Chapter 25 #2
A little bronzer, a light touch of eyeliner, and I remember what it feels like to be a woman, not just a rancher clinging to survival.
Hair down. A few loose waves. Soft perfume behind my ears.
I glance in the mirror.
Still me.
Still sayin’, “Fuck me.”
By the time I get to Maverick and Joy’s place—a white farmhouse with blue shutters and flower boxes overflowing with spring pansies—my nerves are frayed.
I brought along a bottle of each of Knight’s Tale Chardonnay and Cabernet Franc, my favorites.
I almost turned back twice, once in the truck and once out of it.
Joy answers the door dressed in a burgundy dress and what looks like Chanel knee-high boots.
I feel better about dressing up.
“You brought wine?” she beams.
“It’s from my vineyard…ah, the one I work at.” I hand her the bottles.
She takes them gleefully. “I love cab franc.”
The house is warm, open, filled with art and quilts, and sunlight.
It looks like the home of people who love to live here.
Not a French antique in sight.
She leads me out to the porch, where heated lamps throw off steady light and warmth, pushing back the late-spring evening chill.
The porch wraps around the main house, its old cedar planks worn smooth from years of boots and bare feet.
A long, reclaimed wood table sits under a slatted pergola strung with warm Edison bulbs, flickering gently in the breeze.
Chairs with wool blankets thrown over the backs line either side, and steam curls from a kettle on a sideboard set with mugs, preserves, and a plate of still-warm biscuits.
Beyond the porch, the land stretches wide, and even though I’m born and raised here in Colorado, my breath catches at the beauty.
“I hope you like steak.”
“I’m from a ranch. I’d lose my card if I didn’t.”
She laughs. “Good. Mav should be here any minute. He’s the griller.” She waves a hand, gesturing for me to take a seat, as she gets to work opening the bottles of wine expertly. “We both cook. He’s better at it, though. I make a mean salad, but I can’t bake, even if my life depends upon it.”
I pick up two glasses from the table, where three place settings wait—simple and sweet. The light green napkins are tied with twine, each holding a small sprig of lavender.
“White or red?” Joy asks, holding up a wine key.
“Let’s start with the chardonnay,” I suggest. When it comes to wine, I know what I’m doing. “It’ll go better with the salad and will give the red time to breathe.”
“Gotcha.”
Joy fills our glasses.
“To Mav finally finding a woman he wants more than a fuck with,” she toasts.
I freeze, holding the glass still.
She laughs airily. “Oh, come on, you know the man is gone for you.”
I clink my glass with hers. “I know no such thing.”
“Oh, and you’re so in love with him as well.” Joy claps a hand on her chest. “This is so lovely, and I’m so happy for…well, both of you. My brother is quite a catch, and you look like someone worth the hell you’re going to put him through.”
I’m not used to someone as direct as Joy. I flush.
She goes into the kitchen while I settle into a chair. She comes back with canapes—round blinis topped with crème fraiche and caviar.
“Well, this ain’t a ranch barbecue.”
“I’m from Dallas and New York, honey, I like my luxuries.”
“Now I wish I’d brought sparkling wine,” I say regretfully.
“I have some in the wine fridge,” Joy offers immediately.
I shake my head. “The chardonnay will go well with it.”
So, while eating blinis and caviar, and drinking some very good white wine, I get to know Maverick’s sister.
Joy Kincaid is open, full of energy, and she’s kind.
She adores her brother.
She likes the quiet and ease of living in Wildflower Canyon.
But there’s a sadness, or rather a solemnity, in her, and when she speaks about her time in New York, she’s equal parts sad and happy.
We talk about Wildflower Canyon, what’s changed, what hasn’t.
I tell her about my life in Napa.
She listens without interrupting. She’s easy to like.
“You’re younger than I thought,” she says, not unkindly. “Mav’s got nearly ten years on you.”
“Does that matter?”
“Not to me,” she shrugs. “Not to him. Does it to you?”
“I don’t know what Mav and I are,” I admit. “We’re not anything. Not really.”
“Puhlease!” She arches a brow, amusement flickering in her gaze.
Right then, Maverick walks in—and the air changes, proving Joy’s point.
He’s dusty, windblown, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, and he smiles when he sees me.
Not a cocky smirk.
A real smile.
Like he’s glad I’m here.
“Darlin’.” He plants a kiss on my lips and then heads to his sister, who offers him her cheek. “Has Joy been behavin’?”
“Hell no!” Joy exclaims. “I’ve been interrogating her by plying her with caviar. She brought the wine.”
“I’m goin’ to take a quick shower and get cookin’.” His eyes are on me, warm and…loving?
He holds my gaze. I can’t look away. I’m mesmerized.
Oh God! What’s going on? I just got to Colorado. I barely know this man who’s taking over my heart. This cannot end well.
You knew Hudson for two years, and how did that end? Maybe it’s not the time you know a person, it’s who that person is, Aria.
Maverick is a good man. Any man who raised a woman like Joy, who is full of such light, can be nothing but decent.
“She’s not coming in there to help wash your back, so stop eyeing her like she’s filet mignon,” Joy cuts in, dry as dust. “She’s gonna keep me company.”
Embarrassed, I look away.
Maverick laughs. “Maybe another time, yeah?” His voice is lower now. Warmer.
I nod like an idiot because I’m tongue-tied.
After dinner, which is easy and delicious, Joy leaves us, announcing she’s tired, which she’s not, but she’s giving us space.
Maverick pulls me out of my chair and deposits me, effortlessly, onto his lap. I wrap my hands around his neck for balance.
“You look like a dream,” he whispers, sliding his calloused hands under my dress, over my thighs.
His touch is rough from years of roping cattle and breaking horses, but the way he’s handling me now is anything but. It’s slow, deliberate, like he’s memorizing every inch of my skin.
His fingers trace the curve of my hip, and I can feel the heat of his palm through the thin fabric of my panties.
My breath hitches. I lean into him, pressing my breasts to him, my mouth on his.
I can hear his heartbeat thundering in his chest, matching the rhythm of my own.
“Aria,” he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly, like whiskey poured over gravel. “You’re so Goddamn beautiful.”
His words send a shiver down my spine, and I can feel the wetness pooling between my thighs.
I love the way he’s looking at me, like I’m the only woman in the world.
My lips brush against his, soft, inexorably erotic.
I can taste the faint hint of bourbon on his tongue, and it’s intoxicating.
His hands move to the zipper of my dress.
“I love this,” he murmurs.
“Vera and Nadine wanted me to wear something that’s easy to take off.”
I unbutton his shirt.
We’re doing this. I have no doubts. I want him. He wants me.
“I’ll thank them later.” His voice is rough with desire.
His fingers slip beneath the lace of my panties.
I gasp as he finds my clit, already swollen and begging for attention.
He circles it slowly, teasing me. My hips buck against his hand.
“You’re so wet for me.”
The sound of his voice sends a jolt of electricity straight to my core.
He’s hard. I can feel the heat of him through his jeans. I stroke him slowly, savoring the way he groans and thrusts into my grip.
“Jesus, Aria,” he mutters, his voice strained.
He pushes me away, and before I can protest, he’s carrying me.
“Hey!”
“I told you the next time we do this, we do it on a bed. Mine.”
We don’t, thankfully, see anyone on our way to his bedroom. It’s large and masculine in the way that only a real working man’s space can be. He sets me down on the bed, and I sit up, my dress in a disarray.
I like his space. There’s a thick wool rug, Navajo-style, covering part of the hardwood floor near the bed.
The bed is massive. The headboard is carved with worn-in details like it’s seen a few generations. The sheets are soft cotton, tucked clean and tight, and there’s a wool blanket tossed across the foot.
A couple of ball caps hang from hooks on the wall next to an old, framed photo of cattle under a stormy sky.
There’s a bookshelf beside the window that surprises me—lined with ranch manuals, sure, but also a few novels, poetry even, and one worn spine that I can see is Steinbeck.
The windows are large, trimmed in cedar, and overlook the back pasture. A gun safe sits tucked in the corner.
It smells like leather and cedarwood, and faintly of Maverick’s aftershave.
Comfortable. Uncomplicated. Unapologetically him.
And somehow, it makes me feel safe in a way I didn’t expect.
“Well, I’m in your bed.” I flick my gaze toward him, humor tugging at my mouth. “What are you goin’ to do with me?”
His features soften with tenderness as he goes to his knees.
He takes my boots off, sets them aside. The act makes me wobbly, because it’s sweet and sexy.
He rocks forward, resting on the balls of his feet, his eyes focused on me.
“Take your panties off,” he demands.
I’m not used to this. The men I have had sex with were…men, not men. Now I wonder if they were boys. Their sexuality, like mine, was submissive.
Maverick is dominating. Loud. He takes what he wants.
I shimmy out of my panties, and he yanks them the rest of the way off.
“Spread your thighs, darlin’. Show me your pussy.”
I blush at his words. No one has ever spoken to me this way, ever.
“Maverick.”
“Do as I say, and I’ll let you come.” His tone is gruff, and I’m pretty sure he’s serious.
“I—”
“Darlin’, stop thinking and start doin’.”
I spread my legs a little. He pushes them farther apart. “Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.”
He slides a finger over my slit.
Then pinches my clit slightly.
I forget to be embarrassed as I shift to give him better access to me.
“Atta, girl,” he murmurs.