“I can’t believe you know how to make moonshine.”

Although after our conversation last night, I’m not sure anything should surprise me. Reese isn’t quite like anyone I know.

She reaches over and grabs a mason jar from a nearby shelf. “You’re surprised I can make moonshine? What’s more surprising is you don’t. This is the South.”

“I guess you’re right.”

She puts a mason jar under the tap to collect some of the liquid before it runs into the bigger bucket underneath. “Do you want to try some?”

“Sure.” I glance around. “Where did everyone go?”

“Granny’s probably got ’em cleaning out the coop at this point. She’s really taken a shine to Beast.”

“It is handy to have someone so big around.”

“Here.” She hands me the jar.

I take a sip and the burn is immediate and powerful and I feel it out through my toes. “Wow.”

“Takes some getting used to.”

I cough. “You drink this stuff?”

“Sure.” She takes a small swig and purses her lips, contemplating the taste. “Not too bad. She’s right about the pomegranate, makes it smoother.”

I grimace. “Smooth like rubbing alcohol. I don’t know how to feel about the fact you can hold moonshine better than I can.”

One side of her mouth tips up and my eyes are drawn to the motion. Her lips are wide and pink and still shiny from the moonshine.

She brushes her hair back, one ornery piece that keeps popping into her face. It immediately falls out again and I have to clench my hands to stop myself from reaching out to push it back for her.

“Are you embarrassed?” she asks.

“I don’t know. You saw me roll in pig poop. It doesn’t get much more embarrassing than that.”

She laughs, tipping her head back. “There may have been some excrement on myself as well. I’m not sure who should be more embarrassed.”

We share a smile, a sense of familiarity swelling between us like a fast-rising tide.

We’re standing so close, I can see a faint freckle below her dark-blue eyes.

It would be so easy to lean forward. See if the moonshine tastes any better coming from her lips.

Her eyes flick down to my mouth and then back up.

The silence stretches on between us, but instead of being our normal, animosity-fueled, quiet friction, another kind of tension reaches out and holds us in its grasp. Heat sinks into me as I imagine what it would be like, the press of her body against mine, the feel of her lips. What would she do if I moved close enough to taste, starting with her mouth, trailing down her neck and to the delicate line of her collarbone? I lean closer, searching her face for clues that she’s experiencing any of the same sensations. I can’t even control the motion.

Annabel’s voice rings out. “Hey, Fitz! Reese? You guys ’bout done? We need help with these seeds.” Her words bounce around the space and kill any and all sensation below the belt.