Not the Rebound Guy by Abby Knox (best classic romance novels txt) 📕

I take a moment while he corrals Gertie and get busy picking strawberries.

Turns out, he was right. By the time he’s returned from the small barn in the back of his house, my pretty sandals are caked with mud.

Chapter Six

Garrett

That was the sexiest kiss I’ve ever experienced in my life.

I don’t even care that I’m the rebound. I don’t care how recently her heart’s been broken because that heart, those lips, that cute little butt of hers—they belong with me now.

I don’t want anyone else’s lips for the rest of my life. I’m done.

When we finish with the berries—about an hour after Eliza has given up those sandals and put on the rubber boots—she takes the wagon up to the house. I head over to my homestead to check on things. I’ve got one mama goat—Gertie’s sister—who’s probably going to give birth in the next week or so, and a few dozen baby chicks who will hatch around the same time. I feed and water all the mammas in the barn, and then check on the bees.

When I open the hive, the familiar, happy aroma greets me like none other. The workers are dutifully tending to the eggs, making room for more and building the comb.

“There’s no way I’d be sharing that ass with a thousand other drones. I don’t know how you fellas handle that, emotionally.”

Yes, I talk to my bees. And yes, random people have caught me having a chat with the little guys. Do I think I might be a little bit of a town weirdo? Possibly. Do I sort of enjoy that identifier? Also possibly.

When I’m finished seeing to my animals, I head over to my house and have a quick chat with the contractor. The things that are swirling around in my head are completely ridiculous. I can’t ask Eliza to stay and give up her life in New York. But if I want happiness in my life, I need to have the room to welcome it.

I track down the contractor in the kitchen where the drywall is being hung and tell him what I want. We make a plan to meet sometime next week and discuss expanding the project.

I’m not sure yet where the money is going to come from, but I know when it’s finished, I’ll have a bigger bedroom, an en suite bathroom, and an office for a queen and all her planners. It’s outrageous, I know. But my mind is made up.

I’m lost in thought as I return to the berry patch, harvesting still more and wondering where my new sidekick is.

“Hey, boss! Your ho, reporting for duty!”

I spin around, my cheeks flushed, my entire body soaked with sweat. The sun is getting hotter, and Eliza has changed into some tight, ripped-up cutoffs, rubber boots, a pair of garden gloves, and a straw hat to protect her head from the sun. She’s changed from her tee-shirt into a midriff red checked shirt with a print that reminds me of a picnic blanket and all the good things I like to eat outdoors. Her hair is tucked up under the hat except for a few tendrils that hang down, teasing the skin of her shoulders and neck, and she’s carrying a garden hoe. I might pass out. She went inside to change into proper work gear. She stepped outside, wielding a garden hoe, looking like a farmers-daughter porno fantasy.

Yeah, I’m not sure how much work is getting done today.

Stop thinking about porn, dude. It’s gotta be written all over your face.

She smiles, her glossy pink lips rewarding me with the knowledge that I helped to put that smile on her face this morning.

“You won’t need that hoe for this part.”

She shrugs and drops the implement. “I know. But why pass up the chance to make a hoe joke?”

I nod. “Would be a shame.”

The sound of Liza laughing grips my heart so hard I could pass out from happiness. It’s a gentle sound like a garden fountain or a wooden wind chime. God, I really need to spend less time outside; the sun is getting to me.

She sets off to pick berries the next aisle over, and I spend the rest of the morning wondering how I can maneuver a legitimate excuse to work closer to her.

“Look,” I say, sidling up and spotting a deep red berry where she’s working. I push aside some leaves, squatting on the ground.

“Sometimes you gotta move the leaves out of the way to spot a really juicy, ripe one,” I say. I pluck the small but deep red berry and hold it out to her. “These are the best ones.”

“It’s so small,” she says. “Easy to miss.”

I brazenly hold it out to her close to her lips. “You wouldn’t want to miss this, though. Try it.”

She parts her lips and, with no wariness whatsoever, takes the small berry, and it falls from the leaves and drops into her mouth. “Oops!” She exclaims through a mouthful of berry, covering her lips with her hand. Her lips brush against the tip of my thumb. My cock has grown so hard since she waltzed out here in that midriff top that I might tent in my jeans. And jeans are a difficult thing for a dick to tent. Heavy fabric, thick and constricting.

“Wow,” she breathes. “You’re right. That’s delicious. Grams’ strawberry jam is the best, but I haven’t been out here picking stuff out of her garden in years. Not since I was a kid. This brings me back. I used to take my little red radio flyer out here, and I would spend all day out here with Grams. Picking green beans, rhubarb, zucchini. God, so much zucchini.”

“Not to brag,” I say. “She has a lot of zucchini, but mine are bigger.”

Eliza laughs. And I realize what I’ve just said.

“Oh man, that’s not—“

“Yes it is! Are you a grower and not a shower, Garrett?”

I remove my cap and wipe my