Chapter 14 #2
I haven’t said this many consecutive words in years, especially not to a beautiful woman. Everything I say sounds stupid to my ears and I’m kicking myself for this asinine plan as each mile passes.
“Sounds good.” She gives a dozy smile. I turn on the radio to some old school country station and settle in for a long drive.
It isn’t long before I hear the softest snoring.
Isabelle is dead asleep, resting her head in her hand, elbow on the door armrest. How in the hell is she asleep?
She just downed sixteen ounces of caffeine.
Is she sick? Anxiety clutches at my chest for the second time this morning.
No. She said she’s fine. Not everyone is going to suddenly drop dead. Just thinking about Sam turns my stomach. I miss him so fucking much. It hurts to think about him and I’m ashamed by how hard I try to avoid his memory.
I’m grateful for the quiet, exhausted from all the human-ing I just did. My throat hurts from all the talking.
My eyes are free to devour her without worrying she's going to catch me looking. I’m pathetic.
I’ve been with a lot of women. So many, it makes me uncomfortable to admit. Being a man-whore is all fun and games while your dick is wet. Not so much when the rising sun heats your skin with disgust.
Hundreds of women, and not once have I been captivated like I am by Isabelle. She’s my fucking kryptonite.
She’s still asleep when we get to the Dreamhouse, giving me time to turn off the breaker and fabricate the power loss I told Isabelle we were here to fix.
Once I'm confident that my charade is believable, I wake Isabelle up from her car nap. We gather up the bags and bring them inside to what'll be our separate rooms.
Why the hell did I choose a property with more than one bedroom. Moron! One bedroom. Always choose one bedroom. I mentally kick myself in the ass while I bring in the coolers.
Being that we “don’t have power” I packed simple meals that will be kept cold in the coolers, that I can cook on the gas range. I’m no Michelin star chef, but I am a grown ass man who can cook. Mom made sure that us boys would never be a burden on whatever woman got stuck with us.
I’ve got fruit and oatmeal for breakfasts. For lunches I packed a shit load of char-cut— cuterie? —fucking adult Lunchables, and I’m making nachos and fettuccine alfredo, for our two dinners. I’m so nervous I don’t think I'll be able to eat at all.
I keep myself busy all afternoon to build up my nerve to be alone with her tonight.
She spends the day lost sketching. She’s stunning, pen between her lips, staring out the picturesque windows across the lake.
My breath hitches, her lithe figure framed by the bay windows, illuminated like an angel by the sun setting over the lake before her.
She’s elated that I planned nachos, and holy shit that girl can put them away. She cleared us out of everything I made. She may have eaten even more than I did. No, I know she did. Because my nerves made me nauseous, and I had to force myself to eat.
I couldn’t manage to uphold conversation, fumbling over my words and overall being awkward as fuck. So, we’ve retreated to our respective, fucking separate, bedrooms.
Pent-up anxiety is bubbling over, and I can’t stay in my room.
I put on a pair of athletic shorts and a spare T-shirt.
I don’t need a gorgeous woman like Isabelle catching me in my macabre shirtless glory.
I need to get my shit together, so I grab a cold beer and re-light the fire, settling into the sofa for a sleepless night obsessing over the goddess down the hall.
Movement from the corner of my eye jump-starts my heart.
She walks to the kitchen to get a glass of water without a word or glance in my direction.
I assumed she'd stay in her room the rest of the night.
I conspicuously look over my shoulder and watch as she brings the water glass to her mouth to drink.
Time slows around me like in a cheesy movie and I hear the seductive bass of whatever music they use during sex scenes. A drop of water escapes the corner of her mouth and drips onto creamy flesh. Her chunky knit sweater has parted away from her tank top covered middle and?—
Oh my god.
Are those?
Her nipples are pierced.
She has her nipples pierced.
The blood in my head plummets to my groin and I feel like I might pass out. The fire light casts caressing shadows across her breathtaking body. From my seat on the couch, I can clearly see the round tips of her tight little nipples. Each nipple is book-ended by smaller round balls.
She has barbells pierced through her nipples.
I stifle a moan. I can practically feel the cool metal clicking against my teeth, pulling her nipples into my mouth, one by one.
Glass clanks against stone and I whip around in my seat praying she didn’t catch me looking at her tits.
Soft footsteps shuffle across hard wood. Yep, she's coming over to sit by me.
Awesome. Goddamn middle school surprise boner.
I adjust my hard dick in my shorts, tucking the head up under the band of my boxer briefs. The fucker better not betray me and make a surprise appearance tonight. Fucking gym shorts do nothing to hide my problem.
We’ve been sitting by the fire in the living room for not even two minutes when the silence becomes unbearable for Isabelle. The quiet’s a blessing for me because if I opened my mouth to talk, all that would come out is “boobs.”
She huffs out a breath, shifts in her seat, lifts her left leg onto the seat and tucks her foot under her right leg, bringing her to face me. I wait.
“Spit it out.” She startles, not expecting my command, but doesn’t speak.
“I can read it all over your body language. You have somethin’ to say, so spit it out.”
“Fine,” she replies. “But it’s not something I want to say , more like something I want to ask .”
Panic floods my body, and tension crawls up my back and worms around my neck. I crack my head side to side to relieve the sensation. God knows where this is going but I already don’t like it. I tighten my grip on my beer bottle. Not diverting my focus on the crackling fire, I mutter, “Alright.”
She tilts her head to the side examining me, and after a long pause, speaks in a soft, curious voice. “Will you tell me about your ranch?”
“What?” That isn't what I was expecting in the least. I 100 percent thought she was going to ask what’s wrong with my face.
“I mean, I know your family has been a cornerstone of the town for generations. But it’s not like your family crossed paths with the likes of mine.
I’ve lived here all my life, and I’ve only spent blips of time on any open land.
We live in such an idyllic place, but I might as well be looking at it on a postcard because I’ve never had the chance to explore.
” She looks away, chewing on the side of her bottom lip.
“Lilah and I were so focused on getting by unnoticed, or at least unbothered, that we didn’t go to parties or anything. The only people who invited us anywhere were Connor and Olivia. Well, Connor mainly invited Delilah. Liv grew up on Granger Hill and we spent as much time there as possible.
“She only started boarding Maisey when she left for college because her parents couldn’t care for her anymore.
Delilah and I have spent a lot of time around Maisey, watching Olivia love on her and groom her, but we never rode her.
Lilah was terrified of falling off, and I was too embarrassed to ask her dad to teach me how.
” She shrugs, that enchanting blush highlighting her cheekbones.
“The idea that you grew up on a real-life cattle ranch is baffling to me. I can’t even picture it. It’s like we came from two different planets. That’s still where you live now, right?”
I give her a curt nod. She's asking about my home, my childhood, my life, my family history. I can’t remember the last time a woman bothered to ask anything about me aside from “where do you want to do this?” or “what happened to your face?”.
Come to think of it, I’m not sure a woman has ever asked to learn about this side of my life.
In high school, the girls only cared that I played football.
In what would’ve been my college years, they were looking for a no-strings attached fuck.
Women in town knew enough about me and my family that they never dug any deeper than what's generally known about us.
My mind is whirling, completely caught off guard.
She's patient and quiet while my brain glitches and asks again. “So…will you? Tell me about your ranch, I mean? You don’t have to. God you probably don’t even want to talk to me outside of work, let alone digging around in your personal life.
You know what, forget it. Forget I asked. I’m sorry.”
She moves to rise from her seat, but I reach out and grip her thigh with my right hand. We both look down at my hand in surprise.
Well, that was involuntary .
“No.” It comes out harsher than I intend, and she tries pulling her leg away. I grip it tighter.
What the fuck am I doing?
I clear my throat. “I meant, no, don’t forget it. I don’t mind talking about the ranch.”
She looks both surprised and relieved and I feel her quad muscle relax beneath my palm. The ripple sends shivers up my arm, so I quickly remove my hand from her leg.
“What—uh—what do you want to know?”
“I guess I want to know everything. Anything. Whatever you want to tell me. I can’t fathom what it was like growing up in a wide-open space, or playing outside of my house, or seeing animals every day.”
That pisses me off. Did her parents treat her like she lived in a prison cell?
The ranch is my solace, my foundation.
I relax my body down into my seat and get comfortable. I fiddle with my empty beer bottle to give my hand something to do while I talk. I could talk about the ranch all day and never tire of it, which is saying a lot considering I do my best to say as few words as possible at any given time.
But I’ve never openly described my life on the ranch to anyone before. My friends experienced it firsthand, and it was the norm for my family. I try to mentally take a step back and look at it from the lens of a newcomer, to describe it to someone who knows nothing about ranch life.
I'm speaking before I give my mouth permission to open. “Uh, yea, I still live there. To answer your question. Lived there all my life, never considered living anywhere else.” She doesn’t focus on me—watching the fire, she gives me the space to talk without any pressure.
“The ranch is…it’s amazing. My favorite place on earth. I don’t even know where to start…”