the New Year.
“If you can’t,” he said, tilting his head to the side, “I will.”
“Cam . . .”
He leaned down and kissed her forehead, her eyelids, each of her cheeks, her lips. A feather touch. The sealing of a promise.
“I will. You’re not alone.”
“Get in bed,” she whispered.
“You need sleep, baby.”
“Then we’ll sleep. But lie down with me. Stay,” she said, pulling at the covers.
Cameron knew that they wouldn’t be fooling around right now. No matter how much he wanted her, he wouldn’t allow it. She needed to rest. But he wanted to stay with her as much as she wanted him there, and though this wasn’t exactly how he pictured his first time in her bed, there was something perfect about it, even so.
He moved quietly to the other side of the bed and pulled back the covers to reveal her body in sweatpants and a T-shirt, her muddy feet dried and caking on crisp white sheets.
He slipped into bed beside her and pulled the covers over them because Margaret Story was no cold librarian goddess. She was hot-blooded and passionate, a woman who worked so hard that she fell into bed exhausted and without even bothering to scrub the earth from her feet. And for now, she belonged to him.
Pressing his front to her back, he gathered her in his arms and rested his face against the back of her neck, kissing her soft, warm skin before closing his eyes.
Here is my happiness.
Here is my heart.
Here is my heaven.
Matching his breathing to hers, he inhaled the sweet smell of the woman he’d always wanted, and in moments, they were both asleep.
Chapter 11
Her muscles ached. All of them.
Margaret rolled to her side, groaning and disoriented for a moment as she opened her eyes and focused on a folded note on her bedside table. It read, simply, Meggie, which made her smile because, besides her sisters, only one person in the world called her that.
She sat up, wincing at the burning protest from her abs, which had been used for six straight hours of repetitive, bending-over, backbreaking work last night.
She unfolded the note.
I didn’t want to wake you.
But if you’re reading this, I bet you’re hungry.
When you’re ready, come downstairs.
Cam