Tess
It’s Sunday afternoon, and I can’t stop thinking about Wade.
Talk about the most fun and satisfying sexual experience of my life. Sure, it was tight in the sleeper. But I wouldn’t have traded it for the world.
And after we fed the fire and sat back down in the lawn chairs with our knees touching and the coals ticking low, we simply enjoyed the rest of the balmy night.
Until I fell asleep.
He woke me at dawn. The brisket was wrapped and resting and the sky was turning pink above the tree line and I had a crick in my neck that would take days to work out. And despite my apologies for slacking on the job, he just patted my knee. "It’s fine. You looked too pretty to wake up.”
He walked me to my car, and we shared the sweetest kiss. I drove home with the taste of him still in my mouth and woodsmoke so deeply embedded in my hair it might be permanent now. And that would be more than fine with me.
My phone vibrates on the coffee table.
the brisket rested beautifully. was like butter when I cut into it
I grin. I've been waiting for this text from Wade since I got home.
Excellent.
Three dots appear, disappear, and appear again.
the bark cracked a little on the flat end. might pull the butcher paper tighter next time. also I found your headband in my cab
I chuckle. He followed a critique of bark integrity with evidence that I was in his truck. That's Wade's version of flirting, and it’s adorable.
Keep it. I might need it when I see you again.
He sends a photo of the sliced brisket fanned across a cutting board, the smoke ring glowing pink. Then, a minute later:
Riley says your headband smells like flowers and she's keeping it
I smile.
The rest of the week unfolds through my phone.
He's on a haul again on Monday—some route he's done so many times he describes it to me by which rest stops have decent coffee and clean bathrooms. His texts split into two channels that don't seem to know about each other.
The first is barbecue: he sends me an updated rub ratio at six in the morning, then a paragraph about whether he should switch to post oak for competition weekend, then a question about my color-coded cook schedule that turns into five texts about timing margins.
He's meticulous, obsessive, and completely in his element. It’s more attractive to me than it probably should be.
And the second channel is pure unadulterated filth.
been thinking about your mouth
It arrives between a photo of his dashboard coffee and a complaint about construction on I-90.
I gulp.
Before I can respond he adds:
and how that sexy tongue had me in fits
Wade...I'm at the grocery store.
good. buy peaches. i'm testing a glaze for the chicken. also that’s what your pussy reminds me of. a sweet juicy peach. I can still taste you.
This man sends me dirtiest confessions in the same breath as his grocery list and I'm soaking my panties in the produce aisle.
He calls Tuesday night from the road. I hear the engine, that deep thrum of the Peterbilt, and the click of his turn signal as he changes lanes.
It's the same sound from the voice message he left me weeks ago about resting times, except now I know what the inside of that cab smells like and how narrow the bunk is under my back.
"I finished that book," he says.
"What book?"
"The one you told me about that you're reading. I picked it up on audiobook."
I sit down on my bed. "That's a five-hundred-page literary novel."
"It's a twelve-hour audiobook and I had a twelve-hour drive. The guy who does the husband's voice is annoying, but I kept going. The part where she goes back to the house and finds his letters. That part's really good, Tess."
“Well, I’m glad you enjoyed it,” I say, trying not to be floored.
He asks what I thought of the ending and I tell him, and he argues with me about whether the husband deserved what he got, and I can’t believe I’m having this discussion with him.
How many ways can I swoon over him?
Wednesday night, he calls me as he’s laying in bed.
We talk about nothing for a long time. He tells me about a truck stop outside of Forsyth that has homemade pie and a cat that sleeps on the counter.
I tell him about the stack of syllabi on my kitchen table that I still haven’t finished since I’ve been rereading his rub notes.
He laughs, and the sound stirs something deep inside me.
Then it gets quiet.
“I wish I could kiss you goodnight,” he says, in that husky rasp.
“Me, too,” I reply. “You’re an excellent kisser.”
He chuckles. I know he wants to say more, but he needs to be fresh for the remainder of the drive back.
"You’ll get plenty of kisses when you get back…and more,” I say. “Goodnight, Wade, drive safe.”
“I can’t wait,” he says. “Night, Tess.”
And then I fall asleep imagining he’s holding me.
Thursday, a text arrives from a number I don't have saved.
hi ms fields this is riley. don't tell my dad i have your number. on a scale of 1 to 10 how much do you like him. and don't say 7 because 7 is what people say when they don't want to commit
I laugh.
Riley, this feels like a conflict of interest. How did you get my number?
coach sloane's emergency contact sheet. i'm resourceful. answer the question, please
I shouldn't encourage this.
Fine, 11.
I KNEW IT. don't worry i'll act normal
And don’t tell Sloane.
darn ok bye ms fields
I'm still laughing when a text from Wade comes in shortly after.
did Riley text you
Maybe.
god. i'm sorry. what did she say
Wouldn't you like to know.
oh so that’s how it’s going to be
She wanted homework help, Wade. Relax.
that’s a lie if ever i heard one
Us girls have to have some secrets.
so mean
I send him a shrug emoji and leave him to sweat.
Friday morning, Cora's texts come in first. I’ve finally pinned down her location: Cambodia. Thirteen hours ahead.
I roll over and yawn, checking my phone.
ugh the generator died again. third time this month. had to do intake by flashlight. it's 90 degrees and i'm sweating like crazy
Viseth told Dr. Lim he doesn't need his bandage changed because and i quote "it doesn't hurt when i don't think about it." this kid i swear
Then there’s a photo. It's terrible—dim, the color blown out by a bare fluorescent bulb. Cora's in scrubs, her hair falling out of its clip, looking exhausted and radiantly happy with her arm around a small boy who's grinning at something off-camera.
i miss you. the mangoes here are insane though. tell me about your
It cuts off there. She'll finish the thought in two days. That's Cora.
I smile, set my phone down, and get up to shower.
Wade sends a rough itinerary later.
packing list attached. hotel booked for friday and saturday night, nothing fancy, just wanted to be able to take our time when we get there for setup. your name's on the Wade’s World team roster. i put your schedule in the binder
I smile. His competition name is Wade’s World? I laugh and check the packing list.
You forgot sexy panties on the packing list.
no need to pack ANY panties
see you soon
The drive to Bozeman takes an hour and forty-five minutes, his pickup truck pulling the rig on the trailer behind us, the smoker a dark shape in the side mirror against the late summer sky.
His hand is on my thigh. He put it there when we hit the interstate and hasn't moved it, his thumb tracing circles through my jeans while he drives one-handed and tells me about the site draw and how the wind patterns at the Gallatin County Fairgrounds favor the east-facing lots.
The fairground lights come up through the trees as we pull in. He parks, checks in, and we handle the logistics of the rig and the site number. Then we drive to the hotel.
The room is as ordinary as he said it would be. There are two queen beds with plain beige spreads, a window unit humming, and a lamp on the nightstand that gives everything a warm yellow cast. He sets our bags down and immediately starts talking about tomorrow.
"Roll-in's at noon so I want to be up by nine, latest, get the rig positioned, check the firebox seals before—"
I walk up to him and slide my hands up his chest. “Wade.”
"Yeah?"
"Are you nervous about the competition, or…me?"
He exhales through his nose. I can feel his heart beating fast under my palms. “Maybe, a little of both.”
“From the guy sending me obscene texts all week?”
He smiles shyly. “It’s different when you’re right here in front of me, looking as good as you do.”
I pull him down for quick kiss, and when I move back, his eyes are still closed.
“Not nervous anymore,” he whispers, then turns to flip off the lamp switch.
But I block him, covering his hand with mine. "Leave it on," I say.
He gazes down at me. "Tess, I—"
"I want to see you."
"You've seen me."
"Not like this.” I run my hand up his arm. “Not all of you."
His eyes drop to the floor and then come back to mine and I can see the argument happening behind them—the one he's been having with himself since the cookout, since the first time I touched him underneath his shirt.
"Not much to see," he says, with a half-smile.
"Don't do that." I trace the skin at the collar of his shirt with my nails. "There’s no need to make those self-deprecating remarks about yourself. I want to see every part of your thick, sexy body."
He swallows, and I watch it travel down his throat.
I reach for the hem of his shirt and pull it up slowly.
He doesn't help, but he doesn't stop me either. He lifts his arms when the fabric reaches his shoulders and he pulls it the rest of the way over his head. Then he lets it fall on the bed next to him.
He’s absolutely magnificent.
The farmer tan is strong on his arms and the scoop of his neck where his T-shirts typically sit.
The color is a deep, ruddy bronze and everything else is two shades lighter.
The hair on his chest is the same dark blond as his beard, trailing down his center, feathering out across the curve of his stomach, and his shoulders are enormous. The breadth of him is staggering.