Chapter 11 Everett
Chapter eleven
Everett
She’s a fucking vision. And she’s not on my phone screen but she’s right here in front of me, surrounding me with…
vanilla. Gone is the orange that’s been on my mind, leaving in its wake sweet vanilla and a just hint of dark espresso.
It suits her. I greet her with a kiss on the cheek, handing over a bunch of sunflowers.
I cut them earlier, and tied the stems together with a length of the maroon ribbon I found in town.
It matches the watch wrapped around her slim wrist. I catch her comparing the two side-by-side, and my heart leaps giddily behind my ribs.
She grins indulgently and falls into step beside me as I guide her out to my truck with one hand on her lower back.
Austin-Bergstrom isn’t the biggest or busiest airport in the world, but it’s pretty spread out, and it takes us a good twenty minutes to get from the terminal building to my truck in the parking lot.
Once we’re finally on the road, Ruth slips her sunglasses over her eyes and tips her head back against the headrest, a soft smile playing at her lips.
I know she’s awake because every few minutes, her hand pops out to fiddle with the stereo, station-hopping between songs to find something else to sing along to.
She can’t sing for shit, but man, I love the sound of her voice.
“So, how was the flight? How was New York?”
“The flight was fine. Full, of course, but fine. New York was… hot. Busy. My boss is a raging thundercunt. The usual.”
A laugh bursts from my chest at her choice of expletive.
She looks so cute and casual and put-together in that tight tank top that shows just the barest hint of skin at her waist when she moves, and those baggy linen pants that hang over chunky-soled sneakers, but over the small amount of time we’ve spent together, and the hours talking on the phone, the one thing I’ve come to understand about Ruth Bevan is that she’s a little wild with a filthy mouth.
I love it. And so does my cock, stirring uncomfortably in my pants.
I glance to the passenger seat to find her watching me with a soft smile on her face.
She spends a lot of the drive like that, eyes crinkling at the corners every time I look over.
God, I don’t know if I can take it anymore.
I want to kiss her, but I don’t even know if we’re there yet.
She’s so fucking beautiful, so unlike any woman I’ve ever been attracted to—so unlike any woman I’ve ever met before.
I want her, and the scariest part is, I don’t think I just want her in my bed.
I think I might want her to stick around everywhere else in my life, too.
By the time we reach the ranch, we’ve played three rounds of I Spy and Ruth has taken a twenty-minute nap. As I pull the truck into the driveway of the main house and throw it in park, she perks up, sitting up straight and gazing at the wide open space around us.
“God, it’s huge,” she breathes. “It’s gorgeous.”
“Well, thank you, ma’am,” I chuckle, tipping my hat dramatically.
My chest puffs up with pride, and it’s not just at the insinuation of her words.
The very idea that Ruth likes what she sees here—that she likes my home—fills me with the kind of warmth I’ve only ever heard about before. “Words every man wants to hear.”
Her cheeks flush red to match her clothes, and she claps a hand to her mouth.
“Oh—no, I didn’t—oh, fuck.”
I meet her on the truck’s passenger side and bump her hip with mine as I take her bag.
“It was funny, Ruth. Don’t cry about it, baby girl.”
Her brown eyes flare a little as they snap to mine, and good lord above, she’s beautiful. Hair a little mussed from a day of travel, pink-tinged skin, pure wonder in her eyes as she looks around. She looks perfect on this ranch. My ranch.
“You ever ridden a horse before?”
Those beautiful eyes flare again, this time with more fear than surprise.
“No,” she says softly. “I—no, never.”
I lead her into the house and up the stairs to the biggest of the five guest rooms, and one of two with its own bathroom.
As soon as I told Mom about Ruth and her visit, she immediately made plans to have the room aired out and made up.
I didn’t have the heart to disappoint her by insisting Ruth stay with me in my cabin, and to be perfectly frank with you, I think it’s probably safer this way.
I don’t know that I could make it through a night under the same roof as Ruth Bevan without making good on the million impure thoughts in my mind.
“You can stay with me if you prefer, but I didn’t want to assume…”
“This is perfect,” she says, spinning on the spot to take in the room. Harriet, Brooks’ sister and our housekeeper, prepared it earlier with clean sheets and towels and a vase of fresh flowers in the window. For a room that hasn’t been used for a while, Harriet cleaned it up nicely.
“Come on, let me show you the rest.”
I lead her downstairs to the kitchen, where Harriet and Mama are sipping sweet tea and planning the week’s meals. As expected, Mama immediately tugs Ruth into a long hug, and I’m sure she’s about to break out the family photo albums before I manage to tear us away.
“Are you eating with us, Everett? Ruth?”
“I’ll let you know, Mama,” I say. “We might be out a while.”
“Be safe, honey.”
We leave the kitchen with two bottles of water from the fridge, and our next stop is the stable block.
“Hey, Delly-girl,” I whisper, holding out my palm. My mare licks up the three offered sugar lumps and nudges my empty hand for more, snorting and whinnying when she comes up empty. Ruth watches with a mixture of fear and fascination, and I urge her closer.
“Come on, baby girl,” I say. “Put your hand right here. She won’t hurt you. Open palm, just like that.”
The most beautiful smile spreads across her face as Della accepts a rub, nudging Ruth lightly with her nose.
“I’ve never been this close to a horse before,” she says giddily. “I never realised they’re so soft. You’re so soft and sleek, aren’t you, girl?”
Something stirs in my chest, and something else stirs in my pants as Ruth bonds with my horse. My mom and my sister are right up there, but Ruth has already joined Della at the top of the list of the most important women in my life.
“Want to ride?”
“I don’t know…” Ruth glances around, nerves returning to her expression.
“It’s okay, we don’t have to. We can take an ATV out instead.
Come on.” I lead her out with one hand on the small of her back.
It feels so natural to fall into step beside her with that small point of contact, and she always leans into it.
I try not to read too much into it, but the stirring in my pants continues.
The vehicle barn is a short walk from the stables, and I use a key from the chain on my belt to unlock the key cabinet and swipe a set of keys.
We settle into the small bench seat of a two-seater, and I drive the ATV out toward my cabin, where I know we’ll have a great view of the setting sun from the back porch.
“This is cute.” Ruth runs a hand along the raw edge of my hallway console table, looking around in wonder and taking in my home.
It’s not much. It’s a fraction of the size of the main house, but it’s cosy, and it’s mine, and I’ve spent the last few years making it a haven for myself.
It took a little time, but I’ve finally curated my belongings to be less student digs chic and closer to something a little more mature, and a little more me.
There’s plenty of raw wood and warm, earthy colour, tons of natural light from the enormous windows on the southern aspect, and natural materials everywhere.
It might not be a big, flashy house, but it’s home.
And fuck, does Ruth look good standing in it.
“You want a tour?”
Ruth nods eagerly, and I lead her through to the living room first. With one hand on the back of an overstuffed armchair, she gazes around, taking in the artwork on the walls, the jute area rug, the television in the corner.
Her eyes catch on the wooden bull on the coffee table, currently standing beside a paper crane atop the small pile of sketch books I opened for the first time in a while a couple of days ago.
“Of course you have a bull,” she says with a chuckle, reaching out to run a finger along one of his horns. “This is Texas, after all.”
She turns to me expectantly, and I lead her back to the hallway and down to the kitchen.
It faces the back of the house, with a set of bifold doors leading out onto the back porch.
It’s a good size. Bright, with a little breakfast nook in one corner; a circular table surrounded by a built-in bench seat for two, and two chairs.
Off to one side, there’s a spacious mudroom with a washer-dryer stack, pantry shelves stocked with dry goods, and a half-bath.
Ruth’s eyes light up when she sees the wooden countertops and large farmhouse sink on the peninsula counter that faces the porch and the creek beyond. Behind the sink, there’s enough space on the overhanging counter to sit and eat, enough space below it for a couple of bar stools.
“I love this kitchen,” she says with a dreamy smile. “I might move in.”
Something bubbles in my chest, and I laugh, trying to dislodge the giddy, almost suffocating feeling that settles over me. It’s not that I don’t want that—quite the opposite. I do want it, and it scares me that it doesn’t scare me at all.