Chapter 9 #2
“Not in the foreseeable future. I know I shouldn’t give them hope but I can’t bring myself to say never. No-one can predict the future.”
“Why can’t someone else run the farm and you still run your studio?”
“I don’t know how much money you think farmers make but there isn’t enough to pay a manager. The farm makes a family income, no more. It works because Mom and Dad both do their bit.”
“What about your sister?” I know he has one, although I’ve never spoken to her. Unlike his mother, she doesn’t call during work hours.
“She legged it before me. She’s married to a dentist in Eau Claire. But they don’t mind that. Farms are men’s work.”
I raise my eyebrows at that but I don’t comment because I know nothing about farming. Still, I’m sure the heavy work is done by tractors, not manpower. “Well, maybe a cousin or someone?”
“Farms take a lot of effort. You invest that effort, you kind of want to own it at the end. But say you built something, a thriving business, an empire, would you want to leave everything you’ve made to your niece? Or would you rather it went to your daughter?”
“Effie doesn’t have any cousins. But I take your point. So, what are you going to do when your parents pass on?” It’s an intrusive question and normally I wouldn’t dare to venture it, but he’s already alluded to inheritance.
“Probably sell the farm. They’ll be dead. They won’t know. But let’s hope they live long and healthy lives. And I get to build fun and exciting games instead of milking, breeding, and feeding cows.”
And that’s all it takes. Anders is suddenly standing in a hay barn; bales stacked against one wall.
He’s shirtless, his jeans riding low on his hips.
The sun has a golden quality, glinting off the paler threads in his dishevelled hair and highlighting the faint sheen of his sweat.
He bends to grasp a strap in each hand, and with one smooth motion, swings the bale up and into place.
When he spots me, he stands, legs apart, hands on hips, as he says, “Hi there, pretty lady.” His accent is thicker than usual, and ‘pretty’ sounds more like ‘purdy’.
I’m already in a heightened state. I feel myself heating further at the thought, a pool of warmth building in the girdle of my hips.
I can sense my knickers getting damp and I’m terrified it will show if I do nothing.
Anders is oblivious beside me, innocently warbling on about the farm dog while I’ve slotted him into my own little soft porn reel.
He cuts off as I stand. “Sorry. Need the loo,” I mutter urgently, aware of how rude I must appear. And he lets me out.
Waiting outside the airplane toilet, I try a different trick.
Instead of trying to scrub all traces of my fantasy from my brain as usual, which obviously isn’t working, I subvert the image.
This time, Anders is bending down and shovelling cowpats.
I splatter his jeans with the stuff, even put some in his hair.
But it doesn’t work. He’s still giving me his grin with the one-sided dimple and his eyes are still the blue of a summer sky.
I lock myself in the cubicle and peel down my knickers.
I consider touching myself, but worry it will only feed the fervid daydreams, especially if my body links thoughts of Anders with sexual release.
Instead, I clean myself up. Then, to ground myself, I inhale the synthetic freshness of airplane disinfectant with its undertones of the odour of mis-aimed urine. My ardour melts away like magic.
I flush and exit. When I arrive back at our seats, Anders stands to let me past. But as I slide past him, the plane gives a jolt.
I stumble, my back hitting his front. His hands whip up and clamp around my upper arms to hold me steady but it’s too late.
I sense the hard planes of his body behind me, the strength in his grip, the gruff whisper of his voice as he says, “Got ya.”
All I want to do is step back, to fold my body to follow the curves and dips of his. To feel every inch of his response. It takes all my self-discipline to walk forward, letting his hands drop away. I reach my seat, my body burning with even more lust than before. I’m losing my mind.
But something has changed. The plane is descending and I breathe out a sigh. We won’t be sitting here much longer. Soon, I’ll be able to put a little more distance between us.
The plane lands and as it rolls to a stop, Anders hauls our bags out of the overhead locker. He insists on carrying them off the plane, but I retrieve mine once we are on terra firma. I follow him through passport control and out to the taxi rank.
Scarlett is waiting for us as we arrive at the hotel. She looks taken aback as we roll in, flicking her gaze between the two of us, although she must have been expecting us. Weird.
Then I realise Anders is hovering behind me, his hand lying very gently on my lower back as he shepherds me into the building. And I’m wearing his sweater. It swamps me and is very clearly not mine. We look like a couple and that will never do.
I step away from my boss, away from that cradling hand. Scarlett hands me a room key and I bolt.
For once, I’m happy to deliver Anders into her clutches.