12. Gravitational Waves #2
He nods, smiling. “Yeah, man. I don’t want you to think I’m ungrateful or anything. I mean, if I had it my way I’d work here forever. I love this place. But I?—”
“You don’t need to explain. I get it.”
We both stand in silence for a moment, each lost in our thoughts, before a bird’s high-pitched call breaks in.
“Get on home. Tell your mom I said hi.”
Tuck nods and puts his hat back on his head. “Will do. Night, Holt.”
I watch him take off behind the barn, where he usually parks his truck. It never occurred to me that he might want more. Which is stupid. The width of his shoulders and his daily workload should’ve told me he isn’t a kid anymore. Kids grow up, get jobs. Families of their own.
Pizza box in hand, I look around the West family home. It isn’t until right now that it dawns on me that I’m the only one still living here. Everyone is moving on.
And I’m still here.
I’ve worked so hard to get things a certain way I don’t think I’ve let myself realize that things are bound to change. Tucker won’t always be my number one ranch hand. Rose won’t be a student much longer. Flynn won’t be coming home.
It’s quiet when I step inside the house.
And a mess. Just seeing all the sawdust everywhere makes the back of my neck start to itch.
Taking a breath, I remove my hat and set my keys on the sawhorse by the door.
I leave on my boots. Leaving on my boots doesn’t help the itching at the back of my neck, but I’d rather that than a nail in my foot.
Trudging on through the house, I step sideways through more mess into the kitchen. They’ve ripped out almost everything, but there is a plank of plywood over what I believe will be a new island. I set the pizza there.
“Is that a Boondoggles pizza?”
Jules is in the newly widened doorway, looking distracting as ever, cell phone in hand. But she isn’t looking at me, she’s looking at the pizza box.
I swear, if Jules ever looked at me with such lust-filled eyes, I’d be a goner.
“Oh my God.” She steps up next to me, tossing her phone on the counter, eyes still on the pizza box. “It is.” She touches the box reverently and I’ve suddenly hit a new low. I’m jealous of cardboard.
“Florentini, right? That’s what Rose said you liked.” My voice is gruffer than I intend.
Her eyes finally land on me. “You got me a Florentini pizza?” With her wide eyes and her open mouth, she’s rocking quite a seductive expression.
Made even more so as I’m pretty sure she doesn’t even realize it.
This isn’t one of Jules’ carefully considered smiles.
In fact, she isn’t smiling at all. She’s standing next to me in my kitchen, barefoot, wearing drawstring cotton pants and a tank top that makes it dick-twitchingly obvious that she’s braless, and her expression is one of a kid on Christmas morning.
Which makes me feel even more like a creeper when my dick stops twitching and full-on salutes her.
“Um, yeah. No big deal.” I run my hand through my hair. “I just wanted to say sorry.”
“Sorry?” She tilts her head to the side, and I have the presence of mind not to tell her she looks like a cute puppy when she does that. ’Cause even I’m not that stupid when it comes to women.
“Yeah. I accused you of sending reporters here and?—”
“And so you drove two hours to bring me my favorite pizza?” She flicks her eyes to the pizza box, then back to me, the lines between her eyes gathering. “For me?”
My embarrassment turns to frustration. Because it’s my doing that Jules thinks I don’t like her, that I wouldn’t do something nice for her. I try finding words to explain why I act the way I do and why I feel the way I feel. About her. About women. About relationships.
But I can’t. Because nipples.
My eyes are glued to the tight buds beneath the thin, nearly transparent cotton. Moisture pools in my mouth from wanting to taste them, suck them.
What was I trying to say? I can’t remember.
I drop my eyes lower, to the toes peeping out of her wide-leg pants.
“You shouldn’t walk around barefoot right now. You could step on a nail. Hurt yourself.” I bring my gaze back to hers, swallowing hard as it moves up over her chest. It’s met with a quirked eyebrow and a frown.
No one ever accused me of being smooth with the ladies.
Jules blows out a hard breath, the curls around her face fluttering out of her eyes. “First you want people to take their shoes off, now you want them to keep them on.” She crosses her arms over her chest, relieving my mind of the temptation. Her foot taps on the linoleum floor.
God, her temper is quick to rise. Her temper and my dick have a lot in common.
I nod, distracted by the pale pink polish on her toes. I would’ve thought they’d be red or black, or some other in-your-face color. But somehow the pale pink is more taunting, more alluring. And it hasn’t escaped my notice that I’m having to peer over the bulge in my pants to see her feet.
“You should send out group texts, alert the house guests of all your changing rules.”
A small laugh escapes me, surprising me. “Is that just an excuse to get my phone number?”
Her breathing quickens and I can’t tell if it’s from anger or the same desire I have surging through me.
So I look up. Up from her toes, up the long length of her legs, over the curve of her hip, the outline of her hard nipples, the long column of her throat, to her wide, shining eyes.
I’ve never let myself look at them too closely, or for too long.
I figure Jules is a lot like the sun she spends so much time in close proximity to.
If you look too long, her light will blind you.
Wreck you for anyone else. But I have a feeling that horse has long since left the stable.
“You’re so fucking beautiful.”
She takes a step back, mouth open. Staring into my eyes, her top teeth bite into her lower lip before whispering, “You said fuck.”
And before I can apologize, Jules jumps me.