“Hold still,” I mutter.

Those pink canvas shoes seem like a safe place to start. There’s no way she can manage those fiddly double knotted laces with her bandaged hands, and it gives me a chance to kneel down and hide my face while I get my head on straight.

I tug the first loop undone, frowning at the tight knot. Does she always lock ‘em up like Fort Knox? The pale canvas is stained with soil, and there’s no way she’ll ever get these sneakers bright again. I should’ve found her an old pair of Harry’s boots or something.

“At least this way I get to shower,” Josie says somewhere above me as I tease another loop undone. I squeeze my eyes shut tight. “I’m pretty stinky.”

Focus. Just focus.

Her ankle is slender in my grip as I lift her leg. A forearm balances on my shoulder as she kicks one pink shoe off and lets me peel off her dusty sock.

“Whew,” she says, her bare foot landing on the rug. Her pale toes wiggle. “That feels really good.”

“Harry’s coming tomorrow.” Need to remind us both, because this feels… different. Dangerous. “If you still need help then, he’ll be around too.”

“Oh. Right,” Josie says, and then I’m tearing at the last knot in her shoe laces like it wronged me. I’m vicious. No, I’m pissed off, even though I’m the one who said it.

Don’t want Harry dressing or undressing her. Don’t want him seeing anything private about Josie Martin. Even if they did all that stuff before, back when they were dating, she’s not his any longer, and she’s a grown woman now.

Don’t want him near her at all.

Fuck.

“You still gonna sleep in my barn?” When I raise my head, her stomach is at eye level. I can see the dip of her belly button beneath the fabric of her tight green top.

Her shorts button pops open easily. My breaths are heavy.

“Yeah,” Josie says.

Good. That’s good.

We’re closer than we need to be when I tug her zipper down, the scratch of metal extra loud in the silent kitchen. You could hear a hairpin drop in here.

“Everett,” she whispers, and then I’m leaning forward, caving into the impulses I’ve been fighting for days. I press my face against her belly—not down between her legs like I want to, my mouth seeking out her damp heat, but still invading her space where I shouldn’t.

Her belly is soft at first, then toned underneath when I nudge harder. I breathe her in as fingertips brush my temples.

“We can’t,” I mutter, my words muffled by her shirt.

Josie exhales. “I know.”

And when I lean back and hook my fingers in her waistband, tugging her denim shorts over her thighs, I swear I shave ten years off my lifespan. My only saving grace, my only remaining point of pride, is that I leave her lilac panties be.

My knees crack as I push to my feet. Josie raises her arms, and I swallow hard.