by Liora Blake
Then I proceed to perform a dramatic belly-flop face-plant onto the bed, giving up a groan that is the voice of so many things. Excitement mixed with exasperation. A foolish sort of giddy confusion. And just to muddle up the mix, an achy dissatisfaction starts to hum through my body, through every limb, across every inch of my skin.
A sensation I haven’t felt in years, so foreign now that I’d almost forgotten how it feels. Want. That’s what this is. Just restless, pouty, frustrating want.
8
(Cooper)
I drop my forehead against the steering wheel in my truck. Then thump it a few times for good measure, because concussion or not, I need the jostling to reset my sanity. If I don’t clear my head, I’m probably going to do something stupid, like flip a mental bird at Hunt’s instructions, grab my bag, and go pound on Whitney’s door until she lets me in.
After I’m inside, there won’t be any talking. No needling at the differences between us, no more lingering looks that tease and tempt without going anywhere. If I make it inside that house again, my hands are going to strip her of all those terrible clothes until I can finally look at her properly. Once I’ve visually mapped the sight of her naked body enough to commit every inch to memory, we still won’t need to talk. Even if she is funny and sharp, smart and fascinating, we can save the chatter for later. Until after I’m satisfied, she’s spent, and we’re both pleased with how the day ended up.
And there it is. The heavy ache in my dick that’s persisted most of the day, clouding my judgment and generally making a nuisance of itself. I thunk my head to the hard plastic again and the corresponding dull pain prompts a realization.
My head hasn’t hurt all day. Not even a tiny twinge of the pain that’s plagued me since Sunday. Nothing. Either Whitney is the perfect prescription or this place is so remote it’s healing, I don’t know which—but my brain likes the relief.
Just like Hunt instructed, I found a place to get lost in, and it worked. Up until Tanner arrived, I barely thought about football. Even when he and I started talking, I still wasn’t fighting the sticky fear that rises up when I think about my concussion. Because Tanner was a rear window to my past, to the safe harbor of high school, where the relentless pressure that comes with being a pro is nonexistent. If I’d only understood then how amazing it was to worry more about getting laid than scoring anywhere else.
All that misty-eyed reflection may also explain my adolescent descent into hand-holding with Whitney. When I did it, she looked at me like I was certifiable, and I took it as a blessing that she didn’t yank her hand away. In the moment, I was just trying to keep her somehow tethered to that spot, because she was babbling about cattle ranching and when we didn’t ohmygod at the revelation, it looked like she was about to walk away.
And I didn’t want her to. I wanted her right there next to me, as close as possible. If she had walked away, I would have followed her like an overgrown duckling or something, with a seventeen-year-old kid as witness to the entire pathetic scene.
My head begins to ache, just sitting here, but part of the problem is that I’m starving and exhausted. I need food and sleep. Unfortunately, as with all of my other actions today, I didn’t plan ahead when it came to the important details of spending the night away from home. Fortunately, I have a GPS and a glove box full of Clif bars.
Leaning over, I flip open the glove compartment and pluck out a bar, tear the wrapper open with my teeth, and take a bite while giving the key a half-turn in the ignition so the GPS lights up. I poke around until the navi system lets me search for lodging in Hotchkiss, Colorado.
No Results flashes across the display, and Carmen, the name I anointed the GPS voice with, repeats the same, while oh-so-gently asking me to retry my request. She asked nicely, like she always does, so I double-check my spelling and hit the search button again.
No results. I take another bite of my bar and think. When I drove through town, I didn’t see much. A stream of quaint, old-timey storefronts that didn’t make much of an impression, with the exception of a barbeque joint that seemed to span an entire block. What I don’t remember seeing is a motel of any sort. No results might be the truth.
Taking a deep breath, I glance toward the jars of apple butter on my passenger seat. I grab one and twist the band off, then pry the lid until it unseals. I take what’s left of the Clif bar and drag it through the apple butter, scooping up as much as I can manage, and toss the concoction in my mouth. A few bites are all it takes. I let out a satisfied but defeated grunt.
That settles it—Whitney’s damn near perfect. Because even though I’d never tell my grandma, this shit is better than hers. As if I weren’t already having trouble convincing my dick and my brain to get the hell out of here, this only adds to the list of reasons I want to figure out a way to stay. I look up toward Whitney’s house, where the lights in the living room have gone dark, but the window on the far left side has a faint glow. I’m guessing that’s her bedroom. And she’s probably still awake.
If I go up to that front door, though, I need to stay strong. Politely compliment the apple butter and ask if she knows about a motel nearby. That’s it. As much as I want to do more, live out every filthy daydream I tried to tamp down today, I can’t. My body can’t. My head can’t. The last thing I need to do is make my concussion worse by tossing Whitney across the closest available flat surface and going at it until the sun comes up. Because explaining to Hunt that my worsened lack of coordination is the result of an all-night fuck-fest wouldn’t be pretty.
But every success I’ve earned and accomplishment I’ve garnered has come from the same source. Me. My willpower. My determination. My self-fucking-control.
Therefore, I can absolutely walk up there, knock on the door, look Whitney in the face, and keep my eyes fixed on hers while I ask a question. It’s that simple.
All I have to do is keep my dick out of the equation.
I sit in the truck for a few more minutes, until I’ve tethered all my resolve into a tightly held ball inside my chest. I do this before a game, and it works there, so the same theory should apply here. Stay focused while I get in and get out.
Ah, shit, but not in-in. Great. That little mantra doesn’t work here. Now all I can think about is getting in. And then out. And then in again. Repeat, repeat, repeat—fuck.
The dome light kicks on when I shove the truck door open so hard it nearly springs the hinges. I purposefully leave the keys in the ignition, thinking that if I do, it might be another deterrent. On second thought, maybe I should stay in the truck—with the doors locked and the motor running—and honk the horn until she stomps out here. Then I can crack the window just enough to ask where the nearest fine lodgings are.
But she’s five foot nothing and a hundred-something pounds of organic farming hippie girl, after all. So, suck it up, Lowry.
The screen door creaks when I pull it open, then lay three loud raps against the wooden frame.
I swear, if she hollers “it’s open” this time, I will lose my mind. And not in a fun, wild sex way, either. More of a scolding and snarling, don’t you understand how pissed I’ll be if something happens to you kind of way. She’s saved from the lecture when the porch light comes on and I see her peek out the front window to assess the situation. Her eyebrows rise in surprise, and then descend into a furrow.
The front door swings open. And Whitney is standing there, dressed—or rather, undressed—in a way that prompts a pitiful plea to every patron saint of poor judgment there is. God help me, I need all the strength I can get. I really, really do.
“Did you leave and come back? Or have you been sitting out there for the last half an hour? I’m sure that fancy truck of yours has a butter-soft leather interior and a finely tuned German sound system, but still. Weird.”
Here’s the problem: she’s talking and waiting for me to say something, but I’ve already broken one of the rules I laid out earlier. The one about looking her in the face and keeping my eyes where
they belong. What I didn’t factor in when making this rule was the possibility that she wouldn’t be wearing any pants.
The old-man pj’s are back, but they’re only fifty percent of the ensemble. The top is present and accounted for, although I’d swear that a few extra buttons at the top are undone, but the bottoms are nowhere to be found.
Whitney’s legs are smooth, honey-toned, and bare, all the way up to just above her knees. It’s possible I’m drooling. I’m positive that my jaw is slack enough to catch a few flies. My hands twitch at my sides and I decide to latch them on to the door frame as a fail-safe measure. Maybe if I just stop looking at the leg part—especially the glimpse of inner thigh where her stance means I could slip my hands between her knees and then stroke slowly upward—maybe if I shift my attention away from that space, I can get through this.
With every bit of determination I can muster, I drag my gaze downward. Probably a bit more leisurely than I should, but her perfectly tapered calves become just another snag in my sight line. Pretty little ankles, too. Who knew that a pair of petite ankles, one of them ensconced with a delicate henna-inspired tattoo, could look so good?
Keep your eyes moving, Lowry. Feet. That’s all you have to get to, her goddam feet, the least intriguing part of a woman’s body and the most likely safe zone you have right now.
I continue my laborious visual trek.
Fuck. Me.
Would it be too much to ask for just one part of her body to be a neutral space for me to look at? Apparently, yes, it would be, because she has this cute little gold toe ring on her right foot and I suddenly want to kiss that tiny spot.
This, coming from a guy who absolutely does not have a foot fetish of any sort. As long as a woman keeps her little piggies properly pedicured so that I don’t mistake her feet for my own, that is where my interest ends. The occasional foot massage? Sure. Only for making her feel good, though—not to get me going.
But that glint of delicate gold is the embodiment of Whitney’s soft-focus sexiness, the raw but gorgeous way she doesn’t have to force it, because it’s always there.
The last resort is for me to close my eyes. Tamp my damn eyelids shut and force them to stay that way.
“Is there a motel around here?”
My voice sounds like I smoke a pack a day and enjoy it. Gravel on a growl, the rasp of a man who can’t quite manage a normal breathing cycle.
“What? A motel?”
Whitney comes closer; I can hear her moving, the creak of a floorboard as she does, and I open my eyes before I can remind myself to keep them closed. Her legs have shifted, the ball of one foot now perched on the top of her other foot. A small gust of cold air runs through the doorway at that moment and gooseflesh erupts on her bare skin. I drop my hands from the door frame reflexively, letting them swing at my sides.
I want to reach forward and fix that. First, warm her skin, and then become the proper reason her skin is responding that way. By slamming the door shut behind us and letting my fingers re-create what the cold air caused.
Whitney lowers her voice. “Are you telling me you don’t have a place to stay tonight?”
I take a deep breath. “This was a spur-of-the-moment trip. I didn’t make a reservation anywhere and Carmen keeps telling me the same thing. ‘No results, no results, no results.’ I just need to know where the nearest motel is.”
“Who the hell is Carmen? Do you have a girl stashed in your truck? Because if she’s been out there all day, I swear, I’ll bring her inside to stay the night and leave you out in the cold.”
“Jesus. No. I don’t have a woman stashed in my truck. Carmen is the name I gave the GPS voice. I entered Hotchkiss in the navi system looking for a place to stay, and Carmen seems to think there isn’t anything around here.”
Whitney giggles, actually fucking giggles, and I manage to stop looking at her legs and feet long enough to find her face. When I do, she cants her head a bit.
“I do know of one place that might take you in.”
My shoulders slump in relief. Now we’re getting somewhere. Because I just want to find more food, then a bed to collapse on. I give her a tired, imploring expression, hoping she can see how beat I am.
She lazily sweeps one arm up and out, gesturing to the space around her. “Chez Whitney.”
My body turns tense, preparing to share the four hundred reasons that is not a good idea. She notes the shift and gently pats the side of my face with her hand.
“Go get your stuff, Cooper. You’re too tired to drive.”
I try not to lean into her hand but don’t quite succeed. When she doesn’t pull away, but presses down a bit more and lets her pinkie sweep a tiny path across my jawline, all I can do is yield to what feels good. Whitney. Her touch. This place. And the way those things have managed to make everything better.
When she drops her hand, I let out a measured exhale and shuffle back to my truck, grabbing the keys out of the ignition and then my duffel bag from the backseat. Inside the house, I drop the bag on Don Draper’s orange velvet couch in the living room. Whitney gives the front door a shove with the flat of her palms to close it and turns the flimsy lock on the handle.
“Any chance that Chez Whitney has a room-service menu?”
“Not an extensive one.”
“I’m not picky. Just hungry.”
She releases her auburn mane from the chopstick that’s been holding it up in a bun all day.
“There’s a big bowl of kale–wheat berry salad in the fridge and some leftover braised chicken in there, too. A decent loaf of sourdough on the counter next to the stove. Just poke around and eat whatever you like.”
She runs her fingers through her hair and the bottom hem on her pj’s rises up as she lifts her arms. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to grab a quick shower while you eat.”
I nod and turn away quickly, both because of the extra skin she just flashed and because the kitchen is this way. At this point, it’s debatable which base craving I’m fighting worse, food or fucking.
Whitney slips out of the room and I yank open the refrigerator door. A stainless steel bowl is on the top shelf, about half-full of the salad she mentioned. I take it and the adjacent platter of chicken out to place on the counter. Pulling plastic wrap off both, I strip the meat off two pieces of chicken and toss it on top of the kale salad, taking a quick glance around for the bread loaf. But when I spy it, in all its white sourdough glory, all I can picture is Carolyn, our team nutritionist, shaking her head at me. Whole grains or no grains, she always says.
The shower turns on with a squeak and a groan that emphasizes exactly how ancient the plumbing of this old farmhouse is. I work hard at not imagining Whitney stripping down as I rummage through the drawers for a fork. Fork in hand, I take a heaping bite of the salad and exhale heavily. It’s good, thankfully. Real food in her house, the clean kind I need, is another plus for tonight, since an organic fruit farmer isn’t going to Lean Cuisine her way through life.
“Cooper?”
Whitney’s voice emerges over the sound of the shower. I freeze and look up, half hoping she’ll be standing in there naked and half praying she won’t. She doesn’t appear, so around a mouthful of salad, I call back.
“Yeah?”
“Do me a favor, will you?”
If her “favor” involves shower gel or a loofah, I’m bound to see if I can shove the rest of this meal in my mouth at once and scramble in there to help.
“A little bowl of that chutney we made is in the fridge. Try it and tell me what you think. First, try it on its own. Then pair it with the goat cheese that’s on the bottom shelf. I think it’s better that way, but I’d like another opinion.”
Shower gel and a loofah would have been nice, but more food works, too. Still clutching my precious bowl of salad, I source the chutney and goat cheese before sitting down at the table. Five minutes later, my fork clangs against the bottom of the stainless steel bowl as I scrape up the last bite. A quick wash of the
bowl in the sink—no dishwasher that I can see—and I grab a couple of other pieces of silverware for my second course.
The first spoonful of chutney hits my mouth and while it’s not bad, it’s also sickeningly sweet. The sweetness overwhelms everything, even the flavor of what I think might be some damn good pears. Does she really want to know what I think? At this point, she has to know I’m incapable of lying with any finesse; she’s called me on it more than once, so she had to understand what she was getting into when she asked. I take another dollop up and slice off just enough goat cheese to top it.
Just as I lift the spoon and open up to eat it, Whitney appears in the doorway with her pj top on again, the bottoms still MIA, scrunching her wet hair with a towel.
“And?”
I can smell her from here, soap-scented and clean with a bonus layer of that coconut scent I’m already starting to identify with her. When I give my assessment of the chutney, there’s a dual meaning to my words, because with her standing there half-dressed and edible-looking, both Whitney and the chutney have one very specific trait in common.
“Sweet.”
She nods. “I know, right? Too sweet. That’s all you can taste.”
With a quick chin nudge toward the spoon I’m holding, she prompts me to give it a try. When I eat it this way, I understand what she’s saying about the goat cheese—the tangy bite in its flavor cuts through the overpowering sugar. I nod a few times so she knows that this works.
She twists her body to one side so she can continue to work her hair with the towel. “I guess my recipe needs a little work.”
I lick the spoon clean. “I’m sure your next batch will be better. The pear flavor is killer, though, so a few more crates of those and you can play around with it.”
The hand holding the towel she’s been using goes stiff for a moment, then slack, as she drops her arm. Her expression changes just as quickly, becoming weary and broken, unlike anything I’ve seen from her. What I said to cause that, I don’t know.
