Please, Sir (Bluebell Bruisers #1)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

Three Months Ago

Dirt and dust rise up, engulfing Leah’s white BMV as she shifts into park. Peering through the windshield, I survey the scene; two homes separated by just a few hundred yards, and behind them, miles and miles of green pasture. “We’re here?”

Leah pops open a metal tin full of mints, offering me one. “We are here,” she announces with a sigh, plopping a wintergreen Altoid onto her tongue. “There’s a parking lot around the back of that house, behind that barn,” she says, wiggling her long french manicured nail in front of me. I follow her finger to a barn, and glean a few cars tucked behind it off in the distance.

“Why didn’t we park there?” I question, slipping my feet back into my uncomfortable espadrilles. They’re adorable, with classic esparto rope wedges, and the most charming buttery yellow and white polka dot fabric pattern. Perfect for summer, perfect for the white pintuck sundress I have on, and perfect for a first impression. But the devil made these sandals, and you cannot convince me otherwise.

Tying them off one ankle at a time, I’m careful to make sure the tied bow detail is perfect. After all, the bow is part of the reason why I’m willing to tango with Satan for three hours wearing these–it’s so cute.

“I don’t like parking where everyone else does. It never fails, some parent catches me when I’m ten paces from the car, and has a huge story they need to tell me about how the education system isn’t helping little Timmy or Sandy.”

I arch a brow. “Little Timmy?”

She waves a hand down between us before fishing in her bag for lipstick. “You get what I’m saying. Every time I leave one of these things with a box of fudge and a quart of milk with nothing but plans to wear sweats, binge The Bachelor and shove my face full, someone manages to stop me. And I’ll tell you what, I have three episodes of The Bachelor waiting and Dolores made rocky road fudge today. I’m getting my me-time, damnit.” She rolls up the tube of rouge and drags it over her lips. “And if Hudson asks, I’ll blame it on you. I’ll say you’re new and didn't know where to park.”

“Gee, thanks,” I tell her, unclipping my seatbelt. After running my fingers through my hair and checking my teeth and nostrils in the flip down mirror one last time, Leah and I finally get out of the car.

“So the whole town really comes to this thing?” I ask as we head toward the quaint farmers market on the other side of the house. “And Hudson, he’s the guy who runs it?”

Leah lets me take her arm as I navigate the gravel ground in my wedges. “Yeah, Hudson runs it. He moved here some ten years ago maybe? Anyway, you came from Willowdale, you know small towns love farmers markets. He really does a good job making people want to come, and stay. Before he moved here, Bluebell wasn’t as tight as it is now. His farmers market has been one of the greatest things for our town.”

I’m not looking to date, but I’m not looking not to date either. “Hudson, huh?” I waggle my brows as we traipse along, hitting the edge of the grass only after my espadrilles take the brunt of the dirt. I pause, lifting one ankle to swipe at the fabric.

Leah catches me by the arm before I lose my balance and show Bluebell my undies. “Don’t even joke,” she warns, her voice suddenly serious. I met Leah only two years ago, when she came to Willowdale for a district meeting. I helped her take her stuff to the car, and after seeing the Outlander decal on her back window, we’ve been friends ever since. Yet I’ve never seen her face go stern so quickly, or heard her voice pitch into despair like this. “Riley, I’m serious, do not even joke about thinking Hudson is handsome or cute or anything. ” She slices her hand down like a guillotine with serious finality.

With her supporting my bodyweight, I take the opportunity to dust off the other sandal, relieved to see the dirt comes off pretty well. “I guess this is why country people wear boots, hmm?” I say as I flick the last bit of gravel from the esparto detail .

“Don’t change the subject. Tell me you understand,” Leah says, taking me by the shoulders, pinning me to the lawn with her intense gaze. Actually, it’s not as much of an intense gaze as it is an absolutely terrifying eye-mauling stare.

I put my hands on hers, gripping me. “Leah, I don’t even know what the man looks like. I was just kind of joking, okay?”

Her eyes search mine, and it’s then my gaze drops to her chest, where I notice she’s breathing hard. My brows scrunch. “Leah, what is happening right now? You are being… I’m concerned.”

“I’m concerned for you if you don’t stop that talk right this second,” Leah whispers, her words a paranoid hiss. “Hudson is married, you got it?”

I tip my head to the side and bring my hands to my hips, shirking hers off of me. “Do you really think I’d mess with a married man? I’m a little offended.”

Leah runs her hands through her hair, adjusting her purse on her shoulder, still planted in the grass. I nod toward the white tents. “No Hudson, Jesus, I got it. Now are we gonna go?”

She glances toward the distant commotion under the tents and looks back at me. “His wife is very possessive, very… territorial. And no, I don’t think you’d date a married man or even have a crush on one but what I’m saying is, avoid being anything but barely friendly with Hudson. At all costs.”

Leah loops her arm through mine and we trudge toward the tents, all while I promise to barely tip my head at this Hudson guy. To be honest, I didn’t really care much before but now I’m dying to meet him and this possessive wife of his.

The nearer we get, the scene fills in. Around us are how ya been s and how’s your moms , gracious laughter and light music, with kids racing between the legs of grown ups. People are everywhere, smiling and happy as a soft breeze moves through the trees, making them sway and dance, keeping the end of the fall heat away. Gravel crunches, a balloon pops, and somewhere, a baby cries. The commotion bleeds into every inch of the market, and I fall in love with the town right then and there.

Being a part of a family-like community is something I’ve found myself longing for in recent months. Having people know you, support you, love you, and are happy to see you? Maybe that’s more than some people want from townspeople, but that’s what I want. That’s what I need . Leah was right–Bluebell really will be a good fit for me if this market is any representation of the town.

“I love it here,” I breathe out, my words riding a dreamy sigh as I slowly absorb it all, from the adorable weathered woman running the fudge stand, to the little girls doing sand art at a booth near the churros. Families drift from table to table, old women chat, men laugh, there’s cider and beer stands, and so much going on.

But everyone, no matter what, is wearing a smile.

I like that. I need that.

“It’s pretty great,” Leah says, just as a tall, strong man wearing a faded cowboy hat and filthy blue jeans saunters up. He tugs the hat off his head, revealing a mess of sweaty chestnut hair and fishing a large, dirt-laden hand through it before dipping his head in greeting to Leah and myself.

“Leah, good to see you. This must be Miss Rivers? The new addition to the Bruiser crew.” He smiles, gorgeous and toothy, his dark beard likely hiding a perfectly chiseled jaw. Leah introduces me right as my eyes fall to his neck, taking in large purplish-pink circles on his throat that disappear below the hem of his t-shirt. Hickies . This man is covered in hickies and… are those teeth marks? My Lord in Heaven, those are teeth marks.

Leah clears her throat because I’ve likely missed my cue. I stick out my hand. “Riley Rivers, nice to meet you.”

The man slips his hand in mine, hot and strong. The shake breaks when a little boy and girl run full stop into his legs, wrapping their arms around him. The little girl, whose white fuzzy hair is in a cute little ponytail with a pink ribbon, reaches for his pocket, whining “up, Dada, up!”

He grabs them both, sliding the boy onto his back before putting the girl on his hip. He smiles, returning his focus to me. “Hudson Gray, nice to meet you Riley.”

When he says his name, Leah clears her throat and my eyes immediately go back to his neck, riddled with last night’s passion. “Hudson, I’ve heard your market is really part of what makes Bluebell so special.”

“My dad is the greatest,” the little boy says, peering around his dad’s head, Hudson’s hat wobbly on his son’s head.

“I’m Honey,” the girl states proudly, smiling to expose a mouth full of baby teeth, chocolate at the corners of her lips.

“Well, I’m honored Leah reflects on it in such high regard. I love the market. My wife and I run it together, so I can’t take all the credit.” He lowers the kids to the ground gently, plucking his hat from the boy’s head. “Bear, take Honey to see Aunt Ivy.” He crouches, kissing the little girl on the nose. “Weren’t you fixin’ to get your honey pot tattoo today? Bear’s gonna take you, then it’s time for your nap.”

Honey leaps, and the boy takes her by the hand sweetly, leading her off.

“Temporary,” Hudson says, placing his hat on his head. “My sister-in-law is a tattoo artist and she gives all the kids fun, temporary tattoos at the market. Sets up a booth like it's real, makes them sign a consent form, all of it. The kids love it.”

“Just another thing about this farmers market that makes it so special,” Leah says, using her professional voice. “Well, I’m gonna take Miss Rivers around to meet some more folks.”

Hudson dips his head and smiles, and I’m almost scared to look too long after Leah’s warning and the sight of his neck. “Nice to meet you, Miss Rivers.”

“You too,” I tell him, just as another group of people approach. Leah launches me into yet another introduction.

“Riley, this is Coach McAllister, the varsity football coach. Coach McAllister, this is Miss Rivers, the new health teacher and JV cheer coach,” Leah says, waving her hand from one of us to the other to make the introduction.

Coach McAllister stands at least two feet taller than me, I swear. He tugs his hat off his head, revealing a damp tangle of reddish blonde hair. He drags the back of his wrist over the perspiration on his forehead before extending his hand to me. “Nice to meet you, Miss Riley.” We shake hands, and while I’m expecting a sexist jab about the way cheerleaders are simply frivolous distractions to the main event—football—I’m pleasantly surprised at what Coach McAllister says next.

“Those girls work hard, real hard. I’m glad to see Ms. Campbell found a coach. The hunt’s been goin’ on for a couple of years, hasn’t it?” Hooking one thumb in his belt loop, hat pinched in his other hand held over his heart, he smiles.

Leah strokes her hand down her arm before swatting a fly away. “Yeah, I think Layla’s been coaching varsity and JV for the last few years. But good things take time,” she beams, slipping her arm through mine. “I hate to cut it short, Coach, but Mr. Cunningham is right over there and,” she jiggles our linked arms a bit. “I need to introduce them. ”

Coach McAllister places his hat on his head before stroking his pointer finger and thumb along his thick mustache, smiling. “Great to meet you, Miss Riley,” he beams, and then I’m being drug off to meet Mr. Cunningham… and about fifty other people.

By the time I’ve met Mr. Cunningham, who is the only other health teacher at Bluebell High, there’s a small circle of people forming around us, waiting to be introduced. My shoes are adorable, but I realize these people aren’t coming for my smile and espadrilles—the fact is, I’m new on staff. Acting interested in me is also about putting on a good face for their principal. But after each person leaves, I start to reflect, these folks are all pretty genuine.

An hour and a half later, I can hardly remember Leah’s name as I tell her I need to use the restroom and sneak away from the tented area. Is there a restroom? The commotion fades as I walk lightly through the lawn, toward the barn adjacent to the market. I don’t need a restroom, I only need a sliver of privacy for a minute or two. Five at the most.

Meeting so many people at once–while processing the fact that… I don’t live in Willowdale anymore–it’s a lot. I don’t identify as an anxious person usually, but right now, with my hands shaky and my chest tight, I am beyond anxious.

I’m overwhelmed by everything. I don’t know why it didn’t hit me when I got my rental home key. Or when I signed the paperwork with Leah on site. Or when I drove past the “now leaving Willowdale” sign. Why did the reality that my life is starting over at age twenty-four decide to crash into me today, when I’m becoming acquainted with my new life? I don’t know, but as I drag myself around the edges of the barn and sink my back against the sun-soaked wooden wall, I’m just happy to get a moment alone.

My eyes fall closed as I fan my fingers out along the barn wall, feeling each jagged groove and waiting splinter. Warmth pours over my face and I tip my chin to the sky, hungry for more private warmth and peace. My toes poking from my fancy sandals tingle as the sun finds them, too.

It’s only overwhelming because you’re facing it all at once , I tell myself, breathing in through my nose, then exhaling slowly, hoping the sense of overwhelming change leaves my body with my breath.

“You alright?” A low, gruff voice makes my eyes fly open, and I clutch my collarbone in surprise. I blink to my left, in the direction of the husky voice, and have to raise my hand to shield my eyes from the sun. A few more blinks and my vision settles on a tall, strapping man–a cowboy, because Bluebell breeds them exclusively. He's wearing worn leather boots, faded and filthy blue jeans, and a green and black tartan flannel tucked in, revealing an ornate leather belt and a wide silver buckle. A few buttons at the top are undone, exposing sleek skin and a striation of muscle between his pecs. His large, sweat-stained cowboy hat hides his hair, but the ends poke out, loose, wild, like he’d been working and tossed the hat on without a thought. The hairs are dark, somewhere between espresso and light roast. The rim of his hat shades his eyes, but the longer I assess him, the clearer his face becomes—despite the sun’s best efforts.

His strong jaw tells me he’s been too busy for a razor for a few days. Lips pressing together in a flat line with eyes set on me, he doesn’t give off friendly energy, but he does ask me if I’m okay. His eyes, some intoxicating blend of sea moss and chestnuts, smoulder beneath his hat, and, for whatever reason, staring into them makes my pulse skip.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” I breathe, still lost in his eyes. A splinter sinks into my palm while using my hand to stand steady against the barn, the other still shielding my face. I jump back and bring my hand to my chest, cursing beneath my breath, whispering, “splinter.”

He closes the distance between us, and I’m not sure where to look, so I look at his belt. Truth is, I’d love to stare into his eyes but I can’t risk that this man is like Hudson, and that some Bluebell wife is gonna come punch my lights out if I look at him too long.

“I like your belt,” I tell him awkwardly as the scent of his aftershave drifts my way. He grunts an “mm” in response, knocking his hat back a few inches with a curled knuckle. His gorgeous eyes find mine.

“Want me to get it?” he offers. My nipples think he’s talking directly to them, apparently, and though the sun is beating down on me, they noticeably harden.

“Get… what?” I ask around the sudden cramp of shyness that has taken up residence in my chest.

“Your splinter,” he repeats, motioning for my hand. I stick it out for him to assess, and watch as his eyes roam over my skin. A bead of sweat curves around and down his neck, rolling toward his chest. I watch it until it swims beneath the V of open fabric, and look up to find hot cowboy watching me.

“Um,” I start, but I can’t come up with a lie on my feet, and with his big hands holding mine, my brain isn’t quite working right. “I was–”

He doesn’t seem to care that I was looking, or at the very least, he lets me off the hook. He brings my palm to his mouth, pressing his lips into my hand. His teeth are gentle against my skin, and his cheeks hollow a moment before he pulls back, spitting off into the lawn. With a tug, he brings his hat back down, then says, “there.”

I look at my palm, at the tiny pinpoint of red where the splinter existed moments ago. He sucked it out? And then spit it out?

And for some reason, I’m finding that extremely hot?

Am I a slut in Bluebell?

“Thank you,” I croak. Then it occurs to me that this hunk in a hat is hiding out back here, too. And honestly, I’d probably talk about back handsprings and stunt groups if I thought it would earn me a few more minutes with him.

“Who are you—what are you hiding from out here?” I ask, my eyes veering down to the ornate belt again. He notices, but waits for my eyes to return to his. Him watching me makes my heart thump madly in my chest, making me a little light headed.

“I was here with someone who no longer wanted to be here with me,” he says, and I get the impression that this man just spoke more to me in that sentence than he does most days. A man of few words is sexy as all hell.

Wait– “someone was here, with you , and decided there was somewhere else they’d rather be?” A woman left him here? I cannot imagine how hot the other guy must be, Jesus. I don’t think I’d leave this man’s side if he was on fire. He looks down at his boots, unknowingly giving me the opportunity to really check out the span of his shoulders, the strength in his chest, and the way his thighs put those jeans to the test.

He looks up, staring into my eyes for a quiet moment before he nods to my hand. “Clean it out when you get home.” He slaps it, his large palm heavy against mine, making the bones in my hand ache slightly. I like the ache, the dull flare of pain, the new sensations. “Keep pressure on it and it’ll feel better.” Without another word, he disappears around the barn. I peek around and watch as he filters back into the market crowd.

I look down at my palm, and close my eyes, heat flaring between my legs at the memory of his mouth on my skin.

I’m here for a fresh start. To teach health and coach cheerleading.

But my eyes pop open, still watching my mystery splinterslapping savior, and the only thing that has my focus? His ass .