Grace
Seven Weeks until the Rodeo
Ranches pass by in a haze as we rattle along the dirt road that stretches between Beaumont Ridge and Iris Meadows. With an elbow on the windowsill and my head resting in my palm, blurs of greens and browns hold my attention.
Each turn of the Chevy’s wheels has me feeling a little more at ease. It’s been a damn long time since I sat in Tucker’s passenger seat. It might not be the same truck from all those years ago, but something about it offers a comfort it has no business offering.
Perhaps it’s less about the truck and more about the person next to you.
The thought comes and goes in the blink of an eye, but its sentiment lingers. Tucker’s broad form dominates my peripheral vision as his familiar woodsy scent fills the air around me, his presence almost daring me to take a peek. Nice try, I direct toward the pesky voice, I’m not falling for that.
We’ve driven less than a quarter-mile when my resolve dissipates.
Summoning as much nonchalance as I can manage, I let my gaze slide back inside the truck and toward the man beside me.
He’s staring straight ahead, fingers tapping against the steering wheel in time to the radio.
A stray lock of dark hair has made its way across his forehead while several others curl behind his ears and at his nape, set in at odd angles from the hat currently sitting on the dash.
I’ve never known Tucker to let his hair get so unruly, but I can’t lie—it looks good on him.
Really good.
I fixate on the unfamiliar facial hair that covers his jaw and creeps over his top lip.
I don’t know if I’d call it a full beard, but whatever it is, it’s working for him.
Despite the glaringly obvious fact that if I was aging, so was he, I never once stopped to think about his prospective facial hair.
Probably a good thing, too, because now that I’m looking at it, it’s dangerously attractive.
It looks like he’s been letting it grow out for—well, how the hell would I know how long?
It’s a thought that knocks the wind out of me a little.
The reality that I don’t know him like I used to.
There’s probably another woman out there who knows him though.
Maybe even several. The snide little voice in my head taunts me, causing a prolonged aching in the pit of my stomach.
I let my gaze trail down his bare forearms, desperate for a distraction from my own thoughts.
The way I almost salivate at the cords of muscle wrapped in protruding veins is something I should probably be ashamed of, but I don’t get the chance as another, far more sexualized thought takes over—I’d love to see those forearms from another angle, preferably from below with my wrists bound in his grasp above my head, or from above, strained as they hold my legs apart.
Jesus fucking Christ, Grace. For the love of all that is holy, take it out on your vibrator later instead of whatever the fuck you’re doing right now.
I’m still staring at the veins beneath the tanned skin on the back of his hand when the sensation of being watched overwhelms me.
Shit.
I’ve been caught.
Immediately averting my gaze out his window turns out not to be the great idea I thought it was two seconds ago—I now have an almost perfect view of him watching me out of the corner of my eye.
I don’t miss the way his grip tightens imperceptibly, the intensity resulting in his tan knuckles appearing several shades lighter.
There must be an invisible string between us, pulling me in, because nothing else could explain what possesses me to meet his eyes.
Something akin to the sensation of free-falling whips through my stomach, my lungs constricting as though deprived of air.
I suck in a small breath, a gasp escaping as I do.
Despite the physical reactions I’m experiencing, I can’t find it in me to break eye contact. What’s worse is that I don’t want to.
The truck slows as we veer onto one of the loose dirt roads that leads to the lake.
The timing couldn’t have been better. Where did I get off having sexual thoughts about my ex?
The term ‘ex’ makes my stomach curdle, because that was never a title I could link to Tucker.
He was always just that—first, my Tucker, and then just Tucker.
It never rolled off my tongue with ease, instead just the thought of it left a sour taste in my mouth.
I’m surprised to see a lack of vehicles as we pull in—this lakeside area is normally quite the spot for locals and tourists alike.
A deep rumble sounds overhead as if in response to my thoughts.
Glancing out the window, several grey clouds roll in above us.
The engine shuts off and I turn to Tucker, who’s already halfway out the door. “We’re going to get rained on.”
“Don’t sound so concerned. A little water never hurt anyone,” he replies as he meets my eye through his open window, shutting the door with a soft thud. The corners of his lips pull into a smirk. “Or has moving to the Windy City turned you soft?”
Holding in my scoff is much easier than breaking eye contact—a silent competition we’ve entered many times before.
His bourbon eyes soften around the edges as he holds my gaze, revealing smile lines I don’t recognize.
It’s the strangest thing in the world to have known someone so intimately, and then not at all.
Parts of him I once knew like the back of my hand surely changed over the years, some perhaps unrecognizably so.
The thought has me breaking first, my body twisting toward the door and almost throwing itself out the vehicle, desperately trying to flee the uncomfortable feeling.
Tucker: 1
Grace: 0
I wonder if he’s had these thoughts about me.
Does he notice different lines on my face?
A difference in my freckles, whether there’s more or if they’re all hidden beneath my makeup?
Has he thought of me at all since I left?
There’re so many questions that’ll remain unanswered, because there’s no way in hell I’ll be the one to ask them.
The moment my boots land in the dirt, large droplets of rain begin to splatter around me. I let out a gasp, and a deep chuckle sounds from just feet away.
“Something funny?” I ask, turning to face the culprit and taking a step toward him. One hand is across my forehead in a salute-style position shading my face from the rain while the other rests on my hip. The intention is for it to be menacing, although I’m sure it’s anything but.
“No ma’am.”
Who the hell is he calling ma’am? I let out a huff, crossing my arms across my chest. One look at my reaction to being called ‘ma’am’ has the smile he’s trying to hide splitting his face. Clearing his throat, he continues, “Some things just never change.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean, tough guy?”
His brows raise at the nickname as he takes a step toward me, dangerously close to closing the gap between us. My breath hitches in my throat.
“Tough guy?”
“Answer the question.” The steadiness of my voice is a welcome surprise. I’d have bet anything it would waver, betraying the way his proximity affects me.
“You always were a little precious when it came to rain.”
“I just don’t like getting—”
“Your face wet,” he finishes my sentence.
“I know.” There’s an unexpected note of sincerity in his voice.
Paired with the small, familiar smile he gives me, it almost feels like the good old days.
Tucker must have similar flashbacks—or a stroke—because those are the only reasons that could explain why he reaches out to push a stray curl behind my ear.
The featherlight touch of his fingertip on the shell of my ear sets my skin on fire.
Time stands still, freezing us in a perfect picture frame.
For the briefest moment, we’re eighteen and in love.
Our whole lives ahead of us and nothing standing in our way.
A drop of rain lands on the tip of my nose, the clock ticking once more.
Flustered, I attempt to clear my throat.
When I fail miserably, the resulting strangled cough does the trick all the same.
Tucker straightens, dropping his arm limply to his side.
“Right, let’s get these posters hung before the weather gets worse. ”
“What happened to a little rain never hurt anyone’?”
Tucker bites back a grin at my pathetic attempt to impersonate him.
“There’s a good difference between that, and being soaked by those,” he responds, pointing toward several angry grey storm clouds that’ve seemingly appeared out of nowhere.
“I s’pose it ended up being a good thing there were two of us.
Only one, and we wouldn’t have got outta this as dry as we have,” Tucker says gruffly from above as he staples the laminated poster I’m holding onto the lakeside bulletin board.
We tacked the other nine to tree trunks of varying locations around the area, focusing on the popular picnic and rope swing spots.
Dusting my hands off as if I’ve just done a hard day’s work rather than spending it holding posters as they’re stapled, I let out a sigh.
“I hate to agree, but you’re right—it would’ve taken me far longer to get around those places than the two hours we’ve spent doing it.
I guess I can’t go back and tell Whit I told you so now.
” Tucker raises a thick eyebrow in response, so I continue.
“I had this whole speech planned out where I’d tell her it was a one-man job and she shouldn’t meddle. ”
He looks at me, puzzled. He’s awfully cute with his brows raised like that. “Meddle in what?”
“Oh, c’mon Tucker. Don’t tell me you don’t see it.”
He scrutinizes me for a moment, his eyes slightly narrowed. “Whit told me you agreed to this.”
“Well, Whit told me that you agreed to this, which is why I agreed.”