CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE SABRINA
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
SAbrINA
We don’t find an outdoor movie theater, but that’s alright.
I knew it was a long shot. I am hoping, however, that we might have a chance at a regular one in Nashville before he sends me home.
Or anything, honestly. I’d be happy sitting in a hotel room with a movie on an iPad, so long as we’re together.
We spend the night in a chain hotel in Texas, a little east of Dallas.
It’s busy here, and he asks if I want to go out, but I’m feeling homesick for the first time since we left Wyoming.
Either that, or it’s really sinking in that we’ll be in Nashville soon, and everything has to end.
Instead of going out, I sit cross-legged on the bed while he stands out in the hall and answers a work call.
We ordered food a half hour ago, and it’s almost here.
I keep telling myself eating will fill the pit forming in my stomach.
I really like him.
But I’m also not willing to get too involved in his world. It seems like it’s done nothing but make him miserable.
Is he actually miserable?
I’m pulled from my thoughts by a sharp knock at the door. Scrambling, I retrieve our food and thank the delivery man. He disappears, and I scan the empty hall just as he comes around the corner, still on the phone.
I tilt my head, watching him. It’s kind of sexy when he’s in work mode. He sees me and lifts his hand in a brief wave.
Setting the bag down, I lift my shirt, just to the middle of my waist.
He pauses, lips parting. Daringly, I flash him, then grab the bag and slip into the room.
Maybe that will hurry him up. It clearly does, because before I can set down the bag, he’s back in the room.
I don’t know what to expect, but it’s not for him to scoop me up by the waist and toss me on my back on the bed.
I see a flash of him before he shoves my shirt up, kissing quickly up my stomach and pushing his face between my boobs.
“Stop, stop,” I giggle, tickled by his beard.
“You brought this on yourself.”
He nibbles the side of my breast, and I can’t help squirming.
“Please,” I beg.
“Give me a kiss, baby.”
I do, taking my time. When he pulls back, his lids are low, his eyes soft.
“You hungry?” he asks. “The food smells good.”
“Starving.”
He kisses me again, then stands and retrieves the food. I snuggle up against the headboard and watch him lay everything out. Noodles, hibachi, three pans of sushi. He placed the order, so I wasn’t sure what to expect, but he really went all out.
“Wow,” I whisper.
“I’m hungry too,” he says, sinking back.
I pick up the noodles and start eating. “We could put a movie on if you want. Sometimes they have good stuff in hotels.”
“I thought you didn’t travel too much?”
I shake my head. “I don’t, but we have to go into the city at least once a year for the auctions. We always stay there for the week.”
He inhales half a sushi roll in basically seconds. “So a lot of your life is work too.”
I pause, thinking. “Yeah, I guess so. But not in the same way.”
“You like it,” he says.
I falter, thinking about it in the context of everything that’s gone through my head the last few weeks, after talking with him about his career.
The truth is—and it doesn’t feel great to think this, given my feelings about him—I love ranching.
I’ve always been infatuated by the big open sky, the land that turns from green to brown, the mountains that are always there to greet me in the morning.
The work is incredibly hard, but it’s in my blood. It’s in my heart.
“Yeah,” I say. “I love it.”
There’s a soft sadness in his eyes. I think back to when he told me he didn’t like what he does for a living anymore. I wonder if I asked that same question now, his answer would be different.
“You still don’t like what you do?” I ask before I can bite it back. “All the writing?”
He frowns, and then his face clears. “I forgot I said that. Sorry… I must have sounded pretty fucking bitter.”
“It’s okay to like your work.”
“I do. I did.”
“Not anymore?”
He takes a bite, I think to stall. Finally, he lets out a sigh.
“I grew up reading all these authors, like Steinbeck, and I started writing because of it. I was writing folk and country, and I loved it. But then…I guess, suddenly, I was making all this money from what used to be a hobby. It kind of ruined it.”
I study him. “But you still do what you love. There’s nothing wrong with selling it.”
“No, there’s not. But it changes everything. I guess…I love my work, but I don’t love some of the things that come along with success.”
“Maybe have your own projects, just for you.”
“I try to,” he says. “Not a lot of time.”
I think, chewing on my lip. “It’s complicated.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “It’s complicated.”
We’re both pretty tired out, so I turn on the TV while I finish my sushi.
Then, he strokes my hair gently while he watches an old western.
The last thing I see is the TV glimmering black and white, casting light over him as he scribbles in his notebook.
Then, I’m waking abruptly to find him brushing his teeth in the bathroom, freshly showered.
Sunlight streams through the window. I roll over and stretch.
“These beds are heaven,” I yawn.
He puts away his toothbrush. “They’re pretty nice. You ready to get moving?”
“Yeah, I need to shower and pack.”
He comes out and kisses me, morning breath and all. “You shower, I’ll pack.”
I jump out of bed and head to the bathroom.
Almost everything is already packed up, except for his creased notebook sitting on the table beside three empty paper coffee cups.
I wonder how long he was up writing. He doesn’t look too tired, but then he always has that faint movie star glow to him.
Or maybe that has more to do with how my stomach flutters when he looks over at me, all handsome angles and more abs than I can count.
When I’m dressed, in my most seductive bikini top and some crochet shorts, sandals on my feet, he hauls our bags down, and I sit in the passenger side while he loads up.
He says he doesn’t need help. I’m fine with that.
I’m starting to really enjoy this whole new world of being a passenger princess, of having my doors opened, food bought for me.
And the best part: getting my hair played with while I fall asleep.
I’m being spoiled, and it’s going to hurt when he sends me home.
Will he send me home?
I glance sideways at him.
Deep inside, part of me thinks he won’t. My brain tells me things are changing. My heart is terrified of getting my hopes up and having to pick up all the pieces when he lets me down.
Leaning in, I turn the music up louder, Allison Krause if he’s teared up, I doubt he wants me to see and make it awkward.
“You know, I never thought about it like that,” he says finally. “I guess that’s why seeing where the house used to be didn’t fix anything. I don’t…have to go back to find her.”
I shift closer, leaning my head against his heart.
“I think she does,” I whisper. “I would have liked to have met her.”
His grip tightens, then relaxes. “She would have gotten a kick out of you. You’d have loved her. She was real sharp, real smart.”
“I believe it.”
Closing my eyes, I turn my head. Beneath my ear, his heart thumps in a slow and steady beat.
It’s so gentle, like the soft wind coming over the hills, like the dust that comes along with it.
Gentle like him. The lump in my throat keeps coming back.
I swallow it again. A tear slips out and falls on his arm.
“Baby,” he says. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I whisper. “I just…hate that you hurt.”
He wipes the side of my cheek. “Don’t cry over me. Right now, I’m the happiest I’ve been in a long damn time.”
Those are heavy words, ones with implications.
I don’t fight them. I don’t worry. We stay right where we are until his watch beeps. I stir, turning around, all my joints popping.
“We should get back on the road,” I say.
We gather up our things, and I go to the truck while he refills our drinks. We’re pulling back on the highway when he touches my elbow, running his finger lightly down to my wrist. He weaves his fingers in mine and closes his fingers. It’s very intimate.
“Thanks for saying that,” he says.
I can’t speak, so I just hold him tight.