Chapter 13 #3
“I know what you need. Get in the truck. I’m taking this date over.”
“Because I messed up so royally?” I say softly.
“No, because Katelyn was wrong. You need to relax and have some fun, and while I might not be able to get us in at the resort with zero notice, I do know a spot that’s perfect. Leave it to me, sweetheart.”
I do, because as much as I hate to admit it, it’s nice to have someone take care of me for a change. It’s a relief to simply sit back in the cushioned seat of Bobby’s truck and see where he takes me.
“Keep ’em closed.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting the desire to open them.
We’ve been going for what seems like forever, first stopping by my place where Bobby quickly ran inside by himself to emerge with my camera bag before heading here.
Wherever here is. The truck bumps along, and without knowing when to brace, my butt flies out of the seat a bit.
“Whoo!” I scream, a little scared but a little . . . exhilarated?
Is that what this feeling is? And is it because of the wild ride across the field or because of the man at my side?
Both. Definitely both.
We come to a stop, and Bobby says, “Okay, you can open now.”
I open my eyes and look around to find a pond sunk into a low point in the rolling green pasture.
On the far side, a few cows laze about on the bank, drinking and lying down in the surprisingly not-brown water.
It’s not Caribbean blue or anything, but it does look fresher than I’d expect for what’s likely rain runoff and collection.
“A pond?” I ask, not sure why we’re here, though the scenery is pretty and my finger does itch to take a few pictures of those cows who are now mooing at the interruption of their afternoon dip.
“A spring-fed pond,” Bobby corrects, emphasizing the spring-fed part.
“That means it’s clean enough to swim in.
” He smiles and reaches into the back seat, pulling up my camera bag and handing it to me carefully.
“I grabbed you a suit, and yes, that means I went through your dresser drawers. If you’re mad, get over it now or I’ll have to start calling you Hank. ”
The message is loud and clear. He’s doing something nice for me, offering a distraction from the disaster today has been, and I shouldn’t argue about it like my stubborn uncle.
When Bobby had stopped at my little cabin and told me to stay put while he grabbed something, I’d given in easily. He’d come out with my camera bag, and I’d figured we were doing the wildflower pictures at the cemetery today.
But this might be better. It might be a lot better. Even if the worry about Unc is still sharp in my belly.
I mime zipping my lip.
“Good girl. I’ll step out so you can change, and I’ll meet you over there.” He points to a spot on the bank by a big flat rock.
He opens his door and grabs a moving blanket out of the back, shaking it out as he goes. I’m dumbstruck as I watch him stride toward the water and spread the blanket out. He glances back at me, and though the sun glints off the windshield, I feel like he knows I’m watching him.
He reaches behind his neck, pulling his T-shirt over his head in one swoop.
“Oh, my God,” I mutter to nobody.
Bobby is thick and muscled, tanned with a slight line along his arms that says he must work with his shirt off at least sometimes.
A dusting of dark hair covers his chest, pulling together into a thin line that disappears into his jeans.
Which is exactly where his hands are now, undoing the button and zipper.
He leaves them sagging open to reach down and pull his boots and socks off.
Staring directly at the truck, or at me—I’m not sure which—he pushes his jeans over his ass and down his thighs.
The man has no shame. But he has zero reason to. Standing in just black boxer briefs, he looks like hot sex and wicked sin.
And mine.
There’s a hunger deep inside me that’s thrilled this man wants me and wants me to want him.
There’s an even bigger thrill that he doesn’t want casual and throw-away but is being remarkably and unusually clear in his desire for something deeper and more meaningful.
I feel like I won the lottery with him. Not just any old lottery, either, but the Powerball. And against all my usual instincts to share and take care of others, I want to revel in him, keeping him all to myself like a stingy bitch.
He winks at me and takes off, running barefoot through the dirt toward the water.
He splashes in up to his thighs then dives under the surface expertly, coming up further out with a whip of his hair that sends water droplets flying.
The cows moo their displeasure, but Bobby calls out, “Come on, Willow! Get in with me!”
Oh, I’m in. I’m in deep, way over my head and treading water.
I awkwardly maneuver around in the truck to change out of my shorts and T-shirt and into the bikini Bobby tucked into my camera bag.
I own two suits, and of course, he brought the smaller of the two.
It’s basically four triangles, one for each boob, one for my front, and one for my butt, all held together with strings that tie on my hips and at the center of my back.
I make sure everything’s tucked in appropriately and send a quick prayer of thanks that I had the foresight to shave my bikini area so it doesn’t look like a Sasquatch bush escaping from behind the black fabric.
I slip my tennis shoes back on but leave them untied so I can kick them off on the blanket, along with my glasses.
My walk to the water is nowhere near as confident as Bobby’s swaggered one, but he watches me approach all the same. His eyes follow my every move, roaming and tracing my curves as I get closer. I get the sense that he’s memorizing me.
Barefoot, I wade into the water. It’s just this side of cool, a perfect contrast to the hot day, and goosebumps break out along my skin. Bobby swims closer and stands in front of me.
“You are stunning. I want to kiss every inch of your skin, tease at these goosebumps with my fingertips, and feel your body against mine,” he says softly, grit and gravel in his voice.
“Okay,” I say breathlessly.
I want that too. All of that, please.
In my brain, Ilene’s bell goes off. Ding! I’m ready.
“Close your eyes for me again,” he orders, and they slip shut of their own accord.
I feel his arms surround me, scooping me up until my legs are over one ropey forearm and his other is wrapped around my back. I try to wrap my arms around his neck to keep my balance, but before I can, I’m flying through the air.
“Ahh!” I squeal, my eyes flying open right before I bust through the surface, going under. Water goes up my nose, and I swallow some too, coming up sputtering and mad.
“I thought you were going to . . . what the . . .” Words aren’t coming out, so I settle with slapping the water and screeching, “Bobby Tannen!”
He grins hugely, big and wide, like he’s heard that more than a time or two. “Got you out of your head, didn’t I? Now let’s have some fun.”
I blink, still getting water from my eyes because my bangs are hanging low, brushing well past my brows. I shake my head like a dog and push my hair to the side. “What?”
“Race you to the other side,” he says, already swimming before he finishes the words.
I’m dumbstruck for a moment, giving him an even bigger head start, but realization kicks in and I dive after him, working hard to make up the distance.
Feet kicking and arms swinging, I cut through the water. It’s not graceful by any means, but it’s effective, and I reach the cows only a few seconds after he does.
“This is Maverick,” he tells me, petting the cow’s side.
“You can tell them all apart?” I ask, surprised. At dinner the other night, it’d sounded like they have lots of cattle, hundreds of them at least.
He shakes his head. “No, Mark and Brody can, but they go by numbers.” He points to the tag on the cow’s ear that says 178.
“I’ve made friends with a few of them, though.
There are a few different places I like to sit when I’m working on a song, and some of the cows are curious.
They’ll come right up and sit down next to me, mooing for scratches like a dog. ”
“The goats did that!” I say, smiling. Slowly, I raise a hand and scratch Maverick too. The cow moos loudly, and I jump, but a second later, I realize it’s the cow version of encouragement and do it again.
After a few minutes, Bobby asks, “Can you float?”
“I don’t know. It’s been a while since I’ve tried,” I say, trying to think back. Maybe when I was a teenager? Since then, my water activities have been more along the lines of lying beside it than in it.
“Come on,” he says, taking my hand and pulling me through the water.
We go deeper until the water reaches his chest and my chin before he picks me up again.
“No,” I squeal, kicking and grabbing around his neck.
He laughs. “I won’t. I’m gonna hold you so you can float.
Trust me.” His face is serious, and I believe him that this isn’t a setup to throw me again.
Slowly, I relax, and he guides me back, one hand low on my spine and one at my shoulders, and I float.
Nervously, I don’t let my head go too far back, not liking water in my ears, but I like the feel of his hands on me a lot.
“Relax. I’ve got you, Willow. Take a deep breath and look at the sky above you. Blue infinity, white puffs that look as soft as cotton. Listen. Hear the wind and the cows. Feel the water caressing you, cooling your skin. Breathe, be heavy in the water, in my hands. Let me hold you up.”
I listen to his rough voice, almost meditative with calm, quiet, soothing tones, doing as he says . . . the sky, the wind, the water, and finally, him. I am in tune with everything around me, especially Bobby.