6. Move ‘em Out
SIX
MOVE ‘EM OUT
Jules
Ah, fresh country air.
Cow shit never smelled so good.
My sneakers leave tread marks on the dew-moistened dirt road that winds around the West property. The sun is pushing through the early morning haze, illuminating my way. Tall grass on either side of me bends in the light breeze that’s cooling my over-heated face.
As the house gets closer, I amp up my speed, sprinting toward the finish. The buzzing at my wrist signals I’ve completed my suggested workout activity time for the day and the sun is barely up.
I love this. Not running, per se, but pushing my body to its limits and the focus that comes from it.
I’ve been running for an hour. It’s taken me this long to quiet my mind, which is unusual.
Up in space, confined to a cramped area within a never-ending void, I became well-versed in meditation techniques to calm my overactive mind.
Techniques I’ve never needed on land. However, upon waking up at five a.m. after a fitful night’s sleep, I yanked on my sports bra and sneakers and shuffled out into the barely lit sky.
An odd mix of thoughts, ranging from yesterday’s unwelcome delivery to Holt’s piercing gaze, swarmed my mind for most of the run.
But now, finally, after sixty grueling minutes, forty of them at top speed, my mind is empty of everything except the pace of my running shoes and the metronome of my breath. Mentally I check off a task from my to-do list.
I’m a stellar list maker. Not many know this about me. Jackie does.
Hmmm, maybe that’s why she didn’t include the traditional bridesmaid to-do list on the thumb drive.
I thought the absence of one was weird, as any self-respecting engineer knows there is always an order of operations, aka list , that one needs to follow in order to achieve whatever goal you’ve set.
Jackie is the smartest person I know. But maybe she figured the list would be something I’d like to do.
She’s always laughing at me whenever I rework NASA’s order of operations to suit my needs better.
Maybe that’s exactly what I need to do to get this wedding started properly.
Number one on my list of things to do after my morning run: make a list.
Nice.
I cross over the imaginary spot I’d determined as my finish line before starting out this morning and slow down to a jog, and then a walk.
Sweat drips off my body and it feels like I exorcised something besides toxins and calories from my body this morning.
The hum of discontent, and dare I admit it, fear, that hasn’t stopped thrumming through my mind since I picked up that package yesterday is finally quiet.
A part of me feels bad, hiding out here under the guise of wedding planning.
But then again, out here, with the smell of hay and cow patties, one could almost forget about being roofied by a stalker.
And I do need to get wedding shit done. So, you know, win-win.
My cool-down takes me to the house and my feet pound up the two porch steps, trying to release the tension already building back up from my last thought.
Trying to refocus, I curve my spine into a deep half bend, palms flat on the porch floor.
I take a deep breath in through my nose, releasing it slowly through my mouth, deepening my stretch.
With each exhale my muscles loosen and settle into the position, the top of my head nearly grazing the wood planks.
The squeak of springs and the slam of the screen door intrude on my stretch time.
“Jules?”
My eyes pop open to the vision of Holt West, fresh from bed, morning scruff on his chin, wild, uncombed hair, shirt unbuttoned, pants undone. It is a glorious, glorious thing. Especially when viewed from between my legs. Even upside down.
“What are you doing up this early?” He sounds suspicious and, for some reason, angry.
Slowly, I straighten, uncurling my spine one vertebra at a time before turning to face him.
And damn if the sight of him half undressed isn’t that much hotter right side up.
“Morning, lazy bones,” I drawl, trying not to seem affected by his presence, but my heart rate monitor beeps, alerting me to its escalating rhythm. I blame my breathlessness and erratic heartbeat on exercise.
Holt makes a choking sound. “Lazy? Me?” He laughs. “You’re the first person to ever accuse me of that.”
I trail my eyes over his body, my focus moving from the smooth planes of his chest muscles down to the rugged contour of his abs, all visible within the opening of his shirt. Flushing, Holt starts working on buttoning up, but in his haste he misbuttons.
“No need to hurry on my account, cowboy. I’ve seen this view before.
” I lift one leg up behind me to stretch my quads.
His eyebrows jump in surprise when I reach out to grab his shoulder.
I can tell myself it’s for balance, but truthfully, I just want to touch him.
Trailing my eyes over his body, I say, “Wasn’t a hardship then, definitely isn’t one now. ”
The last sentence leaves my mouth without thinking. And by the way Holt’s gaze snaps to mine, I know he didn’t miss it.
I continue to look my fill, switching legs and hands, as Holt works on fixing his skewed button job. The act of him dressing is surely twice as erotic as any striptease I might’ve given him. He slides another button into its hole, his eyes never leaving mine.
Screw meditation. All I need is eye contact with Holt and the world falls away.
Everything heightens. The bunching of his muscles under the lightweight cotton shirt.
My hardened nipples against the restricting spandex of my sports bra.
The dark stubble on Holt’s tanned skin that moves as he clenches his jaw.
The slow slide of a drop of sweat down my neck and into the V of cleavage.
A drop whose progression Holt follows avidly with his whiskey colored eyes.
A light caress from the wind tickling the back of my neck, making the end of my ponytail dance while I shiver.
“Yo, boss man. You ready to go?”
I release my hold on Holt and stumble back. Holt’s hand reaches out, grabbing my waist, steadying me. The feel of his large, rough hand on my bare skin burns hotter than the space shuttle’s solid rocket boosters and their three million pounds of thrust.
Looking over my shoulder, I see a tall, lanky, young cowboy rounding the corner of the house.
“Oh. Uh, sorry, ma’am.” The man takes his straw hat off when he reaches the porch steps. “I didn’t know Holt had, uh, company.” Good thing for the kid he is even darker than Holt, because I’m pretty sure he’s blushing like a nun at Chippendales right about now.
Determined not to let anyone know just how affected I let myself become in Holt’s presence, I give a big smile to the boy and walk over to him.
Side note—the feel of Holt’s hand trailing down to my hip as I move away is lovely .
“Nothing to be sorry about.” I offer the young guy my hand. “I’m Jules. Nice to meet you…?”
“Tucker, ma’am. Tucker Gibson.” His handshake is strong, his smile friendly. I like him already.
“Nice to meet you, Tucker.” I pull my hand back so I can wipe the back of it across my brow. “Sorry I’m all sweaty, just came back from a run.” I gesture behind him to the pastures. “It sure beats the hell out of a treadmill.”
Tucker just nods, not looking away from my body.
I smile at him, not at all skeeved out. He’s young, probably just out of high school. Probably couldn’t control his hormones if he tried. And besides, a little innocent appreciation is like milk. Does a body good.
Holt clears his throat, causing Tucker to jump and break his stare.
Then it’s my turn to jump when Holt steps up beside me and places his hand back at my waist. All proprietary like. I shiver again, and this time it has nothing to do with the breeze.
Possessiveness. Who knew I’d like me some of that?
“Tucker.” Holt nods at the kid. “I’ll meet you in the barn in a minute.”
Tucker nods back, dons his hat and leaves with a “ma’am” and a smile thrown in my direction.
Once the kid is out of sight I turn into Holt, suddenly very interested in seeing where else our hands might land on each other.
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t do your thing around him,” he says, dropping his hand and jerking his head in the direction Tucker had gone.
I blink at his words. “My… thing ?”
“You know, all the flirting and sexy stuff.” He waves his hand at my general person, his brows drawn in thought. “He’s a good kid, he doesn’t need that kind of distraction.”
It takes me a minute to figure out what he means and when I do my whole body stiffens. Any warmth I’d felt toward Holt cools like a rocket in space.
Pissed, and oddly hurt, I play it off the only way I know how.
I tilt my head to the side and smile, running my hands up the front of his now buttoned shirt and thread them into his hair. His eyes widen and I tug him forward, my mouth at his ear.
“You want to know something, cowboy?” I whisper, then lick the rim of his ear for good measure. I smile when his hands come up and grab at my hips. “I think you’re the one distracted.” I nip his earlobe before pulling out of his grasp to strut into the house.
I don’t look back. Because if I did, I might not manage to be so playful. Or worse, he might see how much his words hurt me.
And then I’d have to junk punch him.
Holt
I watch Jules walk into the house, my eyes glued to her form. Her sweaty, sexy, lithe form.
My dick, which had been as restless as me last night, stirs at the sight.
Who am I kidding, it’s had a mind of its own ever since she stomped into my house yesterday in those shit-kickers.
All night I tried to get comfortable enough to sleep with a raging hard-on, refusing to give in and stroke off to the image of Jules sleeping just down the hall.
Guess what? You can never get comfortable enough to sleep with a raging hard-on. So now that is two nights in a row sleep has eluded me.
Hence my pissy attitude.