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“Yeah? You have something special planned?” he says, voice low and full of gravel. “Can I entice you to come inside and get dirty with me?”

I sit back again and meet his heated gaze. “I’m caked in dirt. You want to join me here?”

“Mm. Didn’t think you’d want to risk your pretty flowers, but I will gladly roll around in the garden with you.” He tosses his phone and keys to the side and drops to his knees, pushing me off balance. He pins me down and takes my mouth, licking inside and sucking on my tongue.

I hold my hands out to the sides, careful not to smear his white linen shirt with mud.

“Hummingbird, you okay?” He pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, concern pushing his brows low.

I nod, matching his concern with my own. “Why?”

“You’re not touching me. Did I scare you? Was I too aggressive?” He’s hovering over me, the angle just different enough that his face is no longer in shadow.

The only places he’s touching me are where his knees bracket mine and his hands cradling my head.

“I-I’m perfect. I just didn’t want to get you dirty.” I flick my gaze to my hand and then back to him. “Your shirt is so…so white.”

“All I want is to get dirty with you. The dirtier, the better.” He glances over my head, mapping the yard with his eyes, noting just how exposed we are in this moment. “But maybe we should take this inside. I don’t want the cameras picking up anything no one else should see.”

He plants his hands to the sides of my head and pushes up, hopping to his feet at the same time.

Before I can do much more than push up on my elbows, he reaches down and scoops me up, tossing me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“Put me down,” I screech, kicking my legs.

He wraps his arms around them, holding me tight while bounding across the yard. “Hold on, baby, I don’t want to hurt you.”

“But your shirt…”

“Fuck my shirt. I’ve plenty more.”

“B-but, they’re expensive. R-real l-l-linen.” The stuttering is strictly tied to the way I’m bouncing on the round of his shoulder.

Since we’ve sequestered ourselves away here, I haven’t fought with my words more than a handful of times. Teague calms me. Centers me.

Teague bounds up the stairs, and I have no choice but to hold on for my dear life. He slides me down his front so I feel every hard ridge of him as I go. He cages me in as he presses his palm to the door, allowing us access to the house.

I stumble through the doorway. Teague follows, slamming the door closed behind him, turning to hit the extra deadbolt as if anyone could get through his security system as it is. And of course, right in the center of his back, two brown splotches of mud mar the pristine white of his dress shirt.

I sink, curling into myself at the mess I made. More often than not, I don’t worry about upsetting Teague, he’s shown me over and over again that he’s not interested in that. But this time it hits me. And I can’t explain why…it just does.

“Oh, hummingbird, no.” Teague croons, soothing my rough edges. “No tears. Not over a scrap of fabric.” He pops the buttons at his cuffs and three at his neck and then reaches behind his head and pulls the shirt free from his body. Muscles ripple. Light dances in the shadows of each dip and valley, abs bunching, and shoulders rolling forward as he crouches down into my space.

I flinch.

His proximity isn’t the problem. There really isn’t a problem except I’m stuck in the nonsensical loop of dirt on a shirt.

We’ve spent so much time here, away from the world, tucked into our quiet and the simplicity of our new lives, that my freakout is kind of freaking me out.

Gentle hands guide me to the sink, lathering my hands and scrubbing the dirt away until the water runs clear. Once dry, Teague hold them together, between his palms.

The Celtic cross over his heart, frames my clasped hands and slowly, when my breaths are even again, and matching Teague’s in pace and depth, I relax. I let go of the last strains of panic and press a kiss to where his hands cover mine.

“I’m sorry,” I say, pausing to make sure my words don’t fuck me over again. “I don’t know what that was.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re good now, though?” He’s so steady, so staid and soothing.

I nod, a handful of tiny movements, and then tilt my face to his, gaze catching on the distinct pucker of derma film. “What happened? Turn around, Teague. Turn around, quick.” I pull my hands from his and push at him, trying to turn that big body with not an ounce of luck.