3. Della
DELLA
The words just spill out; well most of it at least. I don’t tell this stranger how my fiancé told his best man and the woman that I would never come close to feeling this good.
And how he couldn’t wait for his turn to eat the woman’s sweet pussy before he fucked her blind.
Something he had only done to me a handful of times.
How nothing could stop him from doing this again and again, while laughing and talking about how clueless I was.
I can feel the detachment because, on one hand, it’s almost as if I’m looking down on this happening.
Like catching my husband in a threesome on the day of our wedding isn’t my reality.
On the other hand, it’s all I can think about, and this stranger has to be wondering what just washed up in his town.
It still doesn’t make any sense. Tripp’s uncle was gay, and Tripp and I would get into arguments about it.
I wholeheartedly believe that love is love, and you should be with whomever you choose.
Tripp was the one who repeatedly told me it was disgusting and a sin.
There’s some Freudian word for that… projection, I think?
And though I’m livid with him for trying to drag me into a false marriage and lying, I also feel profoundly sad for him that he felt he had to keep that part of him a secret.
I would like to give his parents the benefit of the doubt, but I know how they treat and talk about his uncle.
And this poor man standing in front of me. Bet that level of word vomit wasn’t something he was prepared for. A laugh escapes my mouth thinking about how insane this all sounds, and I’m wondering if this is my breaking point.
His eyes get the tiniest bit wider before he schools his face.
“Okay,” he says, waving his hands in front of him. “Let’s start with fuck that guy. Obviously, he’s an asshole, Della. And I don’t know much, but I know that assholes are not worth dying over. Which is a genuine possibility if you try to go through that pass tonight.”
The concern on his face is evident as he says the words, and I can’t remember the last time a man looked at me with genuine concern.
My hands rub up and down my entire face.
Do I trust this guy? Do I even have a choice?
He doesn’t look like a skinwalker, Bigfoot, Yeti, or human-eating wolf.
I can presumably use the internet to see if there’s really a storm there.
There’s got to be some sort of alert system, right?
And I’m close enough to Grand Teton State Park, so there has to be some kind of accommodation available…
“Okay,” I finally say, dropping my hands to look at him. “I admit I can’t do the pass. And since I’ve been so honest with you today, I am probably questionable driving a mountain pass on a good day, so a snowstorm would be a death wish.”
He laughs at me and flashes a smile that stops me in my tracks.
How am I just realizing how good-looking this guy is?
He doesn’t have a shirt on, and I take a hot second to admire how perfect this man is.
He has an athletic build and tattoos, and is wearing a backward hat with a tiny strand of hair flopping out the front.
When I trace my eyes down his front, I can count abs.
“If you are hell-bent on going, you can do the detour,” he offers, and my eyes snap back to his face, which is just as handsome… even with the smirk that tells me he caught my wandering eye.
Detour. I perk up when I process that statement. Why didn’t he tell me that earlier? Maybe I can’t trust him.
“But the detour is around Yellowstone, and it tacks on six-ish hours, depending on weather,” he continues.
“Hours,” I say louder than I intended. “Like… hours, hours?”
He laughs again at my response before confirming.
“Hours, hours. I make no guarantees about how long the storm lasts, but unless it’s Armageddon, it’ll most likely delay you no more than three days.
If three days is too long, I’m going to insist that you stay overnight in Amberheart Valley, which is where you are right now, get some sleep, and tackle the detour tomorrow.
Doing that much more driving tonight after your day, with the…
additional duress… might not be the best idea. ”
“You’re right,” I concede with a sigh. “Where do I go from here?” The rhetorical question slips out. It has practical implications, of course, because I need somewhere to sleep, but it also sums up what I’m feeling. Where do I go from here? My life, my home, my family… they no longer exist to me.
“Well,” he says, “I kind of have a hookup at a ranch.”
“Like a dude ranch?” I question.
“Yeah, something like that,” he laughs again, and I can’t help but bring my eyes back to those abs that flex with the movement. A foreign arousal shoots through my body, and I feel disgusted with myself.
Although Tripp was a great-looking man, that’s all he had going for him. He never showed me love or desire, so looks stopped mattering because I knew what was behind them; nothing. The number of times we were intimate in any capacity was devastatingly low.
His father and mine had grown up together, and about eighteen months after my mother died, our families reintroduced us with intent.
My dad would only speak to me when I was entertaining thoughts on Tripp, and since I was desperate to make things up to my father, I went along with it.
Though Tripp never showed that much interest, both of our families encouraged us to keep taking the next steps: meeting, talking, dating, and getting engaged.
Don’t get me wrong, Tripp Worthington loved to put on a show.
We’d attend events and galas together, and I know we looked fantastic next to each other, but it was very much a performance.
At the end of the day, I accepted that he and I were an arrangement.
Regardless, I was going to be a faithful wife and hoped our marriage would grow into something more than people who looked good in a photograph.
In my mind, I can’t stop turning over how confusing this morning was.
I understood my motivations for marrying him, but I still can’t figure out his.
In any event, I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t be attracted to anyone else on my freaking wedding day, even if I was the one who ran.
“Jesus, Jax, put a damn shirt on.” The unfamiliar voice makes me jump. We’re so locked on each other that neither of us notices we’re no longer alone.
“You wish you looked this good, Cayson,” Jaxon responds in song and folds his arms across his chest, which does nothing but accentuate the muscles. He must bench a million pounds or something.
Turning around, I see a man who looks so similar to Jaxon; they have to be brothers, maybe even fraternal twins. They have different haircuts, but the same smile and warm brown eyes. And I bet this man looks just as good with his shirt off.
What hot Western cowboy world did I end up in?