Chapter 27
Dominic
Hand to God, I do not know if I should have told Cecily that.
It takes our actions and removes every shred of we were drunk and didn't know what we were doing.
For me, anyway.
Cecily grew quiet after that, and I don't blame her.
I know she wrestles with everything that has transpired between us.
The good date that soured, that night in Vegas, waking up to find out we'd married.
And now this road trip, underscored by the certain loss of her grandmother in the not-too-distant future. It's a lot to handle.
The city of Tucson, with its traffic and restaurants and people, yields to desert scenery.
Bigger homes, spaced further apart. A wildlife center.
When Cecily was in the bathroom at the gas station, I took a minute to tap on the map she'd text me and look at where we're staying and the surrounding area.
There wasn't enough time to look at street views of anything, so I have only a basic idea of where we're headed.
It's a two-lane road all the way there, interrupted once in a while by a yellow road sign showing a man on a horse. It's not as if I've never seen these signs before, some parts of Scottsdale still have them, but it's a reminder of how far out of Phoenix we are.
"Almost there," I tell Cecily.
She reaches for the binder, flipping it open to the first page and reading from a printout.
"Nestled among the Rincon Mountains and adjacent to Saguaro National Park and Coronado National Forest, Tanque Verde Ranch is one of America's old-time cattle and guest ranches.
" Cecily looks up, an excited twinkle in her eyes. "It's a dude ranch."
A dude ranch? I could get into that.
My phone, propped up in the center console, spouts a direction I no longer need. "I'll close out the map," Cecily says, grabbing my phone. Finger poised, she pauses. Her eyebrows tug together. "My grandma sent you a text."
"Read it, please."
Cecily taps the text notification, and our conversation opens. "She says they are an hour away. Kerrigan refused to use the bathroom in the motor home, and it took everyone a long time to choose snacks at the convenience store."
"I wonder if Duke had to defend anybody's honor while they were at it." We come to a fork in the road, and I go right, following the unassuming wooden sign for Tanque Verde Ranch. "This is—"
"You talk to my grandma?"
"What?" I come to a stop in the parking lot for a family to walk past. They wave a hand in thanks, and I wave back.
Cecily's finger drags the length of the screen. "Dominic, you talk to my grandma! Enough that I had to scroll three times to reach the beginning."
"Of course I talk to her, Cecily. She's my supplier."
Cecily turns her head to me slowly, sending me a look that could curdle milk. "No getting high on this trip. I need you on your A-game."
"It was a joke," I mutter, making my way to the far end of the parking lot. I don't want Bernice next to any cars, or more accurately, car doors.
When we're in Park, I turn to Cecily. "You can read every text I've exchanged with Ophelia, ok?
It's not like I've said anything bad about you, because there is nothing bad to say about you.
And I haven't told her about our marriage, because that's our business.
She asked me for my number that day at her house because she wanted to include it in the information she was putting together for the trip.
And then she sent me a message the next day, asking about food allergies and preferences.
" I gesture at the phone. "Look for yourself. "
Cecily skims the phone. "You asked her how she was feeling."
"Should I not have?" I'm so confused.
Emotion floods Cecily's voice. "It was nice of you. Thank you for doing that. For checking on her." She takes a deep breath and replaces my phone in the console, then looks around. "Why are we parked so far from the entrance?"
"Away from cars that could dent Bernice, but also where there's enough space so that giant motor home can park near us."
We get out of the car, and Cecily meets me at the back.
I pop the trunk, hand Cecily the Just Married sign, and grab our luggage.
We both brought soft-sided bags with handles, not a rolling suitcase in sight.
Cecily places the sign on the now-empty floor of the trunk, then shoulders her purse and larger travel bag, binder clutched to her chest. She reaches for her luggage, but I shrug her off. "I've got it."
She gives me a look. "Are you going to carry my bag for three weeks?"
"No. Sometimes I'll set it down."
She turns away to keep me from seeing her smile. Too late. I glimpsed it.
We check in at reception and are led down a cactus-lined path to a group of muted salmon-pink casitas. Each one has a seating area out front with a rough-hewn wood overhang. It's charming and western and our home for the next two days.
The receptionist opens the door with an actual key, which she places on the small table inside the door. "Let us know if you need anything. Please enjoy your stay."
Then she's gone, and there's nothing in the room but silence and a massive bed.
"Do you feel like it's staring at you?" Cecily asks, eyeing the bed.
"Sort of, yeah." I walk over, giving it a hip check. It doesn't budge. The frame is made of solid wood. "Maybe if we lie on it, we'll take away some of its power."
Cecily saunters over. She slides the hair tie from the bottom of her braid, positions it on her wrist, and runs her fingers through her hair. The gold bangles tinkle, ceasing as they fall down her forearm.
I swear I try not to stare at her, but her eyes are closed while she massages her fingers over her scalp, and the motion lifts her chest, pushing it out a bit, and, yes I am a nice, respectful man, but I am also human. Humans like pretty things. I don't make the rules.
Cecily finishes her post-braid ritual. She hoists herself onto the tall bed, lying back on her elbows. Her legs stretch out, sleek and tan and toned in those denim cut-offs. "Let's get this over with," she says, patting the empty space beside her.
I'd love to, but now I have a bit of a problem. If I lay on that bed, Cecily is going to see how very much a certain part of my anatomy enjoyed watching her not-intended-to-be-sensual bedside grooming.
I roll back on my heels. The move is really just a covert way for me to place my hands in my pockets and tent the front of my shorts. "I'm going to freshen up first."
Cecily's eyes squint in confusion. "You know it was your idea to get on this bed, right?"
"Mm-hmm," I say, trying to see but not see Cecily's shape on that bed. Her dark hair wavy from her braid, spilling out behind her.
People chewing with their mouths open.
How hot dogs are made.
In-grown toenails.
Nothing is working. That fucker is still punching the front of my shorts.
Cecily frowns and rolls over onto her side. She props her head up on her hand, arm bent. Gravity does its job, weighing down her breasts. They are round and full and there's now a deep line of cleavage, reducing me to a pubescent male. Fuck you, gravity.
"Dominic—" My name is all that Cecily can get out, because her eyes are level with my crotch. And, despite my best efforts at concealment, Cecily has clocked my raging erection.
"Oh," she says, the blush on her cheeks instantaneous.
It cannot be any more crimson than the heat I feel rushing over me. Is it possible for the entire body to blush, and have it not be from excess niacin or an allergic reaction? Because, damn, do I feel hot all over.
She sits up quickly, cross-legged on the printed bedspread.
"I'm gonna—" Her eyes flash around the room.
She must decide on something, because she launches herself off the bed.
"Take a walk," she says, with too much gusto.
"You, uhh—" She pauses to slide her feet into the shoes she discarded by the door. "You do you. Literally."
Cecily flees.
My head drops. Perhaps, when I step through the bathroom door, I will be thrust into a different world. I'll even take a sinkhole.
I'm a grown man. Persistent and unrelenting hard-ons should be something I can handle. I step into the bathroom (no sinkhole, no portals), and close the door behind me. Gripping the edge of the bathroom sink, I force my gaze to the front of my shorts.
Wow. No wonder Cecily escaped. This thing was pointed right at her.
I take so many deep breaths, I lose count. In for four, out for four. I should be the most relaxed man in the desert southwest, but I'm not. This thing will not go down. I turn around, and face the door.
At this point, there is only one solution. I have to act fast, because who knows how long Cecily's walk will be?
Turns out, that's not a problem. With my left hand pressed against the wooden door, I take matters into my own, ahem, hand.
Closing my eyes, I chase the edge of something sharp and carnal and necessary.
Too much of Cecily lingers in my system, and in a shockingly short amount of time, I am relieved of my problem.
When it's over, I rest my forehead against the door, heart rate lowering to a steady rhythm.
The alleviation is tantamount to the realization quickly soaking through my post-orgasm stupor.
What just happened does not bode well for the next three weeks.
All it took was Cecily to shake out her hair and I was a goner.
What am I going to do, dissolve into a puddle when I see Cecily in her pajamas?
What if I catch a glimpse of her changing?
It's very possible that for the next three weeks I'm going to have to add rub one out to my morning routine.
Not even for pleasure, but for survival.
What have I gotten myself into?