Dinner and a Deep Dive
LAINEY
This.
Fucking.
Man.
First Colton shows up looking like he walked straight out of a Kevin Costner movie. He’s wearing a brown cowboy hat, one that’s spotless and a little fancier than his regular hats.
I’ve never seen him wear it before. Makes me think he saves it for special occasions.
Since when am I a special occasion?
My heart stopped working sometime around the moment when I took in his crisp white button-up. First few buttons undone. Not a wrinkle in sight.
He ironed it. Clearly took his time to make sure it was perfect. Because the man is going out with me.
I know this sounds stupid—or maybe just pathetic—but that makes me feel special.
I’m not sure anyone’s made me feel that way before. Like I’m worth the effort and time it took to look the way he does. Especially when it’s time Colton doesn’t have. He’s a single parent with—hell, not even a full-time job. It’s more of a calling. A legacy he’s been tasked to carry since birth.
But he still made time for me.
Two minutes into this date, and I’m done. Stick a fork in me.
Don’t get me started on the Wranglers. Lord have mercy on my sinful soul, but they are a sight to behold. They fit him just right, molding to his hips and thick thighs in a way that makes my brain short-circuit.
Now he’s nuzzling my neck, his scruff catching on my skin. Electricity bolts through my veins, gathering in a coiled weight deep in my core.
I press my body to his because I have to. I can’t not go up on my toes to wrap my arms around his neck. I can’t not sigh when he drops his hat on the couch so he can cup my ass with both hands.
He went there.
He groans, pressing me harder against him. “You feel so fucking good, honey.”
“You smell so fucking good.” Like fresh air and the woods and something earthier. Sexier.
I want him. Now. All night. Fuck the Rattler. Fuck dinner.
We can have each other for a meal.
“No,” he husks out.
I laugh. “No what?”
“I know what you’re thinking, Dallas, ’cause I’m thinking it too. We’re not gonna skip our date so we can just stay here and…yeah. First, I feed you. Then I fuck you.”
My toes curl inside my boots. “Who said I was gonna let you fuck me?”
“I did. Imma learn to do it just how you like.” He runs his nose up the column of my throat. “Which means you let me take you out first. You’re gonna need a square meal and lots of strength for what I got planned for you.”
I nip at his jaw, digging my hands into the hair at his nape. “Sounds strenuous.”
“Told you I was workin’ on my stamina.”
His accent gets thicker when he flirts. It’s cute. And hot. And I want him so badly right now I feel like I’m coming out of my skin.
But I somehow manage to let him go when he puts his hands on my hips and looks at me.
“We’ll see about that,” I say. “Dinner sounds good. The rest sounds…better.”
I find everything about Colton sexy. Even the way he lopes down the stairs, holding the door open for me with a smile that makes my heart hiccup. His pickup truck gleams in the dying light. Climbing inside, I smell something lemony.
I freeze, seat belt in my hand. “You didn’t.”
“What? Clean my truck?” He starts the ignition. “Dean helped. Someone’s gotta teach him that a clean truck exponentially increases your chances of getting laid.”
Colton’s profile is so handsome—the dramatic swoop of his hat, the sharp line of his jaw, the protrusion of his Adam’s apple—that it makes my stomach hurt.
“You’re not wrong.”
He laughs, using the heel of his left hand to turn the steering wheel. “How do you feel about the Homestead Hen for dinner?”
“I love that place. Yes, let’s do it.”
Now that he’s backed out of the driveway and the truck is in drive, he turns his head to look at me. “You gonna order the most expensive thing on the menu because you’re fancy like that?”
“I’m going to order the most expensive thing on the menu because the filet is the best I’ve ever had. Also, I pay for my own meals, thank you very much.”
He reaches across the center console to pat my bare thigh. “You’re cute.”
“I mean it.”
He keeps his hand on my leg. “Maybe when you’re with losers in Fort Worth you do. But when you’re with me?” He shakes his head, all cowboy cockiness as he drapes his other wrist over the top of the steering wheel. “You ain’t payin’.”
Okay.
Okay okay okay.
The almost painfully pleasurable tingle that moves through me at his insistence that he’ll pay, take charge, fuck me well—does fessing up to that make me a bad feminist?
I sincerely hope not. Because I love everything about this date so far.
In the back of my mind, I know I should be worried when Colton holds open the Homestead Hen’s door for me.
I should be very worried when he shakes the host’s hand and the host pulls back to find a fifty-dollar bill in his palm.
“But you already made a reservation,” the man says.
Colton shrugs. “Kinda wanted to make sure we got the best table. You know, the one—”
“In the bar. Yes. Right this way.”
We’re led to the sexiest, coziest leather booth imaginable. It’s shaped in a circle around a cute little table set with candles and more fancy crystal glasses than I can count.
“I thought we were going to a honky-tonk.” I look down at my very short dress and very conspicuous cowboy boots.
Colton puts his hand on the small of my back. “We are. Later. You see anybody else in here dressed up? You got nothing to worry about, Lainey. You look great.”
And you’re really great at this dating thing for someone who claims to never get out.
It hits me as we order cocktails and a “double dip” appetizer, consisting of guacamole and spicy pimento cheese plus homemade tortilla chips, that I may be in my mid-twenties but I’ve never felt like I’ve been on a real adult date before.
One where I’m sitting at a nice table in a nice restaurant with a really nice guy.
Until now.
Colton drinks his whiskey straight. Me, I prefer the Homestead Hen’s fabulous whiskey sour, which I ordered the last time I was here when I met Mollie and Cash. As usual, the one the bartender shakes up for me is pure perfection, tart and strong and just the slightest bit sweet.
“So,” I say.
Colton spreads his knees so that ours touch underneath the table. “So.”
“I suddenly forget how to do this dating thing.”
“I never knew how to do it.”
“What was the last date you went on?”
Sipping his whiskey, he sucks on his teeth. “Last real date? It had to be with my wife. Six years ago? Five?”
My stomach drops. Not because him talking about her is a turn-off but because he’s once again going there. I may not know Colton well, but I know he doesn’t open up. Like, at all.
But here he is, opening up.
I should be very, very scared at this point. Of wanting him too much. Of falling too fast. I’ve been down that road before, the one where I end up in love with someone who doesn’t love me back.
Not doing that again.
Only I find myself leaning in. Sipping my whiskey. Pressing my leg against his.
“That’s a long time,” I say.
His eyes flick to meet mine, his brows curved slightly upward. Almost like he’s asking me a question.
Asking me if I’m ready to hear what he’s about to say.
“You can tell me.” I pat his thigh. “Or not. But I promise I won’t make it weird. Your story is your story.”
“Even if it’s a fucked-up story?”
“Especially if it’s a fucked-up story. The more you air that shit out, the less it hurts.” I shrug. “At least that’s what one of the counselors in college told me anyway.”
He does his squinty thing, eyes narrowing on my face. His focus on me is…intense. Arousing.
Bewildering.
“You were in counseling?” he asks at last.
“College was an intense place for me.” I swirl my cocktail, the ice clinking pleasantly against the glass.
“I always put a lot of pressure on myself to do well, but being around other overachievers kind of ramped that up to an absurd degree. And my mom…she wasn’t doing great then.
I think being alone with my dad and brothers—without me there to help, I mean—really hit her hard. ”
He picks up his whiskey. “Ah. So once you flew the nest, she realized just how much she relied on you and probably missed you like crazy. And you probably realized how you felt so much freer because you weren’t taking care of her and everyone else anymore.”
I let out a chuckle. “Since when are you an expert in firstborn problems?”
“Literally since the day I was born.” He taps his glass to mine. “To this being a firstborn safe space. May we learn to not be so hard on ourselves, together.”
Goddamn you, cowboy. I like you. So much.
“I’ll toast to that,” I manage. “How do we learn said lesson?”
“Sex helps. Or so I hear. And actually talking about shit with someone who pushes you a little. Or a lot.”
His eyes look crystal clear, the gray-green flecks in his irises refracting the light of the candles in a way that makes them shimmer.
“I wanna forgive Billie,” he says. “But I don’t know how. Can you push me to do that?”
My heart floats as I laugh. I love when he confides in me. Tells me what he’s thinking. Feeling.
What he wants.
“You said you were jealous,” I reply after a beat.
“I wonder—I mean, if you’re anything like me, you’re constantly telling yourself no.
No, you can’t do this. No, you can’t have that, because it’s too much to ask for.
Billie said yes to Ryder—to love—and I think that really hurt you.
Not only because they snuck around behind your back but because you feel like you’re not allowed to have what she has. ”
He looks down at his glass, swirling the liquid. “You’re not wrong.”
“So say yes yourself more often. Even when it seems impossible or stupid or selfish. Easier said than done for a single dad—”
“Well, yeah.”
“But it’s hard to be happy for people when you’re not happy yourself. I see that in my mom. Saying yes more often—I think that’s an important component of being happy.”
He looks up. His gaze is piercing. “You’re good at this. Listening. Giving advice.” He grins. “Testing limits.”