Chapter 5 - Aaron
She might think I'm an idiot for taking her to a steakhouse on our first real outing together—first date, my brain supplies unhelpfully—but if she does, she doesn't say anything. Her face is neutral as we pull up in front of The Broken Spoke, Cedar Falls' idea of fine dining, which is about as fancy as my Sunday boots.
What she doesn't know is that I have other plans.
I check my watch discreetly as I turn off the engine. Vincent should have had plenty of time by now. I'd called him while Elena was freshening up before we left, and to his credit, he didn't ask too many questions—just said "I got you" in that way of his that made him my go-to brother since we were kids.
"Is this it?" Elena asks, looking at the restaurant with its wooden facade and neon beer signs glowing in the windows.
"Not exactly," I reply, feeling a flutter of nervousness in my gut that I haven't felt since my first deployment. "I have something else in mind, if you're up for it."
She raises an eyebrow, curious but not alarmed. "Something else?"
"Trust me?" I ask the question, feeling weightier than it should.
She stares at me for a moment, then nods. "Lead the way."
I guide her past the steakhouse and around the corner to where Vincent's truck is parked, exactly where I asked him to leave it. Through the window, I can see he's done everything I requested—and then some. Charlotte's influence, no doubt.
"We're not eating at the restaurant?" Elena asks, confusion clear in her voice.
"Nope," I say, feeling suddenly self-conscious about my plan. "I thought maybe a picnic would be better. Somewhere quiet where we can talk without an audience."
Her eyes widen slightly in surprise, then light up with something that might be pleasure. "A picnic?"
I open the passenger door of Vincent's truck to reveal a large wicker basket, a couple of thermoses, and a folded blanket. "I know a spot just outside town. It's got a view of the hills and the sunset."
Elena's smile is genuine. "This is lovely, Aaron. Much nicer than a noisy restaurant."
"I wasn't sure if you'd like it."
"I love it," she says.
I drive us out of town, taking the winding road that leads to my favorite spot on Cedar Falls—a hilltop clearing that overlooks the valley, far enough from the main ranch that we won't be disturbed.
The late-afternoon sun streams through the window, catching the dark strands of her hair and highlighting the contours of her face as she watches the landscape roll by. She's beautiful in a quiet, dignified way that seems to perfectly match her personality—no flashy makeup or affected gestures, just a natural elegance that makes me aware of my rugged hands and the dust perpetually ground into my boots.
When we reach the clearing, I park so the truck is facing the valley. The sun is beginning its descent, painting the hills in shades of gold and amber, the sky a canvas of pink and lavender.
Elena steps out of the truck, her eyes wide as she takes in the view.
"It's breathtaking," she says softly.
I busy myself getting the picnic supplies, trying not to notice how the breeze plays with her hair or how the sunset light warms her skin. She's a woman I barely know in person, yet through our correspondence, I feel like I've known her for years. It's a confusing contradiction.
We spread the blanket on the grass, and I unpack the basket—Vincent and Charlotte have outdone themselves. There's a selection of cheeses, fresh bread, grilled chicken, a pasta salad, and even chocolate-covered strawberries. One thermos contains coffee, the other red wine.
"Your brother thought of everything," Elena comments as I pour her a small cup of wine.
"It was probably Charlotte," I admit. "Vincent's idea of romance is remembering to put the toilet seat down."
She laughs, a sound I'm quickly coming to enjoy.
We settle on the blanket, and I'm struck by how natural this feels—sitting with her as the sun sets, sharing a meal away from prying eyes and questions. She sits with her legs tucked beneath her, somehow managing to look elegant even on a picnic blanket in the middle of nowhere.
"Is this part of your land?" she asks, sampling a piece of cheese.
"Not really. Covington Ranch extends about two miles in that direction," I say, pointing west. "This spot is technically very close to our property, but still far enough from the ranch, if that makes sense. I come here when I need some space."
"And you're sharing it with me," she observes, her eyes meeting mine.
"Seems right somehow."
As we eat, the conversation flows easily between us again, just as it did in her room earlier, as she now talks about her past as a teacher.
"The students in Berlin were terrible at first," Elena says, gesturing with a piece of bread. "Fourteen-year-olds who thought they knew everything and resented having a foreign teacher."
"How'd you win them over?" I ask, genuinely curious.
She smiles, remembering. "I stopped trying to be their friend and started challenging them. One boy, Anton, was the worst—always disrupting class. So I assigned a debate where he had to argue in English for something he passionately disagreed with."
"Bet that went over well."
"He was furious," she laughs. "But he worked harder on that assignment than anything else all year. After that, the whole dynamic shifted." She pauses, looking out at the darkening landscape. "It made me realize what I really want to do someday."
"What's that?" I ask, taking a bite of chicken.
"I want to open my own language school," she says, her voice growing animated. "Not just English, but a place that teaches multiple languages. Something to help people adjust while preserving their cultural identity. A bridge between worlds."
"That sounds amazing," I say, genuinely impressed. "You've thought a lot about this."
She nods. "It's been my dream for years." Her eyes meet mine briefly before looking away.
"Why haven't you done it yet?" I ask.
She shrugs slightly. "Many reasons. Money, for one. Fear of failure. And I suppose I was waiting to find somewhere that felt permanent."
I understand that feeling more than I can express.
"The horses helped with that for me," I say, "After everything with the PTSD, they gave me something solid to hang onto."
"How so?" she asks.
"They need consistency," I explain. "Regular feeding, grooming, exercise. On my worst days, when I couldn't do it for myself, I'd do it for them. Get up, go through the motions." I pause. "They saved me in ways my therapist couldn't."
"You saw a therapist?" There's no judgment in her voice, just interest.
"VA made me," I admit with a small smile. "Jackson drove me to every appointment for six months. Said if I was stubborn enough to survive Iraq, I was stubborn enough to survive therapy."
Elena laughs softly. "He sounds like a good brother."
"The best," I agree. "Even if he's going to interrogate you like a hostile witness the first chance he gets."
She smiles, unfazed. "I can handle it. I handled fourteen German teenagers, remember?"
I smile.
As the sun dips below the horizon and stars begin to appear in the darkening sky, I watch Elena's profile in the fading light. Her curvy figure is softly outlined against the twilight, and the urge to reach out and touch her is almost overwhelming. I want to trace the line of her jaw, tuck that strand of hair behind her ear, pull her close, and discover if her lips are as soft as they look.
But I know I can't. Not yet. We may have an arrangement, but that doesn't change the fact that we've only just met in person. This isn't some whirlwind romance; it's the careful foundation of something we hope will last.
So instead, I refill her wine cup and point out the first evening star appearing above us.
"Make a wish," I say quietly.
"I already did," she replies, and the soft certainty in her voice makes me wonder what exactly she wished for.
"You're a fast wisher," I say, leaning back on my elbows to look up at the darkening sky.
"Some wishes don't require much thought," she answers. "They're already in your heart."
The unexpected poetry of her words catches me off guard. There's a depth to Elena that continues to surprise me—layers that our video calls barely hinted at.
"You'll do well here," I tell her. "We appreciate people who say what they mean."
She glances at me with a small smile. "Is that what I'm doing?"
"Isn't it?"
She doesn't answer, just takes a sip of her wine, her eyes reflecting the emerging stars above us.
We sit in comfortable silence for a while, watching as the sky transforms from deep blue to inky black, sprinkled with stars that seem impossibly bright out here, away from town lights. The night air grows cooler, and I notice Elena pulling her cardigan closer around her shoulders.
"Cold?" I ask.
"A little," she admits. "I didn't expect the temperature to drop so quickly."
I reach behind us to the truck bed and pull out an old flannel jacket I keep there.
"Here," I say, offering it to her. "It's not fancy, but it's warm."
She takes it with a grateful smile and slips it on. The jacket engulfs her, the sleeves hanging well past her fingertips, but somehow she makes it look good. There's something about seeing her in my clothes that stirs something primitive in me, something I try to push down.
"Better?" I ask, my voice gruffer than I intended.
She nods, pulling the collar close to her face. "It smells like you," she says softly, then looks embarrassed, as if she hadn't meant to say it aloud.
"Is that a good thing?"
Her eyes meet mine. "Yes."
I clear my throat, suddenly unsure what to do with my hands.
"There's Orion," I say, pointing up at the constellation. "My dad taught us all the major stars. Said a cowboy needed to know them in case he got lost."
"Did you ever get lost?" she asks, following my gesture.
"Once," I admit. "I was twelve, thought I knew everything. Took my horse out farther than I was supposed to go, and by the time I realized I should head back, it was getting dark. I panicked at first, but then I remembered what Dad taught us about finding north using the stars."
"Were your parents worried?"
"Frantic," I say with a rueful smile. "Dad was ready to call in the whole county for a search party, but Mom insisted on waiting another hour. She said I'd find my way home." I look up at the stars again. "She was right."
"Your mother sounds like a wise woman."
"She was," I say softly. "You would have liked her. She had no patience for bullshit, but an endless supply for people who were genuine."
"Like you," Elena observes.
I shrug. "I try to be."
"It's one of the things that drew me to you," she admits. "There was no pretense, no game-playing. Just honesty."
"Even when the honesty wasn't particularly charming?" I ask, thinking of how I'd laid out my issues pretty clearly from the start.
"Especially then," she says. "Charm is easy. Honesty is rare."
I find myself shifting closer to her on the blanket. "Is that why you agreed to this? My brutal honesty?"
She considers this. "Partly. And partly because I recognized something in you that I understand—the desire for something real, even if the path to it is... unconventional."
"A mail-order bride," I say, testing the phrase between us for the first time in person.
She doesn't flinch. "Yes. Though I prefer to think of it as an arranged marriage of our own making. Two adults choosing compatibility and shared goals over fleeting passion."
"You don't think there can be both?" I ask, suddenly very aware of how close we're sitting, of the faint scent of her perfume mingling with the night air.
Her eyes meet mine, steady and thoughtful. "I think passion without foundation burns out quickly. But a solid foundation... it can support anything that might grow upon it."
The way she says it, with such quiet certainty, makes my heart beat faster. This woman, who crossed an ocean based on our written agreement, has more courage than many soldiers I've known.
"You're remarkable," I tell her, the words escaping before I can censor them.
The compliment seems to surprise her. "I'm just practical."
"No," I say, shaking my head. "There's nothing 'just' about you, Elena."
A strand of her hair has fallen across her cheek, and without thinking, I reach out to brush it back. My fingers graze her skin, soft and cool in the night air. She doesn't pull away.
My hand lingers, cupping her cheek gently.
"I should probably get you back to the ranch," I say, though I make no move to leave.
"Probably," she agrees, her eyes not leaving mine.
Neither of us moves. The night seems to hold its breath around us.
"Elena," I say softly. "I know this isn't part of our agreement yet, but I'd very much like to kiss you right now."
Her lips part slightly in surprise, but she doesn't back away. "I thought we were building a foundation first."
"We are," I assure her, my thumb tracing her cheekbone. "But sometimes... sometimes you need to test the materials."
A small smile curves her lips. "Is that a construction metaphor?"
"Terrible, isn't it?" I admit, returning her smile.
"Awful," she agrees, but she's leaning closer.
"So," I whisper, our faces now inches apart. "May I?"
She doesn't reply with words. Instead, Elena leans forward, closing the distance between us, and presses her lips to mine. She tastes like wine and something else, probably jasmine.
For a moment, I'm frozen in surprise—this wasn't how I expected it to happen. But then instinct takes over, and I'm kissing her back, one hand still cupping her face, the other finding her waist to draw her closer.
The kiss deepens, her lips parting beneath mine, and I feel something I haven't experienced in years—desire, yes, but also a kind of exhilaration that I'd forgotten was possible. Her hand moves to my shoulder, then to the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair.
I have no idea if I'm doing this right. It's been so long since I've kissed someone, since my calloused hands have touched a woman's body. Too long spent alone, too many nights convincing myself I didn't need this kind of connection.
But Elena doesn't seem to mind my rustiness. She makes a soft sound against my mouth that sends heat coursing through me, and suddenly we're fully making out like teenagers, there on the picnic blanket under the stars.
I shift us, guiding her gently back until she's lying on the blanket and I'm leaning over her, still kissing her as if we might never get another chance. Her body is soft beneath mine, her curves fitting against my harder edges in ways that make it difficult to think clearly.
My hand slides down her side, feeling the shape of her through the layers of my jacket and her dress. She arches slightly into the touch, and I feel a groan build in my throat.
Suddenly, Elena pulls back, breaking the kiss. Her breathing is as ragged as mine, her lips slightly swollen, her eyes wide and dark in the starlight.
"I'm embarrassed to say this," she whispers, her accent more pronounced in her breathlessness, "but I need to be honest. I'm... I'm too... aroused right now. If you don't stop, I won't either."
Her forthrightness startles a laugh out of me—not mocking but delighted. Even in this, she's direct, practical.
"You're something else, you know that?" I tell her, brushing my thumb across her lower lip.
"Is that good or bad?" she asks, looking genuinely uncertain.
"Good," I assure her. "Definitely good. I love your honesty."
Relief flashes across her face, followed by something more heated as my hand moves back to her waist.
"We should probably slow down," I say, though my body is screaming the opposite, my cock straining against my briefs.
Elena nods, but her hands remain on my shoulders. "Probably."
Neither of us moves to create distance. Instead, I find myself leaning down to kiss her again, softer this time but no less intense. My hand slides to the hem of her dress, fingers grazing the bare skin of her thigh. Her sharp intake of breath emboldens me.
Nervously, I begin to fidget with the bottom of her dress, unsure if I'm pushing too far, too fast. My fingers, used to ropes and reins and rifle triggers, feel clumsy against the delicate fabric.
She breaks the kiss again.
"Aaron," she says softly, placing her hand over mine. "What are we doing?"
It's a fair question. One I don't have a good answer for.
"I don't know," I admit. "This wasn't... I didn't bring you here for this."
She smiles slightly. "I believe you."
"But I'd be lying if I said I didn't want it," I continue, needing her to understand. "I want you."
"I want you too," she whispers, and her accent wraps around the words like silk. "I know this is fast, but—"
I silence her with another kiss, passionate this time, letting her feel exactly how much I want her. Her arms encircle my neck, pulling me closer.
"Are you sure?" I ask against her lips, needing to hear it clearly.
"Yes," she breathes. "Under the stars like this... it feels right."
My jacket has already slipped from her shoulders. I reach for the top button of her dress with fingers that aren't quite steady. One by one, I undo them, revealing more of her skin to the moonlight.
When her dress is open down the front, I push it gently from her shoulders. Beneath, she wears a simple black bra that contrasts beautifully with her pale skin. I trace the line of her collarbone with my fingertips, marveling at how soft she is.
"Your turn," she murmurs, reaching for the buttons of my shirt.
I help her, shrugging out of it and tossing it aside. Her hands find my chest, exploring the contours of muscle, tracing the scars that mark me—some from the ranch, some from war. She doesn't shy away from them, instead touching each one with something like admiration.
"You’re beautiful," she says softly.
No one's called me that before. Handsome, maybe. Strong. But not beautiful. Coming from her, it doesn't feel emasculating—it feels honest.
I reach behind her to unclasp her bra, releasing her breasts to the night air. They're full and round, with rosy nipples that harden as I look at them. I cup one in my palm, thumb brushing across the peak, and she arches into my touch with a soft moan.
"More," she whispers.
I lower my head to take one nipple in my mouth, sucking gently while my hand continues to caress the other. Elena's fingers tangle in my hair, holding me to her breast as if afraid I might stop. As if I could.
Her dress is bunched around her waist. I slide my free hand beneath it, finding the edge of her underwear. She lifts her hips, and I pull both dress and panties down her legs, leaving her naked on the blanket beneath me.
Her dark hair spills around her shoulders, her skin glowing in the moonlight, her thighs parting slightly as I look at her.
"Now you," she says, reaching for my belt.
Together we remove my jeans and briefs, freeing my erection. Her eyes widen slightly, and she reaches out to wrap her fingers around me. The touch nearly undoes me then and there.
"It's been... a while," I warn her, my voice rough with need.
"For me too," she admits.
Slowly, I kiss my way down her body—her neck, her collarbone, between her breasts, across her stomach. She watches me through half-lidded eyes as I settle between her thighs.
"You don't have to," she begins, suddenly shy.
"I want to," I assure her, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh. "I want to taste you."
Her head falls back as I part her with my fingers, finding her already wet for me. The first stroke of my tongue draws a gasp from her lips. I take my time, learning what makes her tremble, what makes her moan. When I focus on that sensitive bundle of nerves, circling it with my tongue while sliding one finger inside her, her thighs begin to shake.
"Aaron," she breathes, her accent making my name sound exotic and new. "Please..."
I add a second finger, curling them forward as I suck gently, and feel her tightening around me. Her hands clutch at the blanket, at my hair, at anything she can reach as her back arches off the ground. When she comes, it's with a cry that seems to echo across the empty hills, her body pulsing around my fingers.
Before she's fully recovered, I move up her body, positioning myself between her thighs. The head of my cock nudges against her entrance, and we both freeze, eyes locked.
"Don't be gentle," she suddenly whispers.