CHAPTER 4 Maverick
Maverick
We come to her street and I don’t want the night to end.
Charlotte is such an intriguing, enigmatic woman and I want to know more about her, but for as much as we talked, I feel like she’s holding a lot close to her chest. I know her favorite color, how she feels about crystals, but I asked what brought her here and she clammed up real quick.
Heading up the stairs to her house, she turns to me as she reaches the top stair. “Thank you for walking me home,” Charlotte says. “It’s nice to know gentlemen still exist.”
“I’m not that good of a guy. I tried very hard not to stare at your ass as you were walking up the stairs. I failed.”
She laughs, “That doesn’t make you a bad man. At least you’re honest about it.”
“If I’m honest, I would say that I was staring at your ass long before you walked up the stairs.
Or that the shade of blue in your eyes is more beautiful than the bluest bluebird sky I’ve ever seen.
Or that I’ve been wanting to grip your hair and kiss you since the moment I saw you get up on that bull. ”
At my confession, even in the dark, I can see blush creep up from her neck and to her cheeks. The porch light backlighting her figure but I can see her breath catch.
“Um, okay,” she breathes. “Thank you for your honesty.”
Then, she yawns, like a full stretch wide open yawn.
“Wow, I didn’t realize I was so tired. I know it's late but if I made a pot of coffee, would you want a cup? We could just sit out here and swing.”
“Swing?”
“Yeah, every good porch needs a swing.” She points behind me, and sure enough, there’s a white porch swing with lilac pillows. “We could just talk. It’s nice out.”
“Sure. We can do that.”
Do I want a cup of coffee? No, but I to get to know her.
She unlocks the door and walks into the small house and takes off her shoes. “God, I’m glad to get those off. I haven’t worn heels in a minute,” she says.
“Should I take mine off?” I’m not presuming anything, and she said we were going back outside.
“Nah, it’s okay.”
But my mother raised me right, I slip my boots off.
There isn’t much in the way of furniture.
There’s a small gray sofa and a TV console table with some books beneath it.
The hardwood floors carry into the open kitchen where Charlotte has started to pull down mugs and gets the coffee pot going.
There are wooden bar stools tucked under the kitchen island that I pull out and sit on to watch her work.
She's mesmerizing in those pants, even while performing the simple act of making coffee. It looks like she’s dancing.
She turns back around and smiles at me. “Are you comfortable there? You can wait on the couch if you want.”
“No, I’ve got the best seat in the house here.”
We’re at the kitchen island when the coffee maker starts beeping indicating the coffee’s done brewing.
She’s humming something I can’t quite name when she stretches her long, lean body to reach the back of the cupboard to get the cups down.
Then reaches into the fridge and pulls out creamer, chocolate syrup, and whipped cream.
My mind goes to a kinky place, but instead of voicing that I ask, “Are you making coffee or hot chocolate?”
“I’m making a mocha. Well, as close to a mocha that I can pull together at this hour at any rate.” We laugh. “What do you take in your coffee?”
“Just black.”
“Blech. I don’t understand it. I can’t do that at all. I like my coffee light and sweet.”
“Well, ma’am, you’ll never have to worry that I’ll steal your coffee.”
Ma’am? Did that just come out of my mouth?
I inwardly groan at myself.
She smirks as she makes herself a mocha with the whipped cream about to flow over the sides.
She notices the cream falling over the other side and lifts the coffee to her mouth.
In the sinful sweep of her tongue, she licks up the length of the cup, lets out a little moan, catches me staring, giggles, then winks at me.
She’s not even flirting, at least I don’t think she is. She’s just magnetic, drawing me to her.
“You can’t let whipped cream go to waste.”
My dick just went rock hard in my Wranglers.
She hands me my cup and comes around to my side and sits on the stool next to me.
The nutty, sweet aroma of the coffee and her sweet caramel and vanilla perfume are a heady mix.
I want so badly to put my mouth all over her body, see what she tastes like.
I'd bet my life she's as sweet as that cotton candy she loves.
We sit in comfortable silence, sipping on our coffee when we both start talking at the same time.
“Where do you live-”
“What do you do in—”
We both burst out laughing.
“You first,” I say.
“What do you do in Utah?”
“I’m a ski instructor in Park City.” I leave it at that. I don’t like to tell people that I was earmarked to join Team USA for the Winter Olympics eight years ago. That on the eve of the biggest night of my life I fell out of a balcony, drunk off my ass.
It’s kind of nice to not have to explain that to a stranger. It’s actually a relief that she knows nothing about me at all. I can try to be the version of me I keep hidden.
“Oh!” She exclaims, “I’ve never been to Utah, or Park City, obviously, but I have skied quite a bit in Europe, Vail, and in Vermont. Very different types of snow.”
Has she heard of me?
It made the rounds all over ESPN and sports networks, my accidental fall from grace. But she doesn’t say anything further.
“The photos I’ve seen on socials from friends have been stunning. You’re lucky you get to work in such an awe-inspiring place.”
Yeah, lucky my coach hooked me up with the one resort willing to take me on to help kids learn pizza versus french fry.
Wait, Europe? “Where have you skied in Europe?”
“Chamonix, Zermatt, Saint Moritz.”
“Whoa, those are some world-class ski resorts," I say. And some of the most expensive resorts in the world. I am no one to judge, but if I had to, based on the state of furniture and the size of this house, I wouldn’t have pegged her for someone with that kind of money.
“Yes, I’ve been very lucky,” she says a bit apprehensively.
She takes another sip of her coffee, staring off into a place I can't see. More mystery from this woman.
I wait a few heart beats before I realize she’s not going to elaborate on that.
I don’t want to push, but now I definitely want to know more about her.
You can’t say you’ve been to one of the most well known, most expensive ski resorts and live in the middle-of-nowhere Wyoming without some questions.
“Yeah, I bet you’ve got some stories to share. Okay, my turn. Where did you move from? What brings you to Silver Rapids?” I ask.
“Nope, a question for a question,” she insists.
“Oh! Is that how it goes? Okay.” I think about which question to ask her first. “Where did you move from, Charlotte?”
She thinks for a moment, probably debating on how much to share with me. “Massachusetts.” A vague answer.
“Where specifically in Massachusetts?”
She sucks her bottom lip into her mouth and bites it. Like she’s afraid to answer. “Boston area.”
“My turn! Did you really go the whole time on Brutus just to fall off the mat and break a tooth?”
I mutter under my breath, “Fucking, Garrett. He told you that story?” I turn to her and she isn’t giggling. She is straight up laughing at me. “That’s your question? You’re wasting a question on that?”
She just breaks out into even more laughter. She’s patting the countertop and kicking her feet.
“I’m so glad that you find humor and pleasure in my pain. I didn’t know you’re a sadist on top of being a bombshell.” She goes silent and still. What did I say? “Hey,” I put my hand out to touch her, but stop just shy of her shoulder.
But as if sensing my hesitation, she puts her hand on my knee, and smiles.
“Yes, that’s my actual question.” She places her coffee mug back down and stands up.
“But let me tell you why. The guys said it was for charity. That the proceeds went to a family in need in the next town whose house burned down during Christmas.”
“Maybe, I just wanted to prove I was the best,” I boast, puffing out my chest in fake bravado.
“You wanted to pay a thousand dollars to win a little, plastic, gold buckle to prove you could go the longest without getting bucked off? I don’t believe that.
” She inches closer to me and leans in to whisper in my ear, her breath tickling the hairs along my nape.
She continues, “I think you wanted to help that family and not let anyone see beyond the bad boy vibe you’re trying to put out. ”
Fuck.
“But your secret is safe with me.”
Then she wraps her hands around my shoulders and gives me a kiss on the cheek. And walks around to the sink.
Fuuuck.
I’m so gone for this girl—this woman. How was she able to read me so clearly? No one ever would suspect me of trying to be the good guy.
I felt so bad watching the news at Dad’s and seeing that the Christmas tree caught fire and then spread to their home.
The two kids were maybe five or six, and the parents looked devastated.
That shit tugged on my heartstrings. When the guys wanted to go out and let off some steam, I suggested Bart’s bar and donated for an entry.
The guys thought I was being reckless with money.
They never read me like she did just now.
Simple as a book. In that single observation, she may know me better than anyone in my life does.
She rinses out the cup and places it in the dishwater. I stand up and go over to the sink, towering over her short frame and dumping out the coffee at the same time.
“Don’t go sharing that secret. We don’t need the town thinking I’m anything other than what they already think of me.” I say, putting the cup in the dishwasher and closing it.
She is just looking at me with curious eyes and asks, “Why?”
“It’s just easier that way. I’m the asshole.”
“You’re not, it’s just easier for you to play the role you were given. I think you’re kind of great.”