Chapter 4
LYRIC - A YEAR AND A LITTLE BUT AGO
Normally, I’d be mad if Darcy bailed on me and left me with people I don’t know. Especially so she could take a guy back to her room. But I know for a fact he’s not just a random guy to her. And I’m so busy wishing this tattooed cowboy in front of me would fuck me, I couldn’t give a shit less.
Ridge’s friend Waylon may be the hottest man I’ve ever seen in real life. He’s tall as fuck and inked all over. And the whole cowboy thing usually isn’t something I’m into, but tonight I’m learning maybe all the rest of them around Nashville just don’t do it like Waylon does.
Banks and Killian already claimed the couches in the living room, and I’m starting to think they’re wingmanning for their friend over here. Because he’s leaning back against my kitchen island and stretching his arms over his head and yawning like he’s waiting for an invite.
“You can sleep in my room, if you want,” I casually throw out. Though I’d like to do just about anything with him but actually sleep.
A smile blooms on his lips. It’s small and crooked, but I can sense what’s behind it.
“You sure, darlin’? I don’t want to put you out.” He leans forward, tucking his hands into his pockets.
“My bed is big enough for both of us.” I shrug, playing it cool.
“Alright then,” he says, clicking his heels together. “Lead the way.”
We enter the door to my bedroom, and he closes it behind him. The distinct click of the lock follows, and I grin with my back to him.
“I’ll just be a second. Going to change.” As I slip into the walk-in closet, I’m intentional when I leave it open about three inches. Just enough that he can get a peek if he wants. God knows I want him to want to.
I make quick work of slipping out of my fancy clothes and think better of my regular pajamas.
A ratty old T-shirt that I got at the Goodwill with a possum wearing a party hat doesn’t exactly strike me as sexy.
Then again… I shrug and throw it on anyway.
It’s long, the bottom hem reaching my mid-thigh. That’s good enough.
When I step out, Waylon has removed his boots and tucked them toe-first under the bed. He’s sitting on the edge of my mattress, still wearing his jeans and a crisp black T-shirt. I note that his shirt is now untucked.
“I’m not saying this to freak you out or anything, but I really want to kiss you.
” I can’t believe I just said that. “But like, if you don’t want to kiss me, that’s fine.
But you can take your jeans off to be comfortable.
Unless you don’t have any underwear on. But I might have a pair of shorts you can fit in.
” If he didn’t know that I ramble when I’m nervous, he’s quickly finding out.
“You want to kiss me, huh?” he asks, leaning back onto his elbows.
The sudden stretching of his torso reveals the thinnest sliver of skin at the top of his jeans. My mouth waters at the sight of the little happy trail below his navel. There’s nothing I like more than a little chest hair that trickles all the way down.
“Yes.”
His eyes narrow at me, the left side of his mouth hooking upward. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a woman be so forward with me, darlin’.”
“Is that a bad thing, cowboy?”
Waylon doesn’t answer. But he does stand up, take two steps, and plant himself right in front of me. I have to tilt my head all the way back to look him in the eyes.
“Hell no,” he finally says.
He licks his lips, wet mouth glistening as he stares straight into my soul. Or at least that’s how it feels. He trails his fingers up my arm and neck before sliding his hand around the nape of my neck.
My breath has turned erratic, and his scent is filling my senses. Leather and cedar. It’s just so fucking rugged. Manly. I’ve never been with a man like Waylon. He’s not Nashville stock, that much I can sense.
I lean up and press my lips against his, unable to wait a moment longer. His mouth is warm and tastes like the bourbon he was drinking earlier. Something in my chest flutters, and I could swear I’m getting a secondhand buzz.
He breaks the kiss just when I felt like it was about to deepen, and presses his forehead to mine as he inhales. Fuck me, I want to do that again.
“Where are you from?” Because if I’m not kissing him, I want to know why he smells so damn good.
“Wyoming,” he says with a gulp. “My family has a farm there.”
“Really? What kind of farm?”
“We have cattle. For beef.” He stands up straight, backing away half a step.
“Why?”
“Because you don’t smell like you’re from here.” I realize after I say it out loud that it sounds ridiculous. “I mean, I don’t know, but I can just tell you’re not from here.”
“Yeah, I moved here when I was twenty. That was thirteen years ago,” he says.
“While we’re on the subject, I’m twenty-eight. Most people don’t know I’m a little older than Darcy.”
An hour later, we’re still talking. He did take off his jeans and get under the blanket beside me. We found comfortable positions facing each other and asked about a million questions each.
“You haven’t mentioned anything about my wall decor,” I say with a laugh. “Most people have questions right away.”
Waylon looks around, his eyes skating over each framed butterfly specimen with renewed interest.
“I only really have one question,” he says.
“What’s that?”
“Which one is your favorite?”
“The forest mother-of-pearl my mother gave me,” I tell him without hesitation. “She got sick and it was the last thing she gave me before she died.”
Waylon’s throat bobs as he swallows, his eyes never leaving mine. He doesn’t tell me he’s sorry for my loss or offer his condolences, and I’m glad for that but it surprises me. It seems like that’s the first thing anyone says when they find out.
“My mom died when I was five,” he says.
And I immediately get it. We’re both part of the same club. Carrying that wound, the loss of your mother, it’s unique. Only someone who’s been through it will understand. In that knowledge, I can’t help but feel closer to him. And I was already feel a pretty strong connection.
We spend another three hours talking, and it’s only when light is beginning to filter through my windows that we fall asleep.
We talked about everything. Our families, school, first loves, stupid shit like our favorite ice cream, and joked about getting matching tattoos.
My eyes flutter open sometime later, and I realize he’s wrapped his arm around me. My head is on his chest, and rather than shrink away from him, I sink back in and shut my eyes. It takes me no time to fall back asleep. His presence is so comforting.
It’s the whisper of voices on the other side of my door that wake me next. I don’t know how much time has passed, but I know I’m alone in this bed without looking behind me. I slide off my mattress and step lightly toward my door so I can hear better.
“It’s not like that,” Waylon says, his voice hushed. “Nothing happened.”
For a moment, I feel myself getting mad. But he’s right. Nothing really happened. Well, we kissed. Why wouldn’t he say that? Who’s he talking to? Wait, wait. I’m jumping to conclusions. I inhale a long, deep breath, stilling myself.
So he doesn’t kiss and tell. That’s probably a good thing.
Although he’d only be talking to Ridge or one of the other guys, right?
They’re his friends. Wouldn’t he tell his friends if he kissed a girl he liked?
Unless he regrets it. Ugh, I’m jumping again.
It’s fine. He’ll come back in here, we’ll talk. Maybe we can go on a proper date.
It’s fine. You’ll see. You’re just paranoid.