“Hot work,” he says. He puts his basket down and strips off his T-shirt.
“Yes.” There’s a still beat between us. Then, almost defiantly, I do the same. I’m standing there in my bra, inches from him, my skin pale and milky next to his.
“Have we done enough?” I gesture at the basket, but Nathaniel doesn’t even glance down.
“Not yet.”
His expression makes me damp and prickly behind my knees. I meet his eyes and it’s like we’re playing truth or dare.
“I couldn’t reach those ones.” I point at a high cluster of fruit just out of reach.
“I’ll help.” He leans over me, skin against skin, and I feel his mouth on my earlobe as he picks the fruit. My entire body responds. I can’t bear this; I need it to stop. And I need it not to stop.
But it goes on. We move up and down the rows like two perfo
