Page 34 of All For You

He looked out over the green meadows beating with butterflies. “You’re looking at this all wrong, mate. It’s not a competition. Enjoy yourself—you’re on holiday. The sun is shining, and you’re in beautiful countryside with your dog and nice people. One person, in particular, seems special.” He gave me a sly smirk.

Was I that obvious? I stared back at him with a fake, puzzled look, like I didn’t know who he was talking about.

“Take a break from being in charge,” he said. “From trying to control everything.Let it go.”

Let it go. That annoying earworm song that I’d heard at the clubhouse invaded my brain. He smirked again, obviously knowing he’d zapped that bloody tune into my consciousness.

“Thank you, Harry. You’re wise and a good picker of soccer clubs. And a good teacher aboutthe power of love.”

He groaned, clearly at how I’d insinuated an earworm song back at him. He hoisted the camera onto his shoulder. “Could you walk ahead of me? I need to start filming.”

He hummed that earworm song, as though knowing it would torture me, and I gave him a dirty look as I strode ahead.

Warmed by the hot sun overhead, I felt something in me loosen and ease, and for the first time this weekend, I felt unguarded. Maybe it was Max bouncing around with Oodles too, maybe seeing Lizzy ahead striding out in her shorts, laughing with Emma, whose gingham all-in-one arrangement was so impractical to be engaging. I felt hope. For what, I wasn’t sure.

We reached a mown field, hay bales scattered in circles. In the middle, a bearded man in overalls holding a pitchfork stood beside a huge truck, two dogs at his feet.

“Hello, my name is Jimbo. I’m the farmer,” he said, petting our two dogs, and we each introduced ourselves. “Thanks forcoming over. This is not a made-up activity for the cameras. I actually do need you. My automated hay baler is on the blink, and those TV producers were here all last week bothering me about odd jobs I could torture you with. Their words.” He grinned, and the cameraman sucked in a breath. Jimbo went on. “Clearly, this is a match made in heaven. And I’m sure you’re thrilled to help me out.”

I threw back my head and laughed. The others stared at me, surprised. Hell, was I that much of a drag?

“Two of you are in the field throwing up the bales of hay, the other two are on the back of the truck, stacking. You decide.”

I stepped forward, my mind ticking over, ready to make the decisions and allocate jobs. Beside me, Harry cleared his throat. Instead, I shrugged. “You guys decide.”

I couldn’t help but feel a bit of a boost from Harry’s proud little nod and smile. Now I needed to keep my mouth shut and do the work and bloody well enjoy it.

The women decided it would be more fun to be up on the truck, but both jobs turned out to be brutal. Within minutes, we were all grunting, groaning, and sweating bullets with the back-breaking work. Straw scratched my hands and legs as I grabbed a hay bale and tossed it up to Lizzy and Emma. How was I going to keep this up? After a couple of turns around the paddock, swinging, tugging, and shoving, the four of us were finally working together in a rhythm, and it felt great. I might have even had the time to catch the odd glimpse of Lizzy in action. Those shapely legs of hers lunging for the next hay bale, that?—

Argh.I was suddenly flat on my arse, the dull pain throbbing slightly.

Someone had tripped me from behind.

I looked up. Harry smiled down at me.The power of love, he mouthed. I smiled—he’d done me a favor. Millions at homewatching did not get to see me blatantly ogling Lizzy. Or maybe it was to seem more vulnerable and approachable? A win?

CHAPTER 18

Lizzy

“Iactually do something like this with my trainer,” Emma said, heaving between throws. “Turns out the real deal is much harder. Wait for Darcy to take off his shirt—that’ll be a cinematic moment.”

I pushed her playfully and rolled my eyes. One more round of the field and the two men were saturated with sweat, dripping, but Darcy didn’t take off his shirt. That tracked. He was private, and he hardly knew us. Or maybe he didn’t have a good chest and abs. Yes, that was probably it. And anyway, heshouldsweat. We were doing the hay baling because he’d lied to us about his cooking skills.

I was knee-deep in irritation, muttering under my breath about him, when he stopped, grabbed the hem of his shirt, and casually lifted it up to wipe his face.

Every one of my grumbles died a dramatic death.

Because…hello, abs.

Not “fit guy” abs.Cutabs. Sculpted like he moonlighted as a Greek statue. And a defined V-cut with the trail of hair disappearing into his low-slung athletic shorts. I swear I heard a choir. My brain…rebooted.

Oh no.

Ohno,no, no.

Because then—then—he lifted his shirt higher to use another piece of the fabric.

Full chest view. Broad, defined, completely unnecessary in the best way. He could have used his sleeve like he did before, but his pecs flexed like they knew exactly what they were doing, which felt rude, honestly. My concentration packed its bags and left. My dignity followed.