Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Haven
Lane enters my office Sunday afternoon and plops into the chair across from me. He’s just come in from haying, and he’s dressed like it. Cruz is in his office, and they usually take turns with their ranch duties like my brothers and I do with ours.
“How was the weekend?” he asks.
“More of the same.” Work’s been fine. Outside of Foster House, my weekends only change with the season—and if Prescott’s around.
She’s probably been working at Bootleg, but I haven’t gone there.
The only reason would be to see her, and that crosses a line.
What would I do, sit at the bar and fight off every prick who hits on her?
She’s not interested, but tell my jealousy that.
And if I wasn’t pissing my territory around her, I’d be sitting and staring at her. Doesn’t sound much better.
Lane picks a piece of grass off his pants and drops it into my wastebasket. “Mae’s coming out with Myles. Maybe next week.”
I sit up. Our former foster mother comes to Huckleberry Springs a couple of times a year, and I look forward to it more each visit. Every time, she’s just as calm as I remember, and it might be selfish, but she asks about my life, and she listens. “Yeah?”
“I’m not sure who else is joining them, but I invited them out. Everyone’s welcome.”
“I’ll be there.”
Lane’s place is nice. He and Cruz live next to each other, a few miles in the other direction from the distillery.
He kicks an ankle over his knee and crosses his hands over his gut. “Bringing anyone?”
A pang of something hits between my ribs when I say, “No. Why?”
He rolls a shoulder. “Just heard that you and Prescott have been a thing.”
“From who?”
“I stopped at Bootleg last night, and before Cruz showed up, I talked to Silas.” He smirks. “Said he was glad it was me and not ‘that single Hennessy that’s been sniffing around.’”
I gawk at Lane. He’s just the messenger, but damn. Sniffing around?
She smells nice, like the wildflowers in the ditch I found her in, but it’s not like I’m secretly sniffing her hair. I’d have to get close to her, and I’ve been a damn good boy when it comes to that. “We’re friends.”
“Then invite her out.”
Invite her by telling her I want her at a gathering of the closest people in my life, but it doesn’t mean anything? “I’m sure she’ll be working.”
He snorts. “Yeah, she will. When she’s there, Silas thinks it’s social hour. That girl is busting her ass while he’s chatting up a storm, though she doesn’t really seem to mind.”
She’s soaking up the time with him, but that’s her business, not Lane’s.
He slaps the arms of the chair and gets up. “Either way, come on over. Mae will be happy to see you.”
“She’s happy to see everyone.” I state it as a fact. One I admire.
He adopts a fond smile. “She’s amazing.” He starts for the door.
I sit forward. “You going to Bootleg again tonight?”
He grips the back of his neck and blows out a breath. “No. Hutch is on a bender, and I should stick around home to make sure he doesn’t fall asleep smoking and burn all our places down.”
“He’s getting worse?” Lane’s neighbor is a known alcoholic, the sad type who misses his late wife and the kids he drove away. He’s also a smoker and has had a lot of close calls with fire in and around his house.
“He was ranting last week about how his kids won’t return his calls, and then he’s just been tanked since. I found him weaving through the pasture this morning, trying to catch his horse.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah,” he says grimly. “It’s bad. I’m gonna do some work and then check on him. Cruz says he’ll look in on him in the morning before he goes to the bakery to help Elodie. ”
“Let me know if you need help. I can always make some excuse to swing by his house.”
“Appreciate it, man.” He throws me a wave when he leaves.
He won’t ask. Lane is good at delegating at work, but he and Cruz are almost like twins despite their three-year difference.
I finished all my cleaning this morning, and my paperwork is done. Iverson’s working the tasting room, and normally I’d go home. There’s always something to fix, but restless energy teases my muscles. I’ll go home and play with Meadow for a while, but I don’t want to stay there.
My phone buzzes on my desk.
Red: Do you have a few minutes today to stop by Bootleg?
I snatch it up so fast I fumble it.
Me: Yes. Just got done with work.
Red: I have your images. I can send you the link, but I want to explain how I did the edits.
I don’t care. I just want to see her. I’m about to text back when another one comes through.
Mom: Three on Saturday. Late lunch? I’ll text you the place later.
I stare at it for a moment before I reply to Prescott instead.
Me: I’ll stop at home first and then be right there.
I send Mom a quick yes and leave work. At home, I let Meadow out of the mudroom, and she follows me as I check on the kittens, give the horses their evening meal, and feed and water the chickens.
Once I’m done caring for my animals, I dart into the house to clean up.
I don’t change clothes. That’ll look like I’m trying too hard.
I shove a ball cap on my head, say goodbye to Meadow, and hop back into the pickup.
Bootleg doesn’t have many cars around it yet, but it’s a Sunday night. Those are usually quiet, and sometimes that’s why I come. I can unwind somewhere that isn’t my own place of employment, and I don’t have to think about chatting up a woman. Now I want it to stay slow so I can talk to my girl.
After I park, I trot to the door. Inside, there’re only a few people sitting around a couple tables. Rafting guides, probably, around one. At the other is a guy that owns some rentals in the area and a woman—not the wife he’s divorcing.
Prescott’s leaning against the counter, scrolling through her phone.
Her coppery hair is in a thick braid again.
I have yet to see it unbound in all its wavy glory.
The braid gives me enough naughty ideas, along with the image of her bending over in my kitchen.
The two fantasies clash together in a glorious display of sparks.
She looks up and smiles. My whole world slows. Damn, she’s beautiful. Those eyes that see right into me should make me feel exposed. Instead, I feel seen.
“Working hard or hardly working?” I joke and take a stool across from her.
She rolls her eyes at my lame humor. “You sound like Papa.”
“Where is he?”
“Another one of his rodeo friends is in town, and they went out for Mexican.” She pulls out her phone. “I’m going to send you a link to the photo gallery I uploaded.”
“All right.” I pull out my phone too, and when the link comes through, I click on it. An image of my smiling face at the river appears on the screen. “Damn. ”
She skirts around the bar and sits next to me. “You like it?”
I don’t look like myself, but I do. I’m smiling as if I like what I see, and since she’s holding the camera, that’s exactly what’s going on.
There’s also a shyness. I don’t want to make an idiot of myself, but from the crisp colors and the slight fade to the background, she would’ve made me look good no matter what.
“I’m too damn old to pose like some eighteen-year-old, but you make it look natural.”
Satisfaction fills her face. “It’s not hard with you.”
“There’s no better photo of me on this earth.”
“Trust me, there are.” She reaches over me to scroll, and I let her get as close as she wants.
When her chest grazes my arm, my vision goes blurry.
“I love the outdoor ones, but the distillery ones blow those out of the water.” Her voice is in my ear.
Pressure builds behind my zipper. I could come from a tit swipe.
That’s how bad off I am. “You’ll notice some are more polished, maybe a little shinier.
Those are the ones I’ve edited, but I didn’t Photoshop you or anything. You don’t need it.”
“Are you telling me that I’m handsome?”
“You know you are.” She pokes my screen to bring up the next image, and there’s that brush of her shirt again. My gut clenches. “There are over a hundred and fifty.” She thinks for a moment. “Or was it a hundred seventy? I got a little carried away in Foster House.”
“A hundred and seventy? Of just me? That’s more pictures than have been taken of me my whole life.”
She laughs and then peers at me, her smile dying. “Are you serious?”
I nod .
“Haven, I used to take that many pictures in a week when I was posting regularly.”
“I’d take that many of you too.” Before I creep her out, I scroll through her work. Image after image of me, and not a bad one in the bunch. “Didn’t you catch me blinking or with my mouth open?”
“Yes, and each one made me feel better.” She points at my phone. “You could be a model.”
“Yeah, right.”
“That grin can sell anything. Probably panties to replace the ones that smoldering look destroys.”
It’s my turn to stare at her, stunned. “And yours? Are they safe around me, Red?”
A flush blazes into her cheeks. “You’ll never know.”
Never say never. I tip my head toward her so none of the customers can hear. “You think I call you Red because of your hair, but, honey, that’s the color of the underwear you were wearing the day the wind blew your skirt up.”