In the swelter of a Georgia summer, 1862, Caleb, a lanky college boy of nineteen, home from Athens, found his gaze tethered to Mrs. Lottie Harper, his neighbor’s wife. At forty-two, Lottie was a vision—sun-kissed curls spilling from her bonnet, her calico dress hugging curves that made Caleb’s books feel like kindling. Her husband, a Confederate quartermaster, was off in Virginia, leaving Lottie to tend their garden alone.
Caleb offered to fix her sagging fence, shirtless under the noon sun, his muscles flexing with each hammer swing. Lottie watched from her porch, fanning herself, her hazel eyes glinting like a forbidden peach. “You’re handy, Caleb,” she called, her voice molasses-slow, stirring him deeper than the July heat. She brought him lemonade, her fingers brushing his as she handed over the glass, her touch a spark in his veins.
By dusk, the fence stood firm, but Caleb’s resolve was crumbling. Lottie invited him inside, her parlor dim, scented with lavender and secrets. “Stay for supper,” she murmured, unpinning her hair, letting it cascade. His breath hitched as she leaned close, her neckline dipping, her scent dizzying. “Lottie, I—” he stammered, but her lips silenced him, soft and urgent, tasting of sweet tea and sin.
The settee creaked as she pulled him down, her hands deft, unbuttoning his trousers with a widow’s boldness. Caleb’s fingers fumbled her laces, her skin warm and yielding beneath. Their whispers mingled—his eager, hers commanding—in a rhythm older than the war outside. Moonlight draped them, her sighs a melody he’d never unlearn.
A horse clopped past, and Lottie froze, eyes wide. “Go,” she whispered, kissing him once more. Caleb slipped out, heart pounding, knowing he’d mend her fence again tomorrow—and damn the consequences.