Tag Archives: writing

After more than a decade apart, Benjamin Kensington returns to his family estate—only to come face-to-face with the one man he never truly let go of. In this long-overdue reunion, old tensions and undeniable chemistry simmer beneath the surface as Benjamin and Deacon Langford meet again in the dusty confines of the Kensington barn. But with history between them as weathered as the estate itself, will they find common ground… or just reopen old wounds?

Read on for Chapter 3 of Making It Real, where the past and present collide in the most unexpected way.

The late afternoon sun stretched long golden fingers across the fields, the tall grass swaying like waves on a restless sea. The scent of honeysuckle and warm earth filled the air, wrapping around me in a way that felt almost too familiar. Too intimate.

I walked beside my mother, our steps crunching softly over the dirt path that led toward the barn. She talked a mile a minute, her voice light and lilting, as if I’d only been gone a few months instead of more than a decade.

“I just can’t tell you how pleased I am to have you back, Benji,” she said, looping her arm through mine. “Even if it’s just for a little while.”

I gave her a sideways glance. “You make it sound like I was lost at sea.”

“Well, weren’t you? New York, all that hustle and bustle—Lord knows I don’t understand how anyone could live in a city like that.” She patted my arm. “I always knew you’d come home, though. Kensington men always do.”

I swallowed. She hadn’t asked me about my being fired, and I wasn’t ready to talk about it. Not yet.

Instead, I let her chatter on about the latest local news—the Hansons’ dog finally had her puppies, some new bakery had opened up on Route 33, and Lord help us all, Lucille Montgomery had been in three car accidents over the past year. Mom wondered when they’d take her license away.

I nodded along, but my attention was elsewhere.

For the first time, I really looked at my mother.

She was still the formidable Maggie Kensington, with her perfectly styled hair and that air of effortless Southern charm, but there were new lines around her eyes, a certain tiredness in the way she moved. When had she started looking… older?

Something uneasy settled in my chest. Maybe it really was time to come home.

Not permanently, of course. Just long enough to make sure she was okay.

We rounded the bend, and the barn came into view.

I nearly stopped in my tracks.

The old place looked like hell.

The once-bright red paint had long since faded to a tired, splintered gray. The roof sagged in places, and I didn’t even want to think about the condition of the inside.

Mom let out a sigh, shaking her head. “Lord, it needs work.”

That was putting it mildly.

She gave me a sideways glance. “You remember how beautiful it used to be?”

I did. I remembered everything.

Sneaking in here as kids, building forts in the loft, whispering secrets in the dark. And later—much later—stealing away to this very barn in the heat of summer, pressing Deacon against the rough wooden beams, feeling the solid strength of him beneath my hands, tasting sweat and salt and something sweeter than anything New York had ever offered me.

I swallowed hard.

Deacon.

Jesus. What if I saw him while I was here?

Would he still hate me? Probably.

I deserved it.

I’d spent years trying not to think about how I’d treated him. The cruel words I’d said. About the way I’d tried to shape him into someone he wasn’t, someone who would fit neatly into the polished future I’d imagined for myself.

But he’d been right.

He wasn’t meant for skyscrapers and boardrooms. His destiny was this land, the fields, and the sun on his skin.

And God help me, I’d never felt as safe, as seen, as whole as I had when I was with him.

Mom gave my arm a little squeeze. “Come on, let’s look inside.”

I took a breath and followed her into the dim interior, expecting dust and disrepair.

What I wasn’t expecting was him.

Deacon stood in the middle of the barn, shirt in hand, his tanned skin gleaming with a light sheen of sweat. He looked like something out of a damned painting, the afternoon sun cutting through the slats in golden beams, lighting him up like a statue of a god—earthy and strong, carved from muscle and memory.

My breath caught in my throat.

Deacon’s eyes locked onto mine, and for a moment, time folded in on itself.

I wasn’t Benjamin Kensington, the man who’d clawed his way up the corporate ladder. I wasn’t the guy who had just lost everything.

I was eighteen again.

I was standing in this barn, my hands buried in Deacon’s hair, my lips pressed to his, the world outside falling away.

Heat crawled up my neck, and I realized, with no small amount of horror, that I was blushing.

Mom clapped her hands together, oblivious to the tension that had sucked all the air out of the barn.

“Well, now! Isn’t this just perfect?” she said, beaming between us. “The two of you, back together, just like old times.”

Not exactly, Mother.

She turned to me with a wide smile. “You know, Deacon’s been helping me out around here for years. I was just saying how much this place needs work—wouldn’t it be wonderful if you two worked on it together? Just imagine it, Benji! The two of you, bringing the estate back to its former glory.”

Her voice was light, hopeful.

Deacon’s face was unreadable.

And me?

I was wondering how the hell I was supposed to survive this.

Mom kept talking, her voice bright with excitement, but I wasn’t listening.

I couldn’t.

Deacon’s gaze locked onto mine, and for the life of me, I couldn’t look away.

Those eyes—icy blue, sharp as ever, even in the hazy light filtering through the barn. When we were younger, I used to swear they could see right through me, past all the charm and bravado, straight to the things I didn’t dare admit.

Now?

Now they held me in place like a snare.

The golden shafts of afternoon light caught the flush creeping up his chest, dusting across his neck before settling high on his cheeks. He turned away first, and I exhaled, realizing I’d been holding my breath.

Was that embarrassment? Or something else?

Did he still hate me?

Or had seeing me again hit him just as hard as it had hit me?

“Benji, did you hear me?” Mom’s voice pulled me back, her perfectly manicured hands gesturing around the barn. “I said we need to find a way to make this place profitable again.”

“Hmm?” I asked, still too caught up in Deacon’s presence to register the question.

Deacon shifted, rolling his shoulders, then cleared his throat.

“It’s good to see you, Benjamin.” His voice was low, rough around the edges, like he hadn’t spoken much today. Maybe he hadn’t.

That flush from before deepened across his throat, and something tightened low in my stomach.

I opened my mouth, but before I could respond, Mom jumped in again.

“Benji, I asked how we can make Kensington House profitable. Property taxes are going up, but there’s next to no revenue coming in.”

I blinked at her, barely processing the question. My mind was still stuck on Deacon, on the way his voice had brushed against my skin like a whisper of a touch.

Mom huffed, impatience creeping into her tone.

“Well?”

I rubbed my temples, sighing. “Maybe we’d be better off selling it to someone who actually cares about it.”

The words had barely left my mouth before I realized my mistake.

Mom’s eyebrows shot skyward. Deacon frowned, jaw tightening as his eyes darkened.

The air in the barn shifted.

Mom placed a hand on her hip. “Benjamin Kensington, I cannot believe you just said that.”

“Mom—”

“This land has been in our family for generations.” She waved an arm toward the open barn doors. “Do you have any idea how much history is here? Your grandfather, your great-grandfather, every ancestor before them—they worked this land, they built this home, and you think selling it is the answer?”

I sighed again, this time heavier. “I’m just saying—”

“No.”

The word came from Deacon.

I turned toward him, surprised by the sharp edge in his tone.

“You never change,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You never gave a damn about this place. Benjamin, you’re lucky to have it, and you can’t even see that.”

A prickle of irritation worked its way up my spine.

“That’s not fair,” I said, leveling him with a look. “It’s easy for you to say that. You stayed.”

“Yeah,” Deacon said, eyes flashing. “I did.”

The weight of what he wasn’t saying settled between us.

I left home and never looked back.

Until now.

I sighed, trying to smooth things over. “Look, I didn’t mean—”

“Enough of that,” Mom interrupted, waving a hand as if physically dismissing the tension. “I asked you here to talk about solutions, not start up old arguments.”

Deacon exhaled through his nose, but kept quiet.

Mom turned to him, a hopeful smile on her face. “Deacon, I’d like to hire you to work on the estate. We can start with the barn—it needs more work than anything.”

Deacon’s posture relaxed slightly, his gaze shifting toward the exposed beams above us.

She continued, “And another thing—what about all that old farm equipment we don’t use? I was thinking we could sell some of it.”

Deacon finally turned, his eyes scanning the far corner of the barn. My gaze followed his, landing on a hulking piece of rust-covered machinery. I didn’t know what it was, but I could tell by the look on his face that he did.

Slowly, he faced Mom again, and for the first time since we’d walked in, he smiled.

A genuine smile.

Soft. Familiar. The kind that made my stomach tighten for reasons I didn’t want to think about.

Instead of answering immediately, he walked over to the piece of equipment, running a hand along the corroded metal. Then he turned back to Mom.

“How about this?” he said. “Instead of paying me money, I’ll work in exchange for some of this old equipment.”

Mom’s face lit up. “That’s a fine idea! Lord knows we don’t need half the things stored in this barn.”

“Deal,” Deacon said, giving her a small nod.

Mother clasped her hands together, positively beaming. “Oh, Deacon, this is just wonderful! With your help, we’ll have this place looking like it should again.”

Deacon gave her a small nod, but his expression was careful, guarded. His fingers trailed along the rusted edge of the old farm equipment, his focus seemingly on anything but me.

Then Mother turned in my direction, her keen eyes narrowing.

“And you,” she said, pointing a manicured finger in my direction. “You’re going to help.”

I blinked. “What?”

“You heard me, Benji. Deacon can’t do all this by himself.”

Deacon shifted beside me. I caught the way his throat worked as he swallowed, a fresh blush creeping up his neck. He hesitated before muttering, “Let Benjamin handle the business side of things. I can take care of—”

“Oh, nonsense,” Mother interrupted, waving off his protest. “Benji needs to get his hands dirty again. He needs to understand how lucky he is to have this place.”

I exhaled through my nose, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. “Mom—”

She wasn’t finished. “And besides, I remember how happy you boys used to be, working out here together.”

My stomach twisted at that.

She stepped away from us, walking toward the hulking old tractor in the corner. It was ancient, covered in dust and rust, but I could still picture it as it once was—faded red, chugging along the fields under the hot Virginia sun.

Mother ran her fingers over the worn metal, then turned back with a smile. “I’ll never forget the sight of you two on this thing. Deacon, bush hogging the pastures, Benji perched behind you, hanging on for dear life.” She laughed, a soft, nostalgic sound. “You two had the best time, always laughing.”

Deacon’s shoulders tensed, and for the briefest moment, something flickered in his expression—something tight and unreadable.

I swallowed, suddenly too aware of how still the barn had become. The only sounds were the faint creak of the rafters and the distant chirping of cicadas.

Then, just as quickly as it came, whatever crossed Deacon’s mind disappeared behind a careful mask. His lips twitched into a small, tight smile.

“I’ll do whatever you want, Miss Maggie.”

A strange feeling settled in my chest—something close to relief.

Deacon grabbed his shirt from where it had been hanging, shaking out the fabric before pulling it over his head. The sweat on his skin made it cling to his torso for a moment, outlining the shape of him before he tugged it into place.

I should’ve looked away.

But I didn’t.

“Benji?” Mother’s voice jolted me from my thoughts. “Are you going to pitch in too?”

---

Making It Real publishes on February 26, 2025. It is available for a discounted preorder price of 2.99 for the ebook, and on release day the price goes up to 3.99, so lock in the lower price now by preordering the book from your favorite online retailer. It’s available on Amazon, Apple Books, Google Play, Kobo, Nook, and Smashwords.