Chapter 9
9
[Vale]
W hen Cort asked me about my time at Reflexology, my initially snappish response was necessary.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to talk to him, it’s just that most clients prefer the quiet and the soft hum of relaxation music piped into the room.
For myself, I’d been struggling to keep my head in the process of disassociation, working my fingers along another human for purposes that are medicinal and not sexual.
Because Cort has a back that is sexy as sin.
A scar near his right shoulder blade adds to the seductive edge, and my mind kept wandering, wondering what it would feel like to lay my hands on him in another manner.
Spread my palms over the expanse of his back and feel his weight over my body.
The thought was completely unprofessional, and one I’d never ever had before with a client .
When he asked me about myself, I’d been so lost in my head, my throat strained my answer.
A minute passed before I realized two things.
Cort might have wanted me to talk to ease his discomfort.
He also might have asked because he really wanted to know the answer.
The second one seemed a bit far-fetched.
Cortland has had twelve years to ask me questions and offer me some explanations.
Then again, I got the message loud and clear that day in the woods.
Unfortunately, Cort was not the answer to my prayers.
He wasn’t mine and never would be.
It was the wake up call I’d needed to move on with my life.
Not that my life was on hold.
Back then, I had one more year of school to complete my physical therapy degree and then I’d be moving on to a bigger city.
Knoxville or Nashville or Atlanta.
I didn’t care where.
The only qualification was that I be far away from Sterling Falls.
Everyone else had escaped.
Ford left to play professional baseball.
Knox went into the military.
Even as wrong as it sounds, Sebastian had an out by spending time in jail.
Stone and Judd both had plans to leave forever but were sucked back into the vortex.
Clay was the only one who never saw himself leaving.
Regardless, I had dreams outside of this mountain town.
Then I had Hudson. Stone took me in, gave me a year to spend time with my young son, and then I started using my degree.
The furthest I’d gotten from Sterling Falls was one town over.
Most days, I tell myself the distance no longer matters.
My life is what it is.
However, when I find myself sitting on a bar stool in Milton Roadhouse before another book club, Kindle on the bar, and Coke in my glass, I’m struck again with how lonely my life is.
I might be surrounded by annoying brothers and a growing son and amazing new sisters-in-law-turned-friends, but I’m still missing that one component I’ve always wanted.
Love . The only-for-me kind of love.
Staring down at my open e-reader, I almost curse the unrealistic romance I’m reading, realizing I’ve been mindlessly glaring at the digital page more than comprehending the words.
This week’s Sterlets’ meeting is centered around a legitimate book, and I’ve struggled to be swept away in it.
My mind has been preoccupied instead by the reality of Cortland Haven and his body.
I blame my confession to Enya for bringing him to the forefront of my brain.
It’s not like I’ve obsessed over Cort for twelve years.
Eventually, I lumped him in with every other man I’ve sexually experienced—unable to complete the task.
Of course, I know now all the reasons why that is, and it’s more about me than them.
Still, I can’t help but wonder if Cort?—
“Whatcha readin’?”
I glance up from my rambling thoughts to see Henry Stanton leaning casually against the bar.
His elbow is perched on the counter.
His hip leaning against the bar, but his gaze is outward.
Despite asking me a question, his body language reads disinterested in my answer.
Inwardly, I sigh and roll my eyes, knowing he’s about to attempt to flirt with me and I’m already exhausted by the wasted effort.
With a strained smile and a breath of annoyance, I answer him, “Smut.”
Although I proudly read what some consider idyllic romance, I find the word ‘smut’ a bit derogatory about the genre I love, but I’m hoping shock will stun him into silence.
His head swivels in my direction and a salacious grin curls his lips.
He twists his body to face the bar and settles both his forearms on the top by bending at the waist. His eyes don’t leave me now, and I curse myself for having captured his attention instead of repelling it.
Those same eyes blatantly scan down my seated position, lingering on my backside before flinging back up to my face.
“Interesting.”
“Really? You read romance novels?” Bet Henry doesn’t even read.
He probably prefers pictures .
. . in magazines. The thought of him pleasuring himself in such a manner makes me shiver, especially as he’s standing so close to me.
There are three empty stools to my right.
He can take a seat anywhere else but near me.
Henry scoffs, like I’ve insulted his intelligence and his ability.
No romantic gestures coming from this guy .
I already know what he wants.
His intention comes in every leering gaze he gives me.
And it’s another reason I don’t like Hudson having a friendship with Atticus, which isn’t fair to the kids.
The sins of the father shouldn’t be held against his children.
I’m all too familiar with that kind of condemnation.
With his arms still on the bar, he leans forward and back, rocking his hips in a gentle, repetitive thrusting motion.
“Maybe you could read me a passage sometime.”
With anyone else, the proposition might be endearing, seductive even, but not from Henry.
Once again, I fight to keep a grimace off my face while a sticky, icky feeling glides down my throat.
I might even throw up a little bit in my mouth at the thought of reading any such passage with this man.
“Or I could recommend the book when I’m done.” Or not .
Because I’d really prefer to have as little interaction with him as I can.
“Let me buy you a drink.” He reaches for the stool to his right and tugs it closer to mine.
Too close.
I scoot to the edge of my seat, frustrated that he’s taken the liberty to invite himself to sit beside me, and exhausted that I must play this game with him, because small town, and my son’s friend’s dad, and just the bullshit of being a single woman .
Why can’t I just be?
Adult woman seeks love and affection; not needing a hero but wanting her equal.
Is that so hard to ask?
I roll my eyes heavenward as if the goddess of love and sexual desire hears me.
“Sorry I’m late.” The rugged masculine voice to my left has me turning my head so fast my neck pops.
My mouth gapes, before I’m rolling my lips inward, sensing I’m caught between a rock and a hard place, and staring at the lesser of the two evils.
“Cortland.” I drag out his name like I’m scolding his tardiness when we had zero plans to meet here.
His name is also strangled in my throat because he looks so good.
Straw cowboy hat on his head again.
Silky blue shirt and dark jeans, like he does have plans to meet someone.
Only not me.
“Weren’t you sitting on the other side of the bar?” Henry asks Cort.
Was he? I hadn’t noticed.
I’d entered with my head down, ordered my cola from Maggie, Milton’s owner, and promptly opened my Kindle as a distraction.
Cort doesn’t respond to Henry but keeps his eyes on me.
He bothering you?
I could shake my head, signaling Henry is simply an annoyance but not a threat.
But then I’d be dismissing Cort and settling for Henry sidled up beside me until I can reasonably escape for book club, when I just want to sit here and sip a Coke.
Flipping a coin and happily, mentally, landing on heads, I narrow my eyes at Cort.
“I’ve been wondering when you’d get here.”
The deep layers of my statement are something I’ll lose sleep over later.
“He was sitting on the other side of the bar,” Henry interjects.
His hand waves in my periphery toward the opposite side of the three-sided bar.
His tone suggests he’s offended, almost like he got here first, so Cort loses, but I’m not playing a game.
At least, not with Henry.
“Hey, do you mind, I have a few things to discuss with Cort.” I swivel only my upper half to address Henry.
“It’s about Hudson.” Using my son as an excuse to soften the blow is a hopeful tactic.
Like Henry will understand—parent to parent—that I need to talk privately with my kid’s coach.
Henry twists his body and gives me another once over, before scrunching up his nose.
He lowers his voice and leans toward me to mutter, “Don’t think you can sleep your way to your son having a better position on the team.”
My jaw hits the floor.
I’m so taken aback; I don’t respond.
Like I’ve been slapped across the face but not associating the sting yet.
I’m simply stunned.
However, Cort reacts instantly, stepping around my back and leaning in so close to Henry he presses into the bar, his back arching against the lip of the counter.
“We got a problem here?” Cort’s face is close enough to Henry’s that he could rub his nose against the man’s.
Instead, Cort has a murderous gleam in his eyes, like he wants to smash Henry’s face into the countertop.
“I’m just teasing,” Henry defends, holding up his arms in limp surrender.
“Did you find that funny, Vale?” Cort addresses me without taking his eyes off Henry.
I still can’t talk. I’m too shocked by the venom in Cort’s tone and the position he’s pinned Henry in, and maybe a little turned on by this display of dominance and heroism on my behalf.
Slowly, I shake my head and swallow, wetting my mouth to form some words, but Cort continues before I can speak.
“ I didn’t find it funny,” he warns.
“And if I hear you say another thing like that to Vale or any other woman affiliated with the team, you and I are gonna have more than words.” He doesn’t bother asking Henry if he comprehends his meaning.
The speck of fear in Henry’s eyes confirms his understanding.
Here’s the thing about men like Henry, he thinks he’s a big fish in a small pond, when he’s really a stinky, day-old fish out of water.
We’ve got a guy who peaked in high school compared to a man who peaked .
. . well . . . he’s still peaking.
Cort’s body is as rigid as the mountain we live on and he’s holding his breath like a volcano about to blow.
Henry nods once.
“Now . . . you’re in my seat.” Cort slowly steps backward, allowing Henry to scramble off the stool he was sitting on, which almost makes me laugh because there are still plenty of other vacant stools around me.
But I’m not about to argue with Cortland.
Henry scampers off, pointing a finger gun at someone across the bar like he didn’t just get chastised and chased away.
Some guys will never learn.
Settling beside me, Cort spreads his legs wide, his knee tapping against mine, while he keeps his torso facing forward, elbows on the bar.
He doesn’t look directly at me when he asks, “You okay?”
For some reason, his position reminds me of Henry’s disinterest in what I was reading, and an edge creeps over me.
Instead of gratitude, I snap.
“I can handle myself.”
I’ve been doing it for as long as I can remember.
At my outburst, Cort’s head whips toward me.
Those dark eyes of his narrow like he can see deep into my soul.
His stare doesn’t waver from my face when he says, “I know you can.”
Did his voice drop an octave?
Why is he looking at me like he knows a secret about me?
“But a woman like you shouldn’t have to always take care of herself.”
My mouth falls open.
And what kind of woman am I?
“You know you sound as sexist as Henry. ”
Cort shifts his seated position, setting those wide-spread legs around my stool.
His knee once again touches mine.
He arches one of his thick brows, eyes widening.
“When we start talking about sex, it’s not going to include the letters i, s, t .” The corner of his mouth hitches.
Just the slightest teasing twitch, like a blink of a smile, and then it’s gone.
His expression sobers.
“Seriously, though. You okay? Does that kind of bullshit happen often?”
I shrug.
“Not really, but being a single mom . . .”
“You mean being beautiful.”
My mouth falls open again.
What?
“Some men think it’s their right to say what they want to say, when and where they want to say it. I don’t want you takin’ that shit, Little Bee. Not on my team. Not anywhere.”
I blink.
Blink again. I hear what he’s saying but I’m stuck on one thing.
Little Bee .
He hasn’t called me that in years, and I’m caught in the crossfire between elation that he remembers the nickname he gave me and the sense he still thinks of me as that little girl.
One who is defenseless and weak.
“I’m not a child,” I counter, glossing over his kindness and concern.
He pins his gaze to my eyes, before his shoulders sag, like he’s accepting defeat.
His gaze falls like he can’t fight the weight any longer.
His glance slides down the slope of my nose, catching on my lips a second, before dipping to my throat.
I watch as his rolls.
There’s something different in the way Cort observes me.
Not lewd like Henry’s disinterested review, but more like Cort is memorizing me, etching my details into a sketch book.
The intensity of his eyes sends heat over my flesh while goosebumps rise.
“I remember,” he says .
All the air whooshes out of me.
Not that I ever thought Cort forgot what happened between us, I just didn’t think he’d ever mention it.
Like it never happened if we didn’t talk about it.
However, my memory is a scrapbook of that moment.
His hands on me. His mouth against my throat.
The rush to get somewhere I cannot get with speed.
Without a strong connection.
And as much as I thought I was connected to Cort in some inexplicable way, I wasn’t.
It wasn’t his fault.
It was mine.
With his intense gaze on me, I look away from him and pick up my drink, needing a sip of something bubbly, something that will tickle my throat and reset my brain to the present situation.
Cortland Haven is sitting next to me.
“Well.” I pause, setting my glass back down.
“Thank you for your intervention. I appreciate you.”
Cort chuffs, holding up his hand for Maggie’s attention.
He forms a V with his forefinger and the middle one, making a peace sign in greeting to her, but when two shot glasses full of amber liquor appear in front of us, I turn my head toward Cort again.
“Shots? Really?”
“Seems like you could use one.” He taps his short glass against the lip of mine.
“Take the sting out of you.”
The sting?
This guy has some nerve, and rising to the bait, I pick up my glass, not bothering to sniff the liquid, and down what I quickly learn is straight bourbon.
Holy F- that burns. I sputter instantly, choking on the fire trailing down my esophagus.
Thankfully, Cort doesn’t laugh before tipping back his own glass and swallowing in one smooth motion.
“Thought bees liked a little smoke.”
“Smoke, yes. But fire, no.” I cough one more time.
As an amateur beekeeper, I know a few things about bees.
Smoke is intended to calm them, not set them ablaze.
And I don’t need a blaze of glory in my life.
Flames flicker and burn out.
“Bees prefer sweeter things.” I want tender moments and private jokes and meaningful touches.
Something long-lasting and personal.
Intimate.
Cort continues to watch me before he tips his chin upward.
“Like that lotion you used on me.”
“My honey balm?”
“Is that what you call it?”
“I haven’t come up with a better name.” The combination of honey, beeswax, shea butter and grapeseed oil is the perfect texture for massages.
Smooth and creamy, it works easily into someone’s skin, causing my hands to glide over tight muscles and loose flesh.
Not that Cort is loose anywhere.
He doesn’t respond to my lack of creativity.
Instead, his back stiffens and I’m about to ask if he’s having back spasms, a possible side effect from the massage yesterday morning, when he slides off the stool beside me.
“Thanks for the drink,” he mutters.
With long confident strides, he steps away from me, and I’m so confused, especially since he’s the one who bought me the shot.
But then my eyes land on two men who have just entered Milton Roadhouse.
My brothers Clay and Knox.
Glancing toward the opposite side of the bar, I watch Cort take a seat.
Possibly the one he was sitting on when Henry approached me.
He gazes up at the baseball game on the big screen like it’s the most fascinating game he’s ever watched.
For half a second, I curse my brothers’ appearance.
Then I cuss the whole lot of them for still holding a grudge.