8. Juniper
My heart drums in my chest as I rest my back against his front door. I close my eyes for a brief second, catching my breath before jogging down the front steps toward my car.
I know I’ll be kicking myself tomorrow for walking out when I did, but right now, it was the best thing I could do. I could feel myself spiraling, and I was minutes away from letting it all come out. Seconds away from finally telling Decker exactly how I feel about him. But this isn’t how I want to tell him—I don’t want it to be through tears and pathetic pleas.
I really am exhausted—so much so, it’s all I can do to make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and trudge upstairs to my childhood bedroom. Yet another thing I need to make time for: house hunting. It’s also been something that’s holding me back from telling Decker how I feel about him. I want him to take me seriously as an adult—as a grown woman who has her own place—not a kid living in her parents’ house.
A second later, I get a text from my parents. It’s a picture of their faces smooshed into frame accompanied by a good night, we love you message. I smile at the picture and send them a text back. They’re somewhere on the California coast at the moment, soon to be heading through the southern half of the United States.
A few seconds later, I get a text from Decker.
Decker: Hey, sorry about earlier, I didn’t mean to upset you. I hope you made it home safe? I’ll see you at your party this weekend. Wouldn’t miss it ;)
I don’t deny the heart flutters I get every time his name pops up on my screen, but everything quickly morphs into nervousness at the thought of him coming to my birthday celebration. I’m not exactly a girl who doesn’t like to have fun, and I don’t know if I have it in me to resist another kiss from him.
“Bottoms up!”the guy to my right shouts in my ear as we all lift our shot glasses in the air, then slam them on the bar top. I shake my head, my right eye watering at the burn of the cheap cinnamon whiskey.
“You want another one?” the guy’s friend asks with a lopsided grin.
“I’m good.” I wave my hands, indicating I’ve had enough.
“Come on, one more.”
“She’s good.” I feel a warm arm wrap around my shoulders and turn to see Milly leading me away from the two guys at the bar.
“Hey, thank you.” I say, laughing as I embrace her in a hug.
“Are you having fun?” she asks, a questioning look on her face.
“Yeah, yeah, totally,” I assure her, taking the opportunity to glance past her to see if Decker has shown up yet. We’ve been here for nearly three hours, and by the look of things, most of my friends are ready to head home. Can’t say I blame them, even on a Saturday night. The two shots and one drink I’ve had are enough for me.
“I think we might head out. Need to drive back to Denver first thing tomorrow,” she tells me.
We say our goodbyes and I duck into the bathroom to check my phone. I lock the door, slipping my phone out of the back pocket of my black denim shorts, but there are no missed texts or calls from Decker. I put it back in my pocket, fluffing my curls in the mirror and readjusting my matching black cowboy hat. The denim vest I paired with my shorts is decked out with rhinestones and gives me a healthy amount of cleavage. I smile at myself, unlocking the door and swinging it open to see Amelia, who’s married to Decker’s cousin Trent.
“Hey,” she smiles, her eyes a little glassy from the cocktail she was sipping on earlier, “Deck just got here. He was looking for you.” She thumbs over her shoulder, and I look past her to see him towering over the bar. His thick thighs strain against his jeans as he takes a seat on one of the barstools next to Trent.
“Oh great, I’ll go grab him.” I nervously smooth down my outfit before casually walking back over to where my friends are gathered, not bothering to look over at Deck. I can feel his eyes on me as I put a little extra swivel in my hips, my cowboy boots thudding on the hardwood floor. “Hey, guys, I think it’s about time we take this party up a notch. Time for some line dancing, y’all!” I say as I walk over to the jukebox and scan my card. I hit the buttons and the music starts to thump throughout the room.
“Hell yeah!” says one of the guys who bought me a shot. He joins me on the dance floor and grabs my hand, swinging me out then back in a few times, clearly unsure of what he’s doing, but making me laugh.
“You think you’ve got what it takes?” Trent walks toward Amelia, a grin on her face as she holds her hands out against his chest.
“You know I still can’t line dance.” She giggles just as his arm wraps around her and he pulls her in for a kiss. Her long hair flows around her thin, elegant shoulders. Everything about Amelia is feminine and romantic, something I often find myself wishing I was. But then I go and yell at a bar and turn up the music while I shake my ass.
Before long, Tyler and Brooklyn have followed Trent and Amelia to the dance floor, followed shortly by Dahlia and Ranger and a few of the cowboys. The entire dance floor moves in unison as we shimmy and shake our way through another song.
I’m laughing, having a blast teaching the two guys from earlier how to dance. The taller one who bought me the shot comes up behind me, his hands resting on my hips as I guide him through the next sequence of movements. He stumbles, making me laugh again as we almost fall to the floor. When I right myself, I glance to my left, where Decker’s eyes catch mine as he sits at the edge of the bar. My laugh falters and I keep my eyes on his as I slowly make my way toward him.
“Not in a dancing mood tonight?” I lean against the bar, reaching for the bottle of beer that he lets slip through his fingers. I bring it to my lips and take a sip.
“Not exactly,” he says, his eyes dropping down my body, “but I’m enjoying the view.”
“Don’t act like that’s anything new,” I tease, knowing full well he’s looked at me like this many nights before.
“Someone’s feisty tonight.” He snatches the beer back from me.
“Come on,” I poke his side, “come dance with me.”
His elbow jerks to cover his ribs. “Looks like you were just fine with those two; I’d only be in the way.”
“Oh, come on,” I absentmindedly place my hand on his upper thigh, “don’t pout. Come have fun.” His eyes immediately drop down to where my hand feels like it’s seconds away from burning through his jeans.
“Weren’t you just talking about denial?” he asks in a throaty whisper. My eyes are fixed on the hard line of his cock that extends down his inner thigh. “Don’t play coy, Juniper,” his voice drops, “we both know what would happen if I had my hands on you like that in the middle of the floor.”
I keep my hand on his thigh, my head swimming in the tension that’s growing between us. “What would happen?” I finally ask, my throat dry.
Decker finishes his beer, placing the bottle on the bar top before leaning in an inch closer to me. “You have two options right now, Juniper: You can take your hand off my thigh and get back out on that dance floor, or you can?—”
“Or I can what?” I ask, hanging on the edge of the sentence he doesn’t finish.
“Actually, that’s it.” He shakes his head. “Get back out there and have fun. It’s your birthday.”
I slowly remove my hand, all the excitement and flirtatious energy dissipating like a mist. I roll my eyes, refusing to let him see my hurt. “Whatever you say. See ya.” I give him a little wave and dance my way back out to the floor, where the party is just getting started. And I make damn sure he regrets not following me out here.
I twist my hips, closing my eyes and grinding to the music. I make sure to give him a flirty little glance over my shoulder once or twice. Slowly, the rest of our group leaves until the only other people left on the dance floor are the two guys from earlier.
“Did everyone leave?” I spin around to glance over my shoulder at Decker, but he’s not there. I hear footsteps walking across the floor and the music comes to a stop.
“Hey, man!” I hear one of the guys slur before Decker’s hand is around my arm and he’s leading me toward the exit.
“Party’s over, darlin’. Time to get your ass home.”
“Excuse me,” I jerk my arm from his grasp, “I think I can make my own decisions.”
“Can you?” His strides are twice as long as mine, and I struggle to keep up. Finally, he stops in the parking lot, stepping forward as he leers over me. “Because it looked like you still can’t manage to make the right ones.”
I glare at him. “Why, because you’re jealous? You could have danced with me. I offered, remember? You were the one choosing to sit in the back and sulk like an overgrown crybaby.”
His scowl cracks, a grin breaking across his face, accompanied by a low chuckle. “Jesus Christ, Juney, you try my ever-loving patience, you know that?”
“How? I’m just existing.” I make an exasperated gesture.
He stares down at me like he’s holding back saying what’s really on his mind, then he rubs his temples and reaches for the door handle. “Just . . . get in the fucking truck.”
I don’t move right away and he steps toward me, grabbing me around the waist and hoisting me up and into the seat in one swift motion, like he’s done it a hundred times before. My stomach flops at how easily he maneuvered me. I sit in silence in the cab for a few seconds before he jerks his door open and climbs up inside. The radio crackles and a slow Tim McGraw song comes through the speakers.
Neither of us speaks for several minutes until he finally glances over at me. “Why the hell do you do that?” I open my mouth to ask him what he’s talking about when he cuts me off. “And don’t you dare act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. I told you—you and I—and you still?—”
He’s not finishing his sentences, and his knuckles grow white as the leather of the steering wheel creaks beneath his grip.
“Because we’ve always done that, Deck. For the last three years, it’s been a running joke that I liked you, and I guess old habits die hard. What’s the big deal anyway?”
“We had that conversation, only I remember it ending in agreement that this,” he gestures between us, “isn’t going to happen.”
I’ve never seen him this tense over something so silly as some harmless flirting. Then it hits me: He isn’t frustrated that it can’t happen; he’s frustrated that he has no reason to hold back anymore. So I decide to go for it—to tell him why I really did it.
“I—I guess,” I say softly, “since you told me it wouldn’t work, and that I was too young . . . that made it more exciting.” I shrug. “It’s forbidden and naughty.” I almost whisper my response, a little embarrassed now that I’ve said it out loud. I half-expect him to burst into laughter at my response, but he’s silent. I had been staring out the window to avoid eye contact, but now I turn to look at him.
This time he doesn’t respond. He just slams on the brakes, whipping the truck around in the opposite direction of my house, and steps on the gas. He keeps one hand on the wheel as the other reaches firmly behind me, around the back of my neck.
Moments later, the Slade Ranch sign comes into view, and my stomach flips as he pulls his truck through the massive entrance. Excitement unravels in my belly as he flips off his headlights and slowly pulls his truck down the winding lane and through the ranch to his house. He kills the engine when we reach the garage, his hand sliding away from my neck before he places it on my inner thigh.
Decker’s always been a large man. Even when he was a teenager, he was over six feet tall. But now, sitting next to him as his thick, calloused fingers rest against my thigh, I’m realizing just how large he actually is. Suddenly my mouth goes dry when I flash to the outline of his cock earlier. My eyes drop to his lap for a second before jerking them away.
He sits in silence, staring at where his fingers rest against my skin, my eyes watching as he drags his thumb in small circles. The dome light goes out and floods us with darkness. A second later, he removes his hand and exits the truck, walking around to help me down from the seat. I glance back at him as he walks behind me into the house.
I’m nervous, my pulse growing more rapid by the second. I don’t know what to expect or what’s happening right now. Is this a sleep-on-the-couch situation? I open my mouth, turning to say something—anything—when he cuts me off.
“Don’t say anything.” He barely gets it out before he’s pushing me against the wall of his entryway, his hands in my hair and his lips on mine.