It’s a small mercy when my father’s tense back disappears into the darkness. He strides away from the forge, still muttering and bitter, and we both linger in the doorway and watch him go.

“Nice man,” Rhys murmurs after his sounds are finally soaked up by the night.

I sag against the doorway, grinning. I don’t think I’ve ever heard the blacksmith crack a joke.

“He has some good qualities.” Rhys stares down at me, thick eyebrows raised, so I add, “Deep, deep down. Way down. But he’s worried about his farm, that’s all. It’s all he’s got.”

Rhys huffs. “No, it’s not. If he thinks that, then he’s a bigger fool than I thought.”

Well… yeah. Hard to argue with that. And maybe it’s nuts, but now the tension has burst, I’m all giggly. This was one of the most unpleasant experiences of my life, and yet I feel like a helium balloon, about to bob around the ceiling.

I take the blacksmith’s hand and he lets me. Big fingers squeeze mine.

“Come on.” I tug, and he pulls the door closed behind us. “It seems you’ve stolen me, Rhys Evans. Time to have your wicked way.”

* * *

In a heartbreaking turn of events, the blacksmith does not bend me over his kitchen table and fuck the giggles clean out of me. I complain loudly about that fact, trailing him from room to room as he picks up our used mugs and sandwich plates and washes them in the kitchen sink; as he checks the forge and clears away his tools for the day; as he fetches a pillow and blanket and tosses them onto his living room sofa.

My stomach clenches when he does that. I guess some part of me thought I’d be welcome in the bed—but that’s presumptuous of me. Hell, Rhys didn’t even invite me here. I just turned up, and now he’s letting me stay. Taking me in like a stray cat.

“I could find a room in town,” I offer way too late. What was I thinking, just assuming I could crash here? Rhys Evans barely knows me, and my father’s right. At this rate, the man will be sick of me in record time. Burning my last bridge indeed.

“No,” Rhys says. That’s it: no.

“Then I’ll pay you for your trouble.”

The blacksmith rounds on me, glowering. “No.”

I wet my bottom lip. He’s lit a fire in the living room hearth, and the firelight flickers over his olive skin and glints in his dark beard. His black shirt cleaves to his huge biceps, his barrel chest, and the thick, muscled curve of his stomach, and I toy with the fabric of my skirt with a secret thrill when his eyes drop to track the movement. “This will make things harder for you in the valley.”

Rhys shrugs one giant shoulder. Still watching my skirt.

“I’m serious. You might lose business.” A horrible thought occurs to me. “You might have to leave.”