Chapter 5
BOBBY
In Hank’s office, I take a few deep breaths that smell like stale cigarette smoke, reassuring myself that Willow is okay.
When I turned around and saw her in that guy’s lap with a look of horror on her face, fear had shot through me, dropping my gut to my boots.
It’d climbed right back up paired with fury.
How dare he lay hands on her? I’d reacted instantly.
Once upon a time, I would’ve punched first and dealt with the fallout later, but a conversation or two from Chief Gibson in my younger days taught me a solid lesson—let the other guy throw the first punch and have a witness.
Willow comes in, her voice gentle. “You okay?”
I flex my hand, clenching and flattening it slowly. “Yeah, no big deal. As long as you’re okay?”
She sits down next to me on the retired booth bench that acts as both seating and storage, judging by the stack of papers that have fallen off the far end. “I don’t know if okay is how I would describe how I’m feeling right now. That was . . .”
Her words taper off like she can’t find a suitable label for the last fifteen minutes. “Sexy?” I suggest, deadpan.
Her pink lips part as her jaw drops in offense. “What? No!”
I break, letting my infamous grin do its work, and she realizes I’m fucking with her. She bumps my shoulder with hers, looking slightly less shell-shocked. “That was insane. You are insane.”
I shrug, intentionally drawling out extra slowly, “Aw, thanks.”
“Seriously?” She sighs, shaking her head. “You didn’t have to . . . why did you . . . do that?”
I sober up, looking at her evenly. “Look, I’m not some hothead asshole who goes around beating people up.
” Her brows jump, arguing my assessment, and I correct myself.
“Not anymore. But you shouldn’t have to put up with shit like that.
That guy had it coming because I guarantee you that wasn’t the first time he’s pulled a stunt like that, but hopefully next time, he’ll have some second thoughts and make a better decision before laying hands on a woman without an explicit invitation.
” I manage to bite my tongue and not add ‘and never touch you’, though that’s what’s rolling through my mind.
That asshole thought he was worthy to touch her?
No fucking way. I’m not either, but damned if I don’t want to.
But I’ll wait for her signal, even if it guts me to delay a single moment.
She’s quiet for a long heartbeat as her eyes search mine. Now that we’re in better lighting, I can see that they’re an unusual gray color and currently filled with confusion.
“That’s unexpectedly . . . nice. I think?”
I can feel my insides twisting and turning as she tries to put the jagged and worn puzzle pieces together to solve me.
Good luck, sweetheart. I gave up on that a long time ago.
Wanting to wade back to safer territory, I drop my eyes to her lips, remembering the almost-kiss we shared earlier. Attraction, I understand. Lust, I recognize.
There it is, the green light I’m looking for. Her breath hitches, her lips parting a millimeter I want to measure with my tongue.
I lift my hand to cup her cheek and flinch as I bend my fingers a bit too fast. She sees it and grabs my wrist.
“Let me get you doctored up.”
Kiss, foiled again.
She wipes an alcohol pad over my knuckles then smooths on ointment with a delicate touch. Her teeth bite into her bottom lip as she concentrates, doing some magic trick with a regular band-aid that makes it cover the one knuckle I split open.
“Thank you,” I whisper. Our thighs are pressed together, and she’s cradling my hand in her lap, staring at it instead of looking at me.
If I weren’t currently feeling my heartbeat in my knuckles, I might consider sliding that hand up her thigh.
Her very bare, toned, tanned thigh that’s so temptingly close.
Slow down. You’ve been warned twice about her. Don’t scare her off.
“You ready to go, or do you need to close up first?” I say lightly, easing her into this but well aware that I’m not giving her a choice.
It’s a trick I learned from watching my sister-in-law, Allyson, with her son.
Don’t give options you don’t want them to pick.
Never say ‘you want broccoli or fries’ because everyone will pick the fries.
Instead, offer ‘broccoli with butter or cheese’ so that it’s broccoli no matter what.
Willow’s only option is now or later, not never.
“Go where?”
Thank you, Allyson! The psychology tricks she plays on Cooper, and fine, me and my brothers too, worked for me this time because Willow didn’t even try to say no.
“Welcome Wagon tour of Great Falls. I’ll show you everything—the best places to eat, where to take pictures, the best shopping area, where to take pictures, downtown Great Falls, where to take pictures.
” I’m not stupid, and I know the key to getting her excited.
If photography is her thing, I’ll exploit the hell out of it to get her to say yes right now.
“It’s the middle of the night. I’m not going anywhere but home.”
“Or we could check out all those places, and I’ll tell you everything you could ever want to know about Great Falls.
Then we can eat fresh doughnuts, pink with sprinkles, of course,” I say, letting her know I haven’t forgotten her earlier confession, “and watch the sun rise. That’d make great pictures. ”
Her light touch traces along the calluses on my fingertips, swirling and teasing as though she’s learning my skin. But I can sense the turmoil inside her, the desire to say yes warring with a need to say no.
“Are you usually this friendly and welcoming with newcomers?” she says behind a shy smile, melting for me by degrees.
Chuckling, I confess, “Not at all. I’m more a ‘silent but deadly’ type, but you’re special.”
Her jaw goes rigid and her eyes narrow. “You can stop whatever game you’re playing.”
She hasn’t moved an inch, but there’s an instant, yawning void between us and I don’t know how I fucked up. She closes the first aid kit and stands, trying to put it back in Hank’s desk.
Elbows on my knees and hands clasped between them, I silently watch her fumbling with the contents of the overstuffed drawer.
She gets the kit situated and shuts the drawer with a slam that feels like an alarm bell going off. Leaning a hip against the desk, her arms crossed over her chest defensively, she locks her eyes on me. They swirl like a mood ring, tortured and thoughtful.
I get the feeling she has no idea how gorgeous she is and has no defense against someone like me other than being enticingly skittish. But I don’t want to make her uncomfortable. I won’t be like Joe, thinking that I’m entitled to her just because I want her.
But fuck, I want her.
I haven’t been this instantly attracted to someone in .
. . maybe ever. I don’t know what it is about her.
She’s more cute than hot, more sweet than sassy, and it’s entirely possible that a rough cowboy like me might not be what she wants at all.
But I’m willing to try, again and again, because something in that soft smile tells me she’ll be worth it.
I dig deep, searching for words on demand, which is not something I’m good at by any measure.
Studied, practiced, written and rewritten phrases I can do, but turning the jumble of images and thoughts in my head into something that expresses them to someone else in the moment is unfathomably difficult.
And it’s why I usually just keep my mouth shut.
“What just happened? I’m not playing games.” I copy her words, keeping my voice steady and low, “but if I said something wrong, I’m sorry.”
I honestly can’t remember the last time I apologized. For anything.
“It’s fine. I need to go help Unc with closing. I’m sure you know your way out.”
Every word is crisp and clipped, and she doesn’t seem to suffer from the same affliction as I do. She is saying exactly what she means, dismissing me as she walks out the door with her head held high.
Total crash and burn.
I’m three cups of coffee in and it’s barely past sunrise.
The sunrise I should’ve spent watching Willow snap away on her camera.
It was a damn gorgeous one too, with pinks and oranges lighting up the purple sky like blooming fire I wish she’d seen.
But I feel like I’m the one who missed out, not her.
Because she’s probably at home, warm and snuggled in her bed, and I’m out here in the fields.
“What crawled up your ass?” Brutal asks.
Oh, yeah, and I’m not alone to wallow in my failure, either. I’ve got my older brother trying to figure out what pissed in my cereal this morning and I don’t even eat cereal.
“Nothing,” I snap, focusing on the plums from the handful of trees we’re harvesting today.
“Hey, think fast!” That’s all the warning I get before one of the fruits is hurtling straight toward my head.
Reflexively, I catch it, pain shooting through my knuckle.
I toss the plum to the bucket that’s already half-full.
My sister, Shayanne, is going to have enough to make a fair amount of jam.
She sells it at the local farmer’s market, to the restaurant at the tourist-filled resort in town, and to folks all over Great Falls and Morristown.
“What’d you do to your hand?”
“I didn’t know it was twenty-questions day. My hand’s fine.”
I yanked the Band-Aid off as I got dressed this morning, not wanting to invite questions.
But Brutal’s got eagle eyes and probably noticed some small detail, like the speed of the middle finger I flip him or the tightness in my fist as I pluck plums, and that was enough to clue him in that something’s wrong.
He hums his disagreement and is quiet for a moment, seeing if I’ll fill in the blanks. When I don’t, he theorizes for me.
“You played at Hank’s last night. Fan’s jealous husband?”