Chapter 31
Dominic
Cecily looks like a dream atop a horse. Like a modern, western version of Xena the Warrior Princess.
I might, and I stress might, have had a thing for Xena when I was younger.
Those after-school re-runs were something to behold.
Was it Xena's powerful thighs, or her villain redemption arc that spoke to me? Not sure, but it had me feeling things.
Today I am wearing compression underwear underneath the jeans required for the trail ride.
They won't stop me from having another unfortunate situation in Cecily's presence, but they might give me a fighting chance.
I'm going to need it, after our middle-of-the-night cricket fiasco.
Cecily didn't realize how much her shirt had ridden up, how the fabric had gathered at her hips and lifted the hem.
I didn't see what a bikini bottom hides, but knowing it was right there, not covered by fabric or a sheet?
The memory played on a loop in my mind, unsettling me enough that it took an hour for me to fall back to sleep.
I'm convinced that woman might be the death of me.
She was awake and in the bathroom before me, emerging wearing skin-tight blue jeans tucked into tan and turquoise cowgirl boots, tan tank top knotted at her lower back. And the braid, tossed over her shoulder. May the good Lord help me when she brushes out that braid. Help me, or knock me dead.
Quint the cowboy is not a grizzled old fart.
He's not a young stud either, much to Kerrigan's chagrin.
Ranging somewhere from forty to fifty-five (hard to tell with the cowboy hat and sunglasses), Quint wears the typical cowboy getup: jeans, boots, and a button-up long sleeve shirt.
And, most notably, a simple gold wedding band.
We ride in a line through the desert, with me bringing up the rear and Cecily directly in front of me.
Before we climbed on our horses, we stood in a semi-circle and listened to Quint's lecture on what to do and what not to do.
I overheard Kerrigan say to Cecily, "Isn't it weird to see Mom in this setting? "
"Like putting an alien in Sweet Nothings," Cecily agreed.
Kerrigan had looked at her with surprise, and Cecily said, "Stop it, Kerr. I can talk about home."
"Not fondly," Kerrigan countered.
"Get on your damn horse," Cecily responded, and that was that.
Surreptitiously, I typed the name of Cecily's hometown and Sweet Nothings into the internet search bar on my phone. Turns out it's simply the name of a bakery in Olive Township.
I am, by nature, curious, but there was something else driving me, a desire to glimpse anything having to do with Cecily. I want to know her. Her backstory. I'm learning her preferences by being around her, but I want more.
The sun, heavy in the east, peeks over the tops of the mountains ahead and sends a glow around Cecily.
Her braid shines in the sun, a loose tendril floating in the slight breeze.
Her posture is relaxed, hands loosely holding the reins.
Surrounded by outstanding desert scenery, yet Cecily is the most breathtaking view of all.
Sliding my phone from my pocket, I snap a photo of her. I'll send it to her later.
The trail is a wide swath of dirt, flanked by cacti that look menacing despite the bright flowers unfurling from them. In the distance, a large bird of prey swoops and soars.
Quint talks loudly to the group, but I can't hear most of what he's saying. That's just as well, because I don't care. Between the desert landscape and Cecily, there's too much beauty around me to pay attention to much else.
Eventually we arrive at The Outpost, the building where the ranch serves the sunrise breakfast. Ophelia and Rainbow are already there, having been driven over by a ranch vehicle.
The Outpost is an ivory stucco building with a decidedly Spanish feel.
A splintered wagon wheel leans against one wall, prickly pear cactus growing around it.
Written on the wall in bright orange-red lettering are the words The Outpost. An honest-to-God hitching post runs half the length of the front porch, and Quint shows us how to safely tie up the horses.
The entrance to the place appears to be nothing more than antique saloon doors, and when I push through, I find there's a proper door on tracks that has been rolled open.
"This place is so cool," Cecily says. Her touch runs over my shoulder, trailing down my arm. It's not as if she has never touched me, but this time feels different. Slower, lingering. Affectionate.
It's not, though. Ophelia's looking on. The rest of her family, too.
A long picnic table occupies a majority of the open room, candelabras much like the one at dinner last night hanging above the table in three foot intervals. Behind the table is an open style kitchen, men and women walking quickly back-and-forth.
"Breakfast is being cooked out here," Quint says, leading the group through a door on the opposite side of the building. "Come out and take a look."
Cecily and I are standing closest to the exit, so we are the first to follow Quint.
I motion for Cecily to step in front of me, and without thinking too hard about it, I place my hand on the small of her back.
She has a deep curve there, and my hand fits inside it perfectly, my fingers evenly splayed.
Cecily tosses me the briefest of glances before we step out of the door into the bright sunshine.
I could probably drop my hand by now, but, well, I don't want to. Instead, I let my thumb inch over the skin of her lower back, left bare by that knot in her tank top. Back-and-forth, my thumb drags on, and it cannot be more than five seconds, but those five seconds feel right.
Dropping my hand should be a decision I make without consideration, but not right now. I have to, quite literally, force myself to discontinue contact. My fingertips meet the air, and I have the irresistible urge to say fuck it, to bend her backwards and kiss her like there's no tomorrow.
I won't. I can't. Not in front of her family. I know we agreed on chaste kisses, but the first time I put my sober lips on hers cannot be in front of her family. She deserves more, and I don't know if I'll be able to stop myself. A taste of Cecily, and I'll become a man crazed.
Quint shows us the flat-top griddle, and one by one the men and women from the kitchen walk out, arms laden with everything needed to prepare a breakfast that more closely resembles a feast. Blueberry pancakes, scrambled eggs, ranch potatoes, and thick, hickory smoked bacon.
Salty ham, fruit, sourdough toast, juices and coffee.
The Hamptons behavior is vastly improved this morning.
Perhaps Ophelia scared them straight, or maybe it was Cecily's text to the sparsely used family group chat last night.
Whatever it was, they seem to have taken it to heart.
Even Marilyn, usually absent while present, compliments the crisp bacon, the fluffy pancakes.
When she thinks nobody can see, Kerrigan mouths to Cecily, What the fuck?
Cecily smiles slowly. She wraps an arm around Ophelia's shoulders, and says, "Thank you for arranging the trail ride and breakfast. It has been an amazing experience, and I would've never thought to plan it for myself."
Ophelia harrumphs. "You are only saying that because I got mad at everybody."
Cecily laughs. "That is one hundred percent not true."
"Sure it is," Duke says, popping a piece of cantaloupe in his mouth. "Cecily sent out a group text last night and threatened everybody within an inch of their lives."
Cecily makes an aggrieved sigh, but Duke winks at her, and her bluster dissipates.
We stack our plates for the staff, carrying them inside despite their protestations. Even Glenn carries empty coffee mugs on his fingers, earning a second murmur of what the fuck from Kerrigan.
I'm starting to think watching this family interact might be better than prime-time television.
Everything is going well until we reunite with the horses. I'm standing beside Cecily, and the natural thing to do would be to plant a kiss on her before we part to mount our horses. She seems to know this, understand this, and tips her face up to mine.
Two opposite and distinct thoughts swell inside me. Devour her mouth because I cannot imagine doing anything less, or settle for a chaste, underwhelming peck.
Or there's option three, which is what I end up choosing. I lean in...and rub the tip of my nose against hers.
Cecily pales. Hurt fills her eyes, followed closely by fury. I wish desperately for the packed Arizona clay earth to crack open and swallow me down. How am I going to recover from a gaffe of this magnitude?
Cecily shoves her foot in the stirrup, swinging her other leg up and in the direction of the horse's backside. And also, directly into my crotch.
"Oof." I breathe hard, knees knocking together as the sharp pain boomerangs around a part of me I'm quite fond of.
Cecily glares down at me, deliberately rearranging her face into one of apology. "Oops," she says, adopting an ultra-feminine lilt. She guides her horse away, leaving me there. Forcing myself upright, I look into the curious gazes of the Hampton family.
"She's a pistol," I say, retreating to my own horse.
"Probably should have figured that out before you married her," Glenn responds.
I stiffen. Turn around woodenly. "I wouldn't have her any other way." There's challenge in my tone. Defiance.
Glenn has nothing to say, and that's a damn good thing. Cecily and I might be headed for an annulment at the end of this, but for now, she's my wife.
I need to catch up with Cecily, explain myself. I've hurt her feelings. I mount my horse, using the reins to urge his turn, and startle. Cecily has not gone far. In fact, she's hardly gone anywhere.
"Thank you," she says softly.
I pull my horse up beside her, her booted foot bouncing against my tennis shoe. Impractical footwear for a trail ride, but all I had.
I look at her full on, hoping she can feel the strength of my gaze, an apology without words. "You are sacred ground, Cecily. I won't allow anyone to speak badly about you in my presence."
She smiles, but it's not exactly happy. More like melancholy. "Because I'm your wife?"
I long to reach out, lift her chin with a fingertip. "Because you're you."