Chapter 50

His laugh is deep and infectious, lighting up his eyes, and revealing the small lines around his face from years of laughing and being in the sun.

“With that Yankee accent? I don’t think so.”

I bring my hands to my hips. “What’s wrong with my accent?”

“Nothin’,” he says with a grin. “It’s very precise.”

“Well, sooorrry,” I say drawing out my vowels. I fan myself dramatically. “It’s hot as tarnation out here. Ain’t ya got a winda open?”

He rolls his eyes at me, but I see the corner of his mouth twitch and know he wants to laugh.

“Now you’re just bein’ an ass. Just for that, I think your first chore will be horse shit.” He walks past me to grab a shovel and calls over his shoulder, “And for the record, ain’t is a perfectly acceptable word. If Lord Byron could use it, then so can I.”

I watch as he walks away, taking in the sight of his languid, unhurried movements, the way his back muscles move with every step and swing of his arms, and the way his jeans accentuate the perfection of his