Still Waters
LILA
My head whips around and I nearly miss the next rung of the ladder. Slade is standing beneath me, looking up at me from beneath the brim of his black cowboy hat.
From up here I get a view I didn’t have last night, the full width of those shoulders filling out a worn grey plaid flannel, sleeves rolled to the elbow, forearms corded with muscle and dusted with dark hair.
His Wranglers fit his athlete’s body breathtakingly well.
He’s got his chin tipped up to look at me and the brim of his hat is pushed back just enough that I can see his face clearly, can see those deep green eyes trained on me.
It’s the second time I’ve met him and I’m still not used to the size of him, that height that puts us eye-to-eye when I’m halfway up a ladder. My research last night taught me he’s been throwing other enormous athletes into boards for fifteen years and he looks every bit of it.
That same rabbit hole also led me to the pregame stretching videos and, yeah. I was not prepared for that. The rolling hip thrust into the ice? My jaw dropped. I’m sure there’s a very good sports medicine explanation behind it, but the move looks intensely sexual.
I think of the comments underneath so many of those videos, usually some mixture of awestruck or thirsty. Or both. Like: Slade Rhodes is a beast.
Yes, indeed.
As I take careful steps down the ladder, he holds out a hand to help me on the last step. His palm is warm and calloused, a working man’s hands. So unlike the soft hands of the boys I’ve known before, who only ever used theirs to swing a golf club or sign papers with Daddy’s Montblanc pen.
My feet hit the floor and he doesn’t immediately let go, and now I’m standing close enough to count the dark flecks in his green eyes.
“Hi,” I say, a little breathlessly.
He actually stopped by my boutique. I don’t know what to make of that. I’m not normally a shy person, but in between our goodbye last night and seeing him this morning, I fear the seeds of a crush have been planted, and now I’m a little nervous around him.
“Hi yourself.” His deep green eyes are steady on mine. I don’t know how to read his face. Is he happy to see me? What does he think of the boutique? He’s a pretty stoic guy.
Abruptly, he says, “Your hair. It really is pink.”
I tug at a long strand curling around my elbow. “I mean, it doesn’t grow out of my head that way, but yes.”
“I thought it was part of your costume.”
“Nope.” I feel my face heating up and I know I’m about to start babbling, the way I do when I get nervous. “I’ve had my hair all kind of candy-colored shades, but I’ve stuck with this one the last few years. I think it’s my favorite. Took me a minute to get the shade just right. Rose gold.”
Slade doesn’t say anything. Just examines me with that enigmatic, deep green gaze, like he’s taking in every little detail. The gold earrings climbing up my earlobes. The shimmery pink gloss on my lips. The lacy top and tight jeans I’m wearing.
“At least I don’t wear a bunny costume every day, right?” I laugh awkwardly.
“It suited you.”
With the neutral way Slade says it, I have no idea whether that’s a compliment… or very much not.
I realize I still have my hand in his and pull it away before he notices my blush. “Want a little tour of the space?” I ask.
“Sure.”
Glancing backwards every once in a while, I give him a the tour of my boutique. I point out the rough-hewn wood tables and handmade pottery, the various rustic treasures I’ve collected on my travels.
Slade doesn’t comment on much, but I catch him looking with confusion at an antique lamp with the base of a peacock and a shade made of faux feathers.
“That doesn’t seem fire-safe,” he says dubiously.
“It wasn’t,” I say cheerfully. “It’s more of a statement piece than a working lamp. It’s for those who enjoy whimsy.”
“Hmm.”
I might not be able to read him very well yet, but I’m willing to guess Slade is not the whimsical type. He and I really could not be more different. Opposites, really.
But he’s here. He didn’t have to drop by in person, unless it was just out of pure morbid curiosity.
I clear my throat. “So, did you talk to the vet?”
“I did. The dog is doing good. She’s stable and they’re getting a prosthesis ready for her.”
“Did an owner come forward? Did they find a microchip?”
I hope not, only because a dog in the state she was in doesn’t deserve to go back to anyone who would let her get that way.
He shakes his head. “No microchip. No owner. She’s yours, if you want her.”
After an initial burst of excitement, I feel my face fall.
“I do want her,” I tell him. “The problem is I live in a third-floor walk-up apartment. Not even a service elevator. With her recovering from surgery and losing her leg, the stairs might be too much.” I wring my hands.
“The animal shelter is a great one, but I hate to think of her scared and alone after all she’s been through. ”
He sighs. Scrubs a hand down his jaw that sports two days of dark stubble, almost a beard now. It looks really, really good on him. I look down before he notices me staring.
“I’ll take her,” he says at last. “Temporarily. Until we find her a permanent home. I’ll have to hire a dog sitter, though, since I’m working on the ranch all day.”
My spirits lift instantly. “You could drop her off here during the day. She can hang out with me and have company all day long.”
I pause, realizing I’m asking him for quite a lot, to drive back and forth from here every day, to entwine himself with me as if we’re sharing custody of the dog.
Hastily, I add, “I mean, if you have time. On occasional days. Or whatever you have the bandwidth for. I’m just happy to help with her in any way I can.”
“I can drop her off here during the day. You sure you don’t mind?”
“I’ve always dreamed of having a shop dog. I’d love to.”
He nods. “All right. We’ll do it.” He glances at his watch. “I guess I better go get some pet supplies. You wanna come?”
Attempting to temper my obvious eagerness, I glance down at my embroidered cowboy boots. “Sure, I can take a break.”
From beneath the checkout counter, I grab my purse. “Sarah,” I call out. “I’m running out for an hour. I’ll be back by two o’clock. You want anything while I’m out? One of those cupcakes you like?”
“Only if they have the chai caramel flavor…” Her voice trails off as she peeks out of the backroom. Her eyes are laser-focused on Slade.
She looks like she’s seeing her favorite boy-band member in the flesh for the first time. Hearts might as well be floating up from her eyes.
“Oh, wow,” she whispers. “You’re… hi.”
Slade nods politely, but barely spares her a glance. Instead he holds the door open for me. “After you, Lila.”
I can feel Sarah’s eyes practically singeing my back as Slade’s hand lands lightly on it to guide me through the door.
I have a feeling I’m going to be interrogated when I get back.
“Feed store’s right at the end of Main Street,” he says. “You been there before?”
I shake my head. “I’ve only lived in Marble Falls for six months. Haven’t had the occasion to need the feed store in my line of work.”
We start walking down Main Street. Without a word he moves to the outside of the sidewalk, stepping smoothly around me so his body is between mine and the road.
It’s at this point I also realize he’s opened every single door for me from the moment we met. When he’s around, I don’t touch a door handle.
This whole old-fashioned country boy manners thing is entirely new to me. I could really get used to it.
It’s a gorgeous autumn day, cottonwood leaves shimmering like gold flakes as the breeze shakes them loose.
As we walk, Slade asks me about my business.
I tell him I started working at various small design firms across the country.
On the side, I started sewing pillows and selling them, which expanded to doing my own private consultations, and now, finally settling on a place I want to live and starting a full-service design firm.
“You’re pretty young to have your own business,” he says.
“Twenty five.”
“That’s young.”
I know from my rabid internet searching that he’s a decade older than me. I can see the first hints of silver threading through his hair and it looks good.
He interrupts my silent admiring to say, “Sorry you missed your event last night.”
“It’s okay. We ended up doing some good for one particular animal at least, right? And, um…” I feel a little weird bringing it up, but how can I not? “Someone bid on a date with me last night. Ten thousand dollars.”
I look for a reaction.
Slade’s got a flawless poker face though. He doesn’t bat one dark eyelash.
“Sounds like money well spent,” he says.
“Except the bidder was anonymous. So they can’t collect on their date.”
I’m waiting for him to admit it was him. Hoping to give him the opening to ask me out for real, if it was him and he just didn’t want his name plastered all over.
But all he says is, “Ten thousand dollars buys a lot of dog beds, I bet.”
I deflate. So maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe it was a mistake after all. I swallow my disappointment and put on a bright smile. “That it does.”
When we head into the feed store, I’m immediately greeted with a space that smells like country.
Like grain, earthy and dusty. The scent of molasses from sweet feed.
Leather from the tack section. It’s a dry, dense, working smell, and probably very ordinary to everyone who comes in here, but to me it’s still exotic.
Slade grabs a cart and pushes it while I toss in all the supplies he’ll need as a brand new dog owner. Metal bowls, dog food, a collar and a metal tag. We take it over the machine that stamps the collar and I pause.
“She needs a name,” I say.
“Any ideas?”
I think for a moment. “How about Lucky?”
He stares at me. “That seems like a pretty ironic choice for a dog that just lost a leg.”
“But it’s perfect, don’t you see? Because we found her. I happened to see her, and then you came along and got her to safety. So she’s very lucky.”
Those dark green eyes roam over my face. “You’re a glass-half-full kind of person, aren’t you?”
“Always have been, I’m sorry to report.”
“Sorry? Why?”
“Just the way you said it. Makes me think you’re a glass-half-empty kind of guy.”
“Historically speaking. So I guess we cancel each other out.”
My lips quirk. “Or as I might put it, we balance each other.”
The corner of his mouth lifts just a tiny bit, and I’m unreasonably pleased that I’ve almost managed to make him smile.
Once we have all the supplies, we head back the way we came.
He’s parked right in front of my boutique, the rugged black truck clean except for the mud on the tires.
After putting the bags away, he leans against the truck and looks at me, arms crossed over that broad chest, one boot hooked over the other. Clearly thinking. Assessing.
I resist the urge to fidget under that gaze.
Still waters run deep with this man, I suspect.
Those deep green eyes take everything in and give nothing away, and I’m starting to understand why the internet has so little on him.
He’s not withholding, exactly. He’s just...
reserved. Contained. Like there’s a great deal happening under the surface that he sees no reason to share.
I want him to share it with me, though.
We just bought dog food together, I remind myself.
That’s what’s happening here. It’s not romantic.
I mean, it is to me, but I’m an animal lover.
This man saved a life, paid a vet bill that had nothing to do with him, and is now about to take a recovering three-legged dog into his home and figure out how to share her with me.
That’s my definition of romance.
“Can I ask you something?” he says, tugging a little at the brim of his Stetson.
Is this it? The moment he asks me out? My heart does something like a pirouette. “Of course.”
“Are you taking on new clients?”
The pirouette stops. I blink at him. Recalibrate as I put on my metaphorical businesswoman hat. “We are. Do you know someone who’s looking?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Me.”