by Serena Bell
“I will!” she breathes. “God, Brody. I will!”
“But if I don’t stop now, I’m going to end up fucking you in my truck. And you’re not that girl.”
I’m looking right into her eyes when I say this. It’s dark, but even so, I see it.
The flinch.
I feel it, too. She freezes under my hands. Stock still.
Like she went from flame to stone in a second.
I know I’ve made a big mistake.
“Rachel.”
She’s shaking her head. She eases off me and turns to settle herself back in the passenger seat. Even from over here, though, I can feel that sudden stiffness in her body.
“Rachel, talk to me.”
For a split, fearful second, I think she won’t. And then she crosses her arms, opens her mouth, and unleashes.
13
Rachel
I’m really pissed. “That not that girl stuff is a load of hooey,” I tell him.
My anger is an army revved up for warfare. I can still see Werner’s apologetic face and hear him telling me I’m the girl you bring home to your parents. The girl you marry. And all the things I couldn’t say to Werner, they’re lined up like soldiers, ready to march out for battle.
“I’m not the girl who anything,” I say. “I’m Rachel. I’m this girl—this woman, actually. I like sex, and I think I would probably enjoy getting fucked in a truck, with the right guy.”
I note that I just said fucked and the world doesn’t seem to have ended. Actually, I feel pretty good.
“And FYI, the ‘right guy’ would not be the kind of guy who would tell me I wasn’t that kind of girl.”
Brody winces. “Hey,” he says. “I’m sorry. That was a dumbass thing to say.”
Oh.
A real apology.
Haven’t heard one of those in a long time. Do people even do them anymore?
“Thank you.”
We’re both quiet for a moment. He’s still watching me silently, attentively. Like he heard me. Sees me. As if what I just said makes as much sense in his head as it does in mine. Which may or may not be the case given that I haven’t told him yet why those words—“you’re not that girl”—made me insta-lose my cool.
“I mean, I get it,” I tell him. “You’ve spent your whole life thinking of me as Connor’s little sister.”
He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it.
“I’m not. I’m not anyone’s little anything.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “You’re not. And Rachel?”
“Yeah?”
“To me, you never have been. And I’m sorry if I made you feel like I thought that.”
I’m not sure if it’s the apology, his sincerity, or the warmth in his eyes that makes me able to take my first long, deep breath since I started yelling at him, but I do. And then another. The vise around my chest loosens, which is almost worse, because what’s left is my hurt feelings.
And the truth.
“I’m not mad at you.”
Then I tell him the story.
The whole thing. Not just the version I’ve told my friends, where I lose my job and then catch my boyfriend cheating, and bummer, as a side effect, no apartment! Not that version, an adult Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. But the whole thing.
I start before work, before the donut. I tell Brody how I woke up that morning and started cleaning the apartment. How I put the roast in the slow cooker. And then Werner came downstairs and offered to make me breakfast, which turned out to be cold cereal with milk. Also, he was already looking at his phone while he was talking to me.
“That dick,” Brody growls.
I tell him about the part where my boss said I was perfect and let me go anyway, because—I know now—being perfect was never a guarantee of employment or, more to the point, happiness.
The skirt on the floor.
The strength of my denial, how I stared at that skirt and thought up a hundred excuses for it.
I tell Brody about seeing Werner from behind.
Okay, I don’t dwell on that, because I don’t want him to have nightmares or anything.
I get to the part about the Other Woman. Her ridiculous lace-up teddy and her totally unjustified tears. I don’t dwell on that, either, because she doesn’t deserve my time or energy.
(Also, it occurs to me as I’m telling the story that I don’t own any lingerie other than bras and panties, but I don’t mention this.)
Brody doesn’t say anything. He just listens and makes sympathetic noises. But his hands?
They’re clenched into fists on his thighs.
His perfect, tree-trunk, thighs.
I worry he might break a tooth, the way his jaw is locked tight.
His eyes never leave mine, which is a lot of Brody all at once. I can feel the intensity of his gaze like warm honey trickling down inside me. Licking around my inner thighs and into the melting place between my legs.
It’s hard to maintain my outrage at Werner in the face of all that Brody, but I manage.
I tell him that Werner said I was the perfect woman.
“If I’m so perfect,” I ask Brody, “why did he pick someone else to stick his dick into?”
Brody makes a sound like he’s been punched in the stomach.
“Which means I can’t be that perfect, doesn’t it? Not really.”
“Rachel.”
I’m shaking my head.
“I’m the girl he wanted to marry. The girl he wanted his parents to meet. But not the girl he wanted to spend a Friday morning messing around with. Not the girl he wanted to have fun with. Not the sexy girl. Not the girl he would choose, if he could choose. Not the girl he’d be with, his whole self. Not that girl.”
My voice cracks.
Brody reaches out and cups my face, brushing his thumb over my cheek.
I realize he’s wiping away a tear.
“That guy,” he says steadily. “Is a total fucking idiot.”
Brody drives me home after that.
“Hey, Rachel?” he says, when we’re parked in my driveway. “Can I ask you a question?”
I nod.
“I had an idea. But I don’t know if it’ll work.”
“Shoot.”
“This thing we’re doing, the partnership, with you selling on the boat. Do you think we could do it with other things, too? Like, I don’t know, the book store? Or people who make jewelry or crafts? They could bring their stuff on board, and you could host, like you do?”
“I think it’s brilliant.”
Brody’s smile starts with his dimple, then the corner of his mouth, then escalates into something even more dangerous than his kisses.
“I’ve been thinking about going into town, asking some of the businesses to partner with me. Like, maybe tomorrow? Any interest in coming with?”
Brody’s super cute when he’s like this. Excited and a little shy. Eager to please. Like a kid who isn’t used to getting things right.
It’s a different side of him from the broody badass, and I totally dig it.
“I’d love that,” I tell him, and get another smile.
And another kiss, long and slow and sweet.
It turns dark and needy almost instantly. He cups my head and pulls back. “Rachel,” he growls. “Did you do that on purpose? On the boat? Make me think about you with the ben wa balls inside you?”
I smile.
“You are not a good girl,” he grits out.
“No,” I agree, deeply pleased that he knows it.
“I’m going to spend a lot of time thinking about that between today and tomorrow,” he says.
Then he kisses me again. Fiercely. And it’s so good.
I float up to the house.
14
Rachel
The next morning—after I sleep too late and bolt down breakfast—Brody pulls into the driveway.
I hurry to the truck and launch myself up into the passenger seat be
side him.
Then I die of how good he looks and smells. Like, fresh from the shower, reeking of Irish Spring and Old Spice good. Torn jeans with already-strained denim pulled tight over his quads. And yet another second-skin t-shirt, this one proclaiming, “Real Men Fish.”
You’d get more or less the same effect without the text.
He leans over and molds his mouth to mine, and I go from normal woman to melted puddle of need in three seconds flat.
He pulls back and eyes me. I’m breathing hard.
“Ready?” he asks, a flash of green eyes and something that I’m pretty sure is a smirk.
Brody, smirking. This is actually a thing.
This is a very, very good thing.
“Ready,” I say.
Or as ready as anyone can ever be for Brody Wilder.
Brody, in typical Brody style, says nothing else to me as we head toward town. After a while, the silence stretches to the breaking point, and as we near the business district, I ask, “So what’s the plan?”
“I made a list,” he says, rustling along the dash for a piece of paper and dropping it in my lap. “Potential partners.”
“What if I want to keep you to myself?”
He barks out a laugh. I’ve startled him enough that he takes his eyes off the road, and I see them in all their glory. The corner of his mouth stays turned up, too. My thighs jellify.
“From a business perspective,” I say, still teasing.
“Mmm-hmm.” His eyes are back on the road, but his mouth still quirks like he’s holding back a smile. It’s delicious. “You won’t be here forever.”
“True,” I say. “So I can’t get an exclusive while I’m in town?” And then, when I get another flash of Brody green eyes, “From a business perspective, I mean.”
“Not,” he says, “from a business perspective. But if you want to talk about a different arena, maybe.”
“Brody,” I say. “I know I said I don’t care about Connor, but—”
He cuts me off. “I’ll deal with Connor. He’s my problem, not yours.”
He pulls into a parking space in front of Krandall’s Outdoor Outfitters.
Rush Creek has changed a ton in the time I’ve lived here. Growing up, it was cowboys and ranchers and outdoor adventurers bound for one of the national forests. These days, it’s more of a classic tourist destination, filled with honeymooners and wedding planners, couples on getaway jaunts, and groups of women enjoying girls’ weekends away. Stores I took for granted as a kid—like a gift shop that sold rodeo-related trinkets—have been completely transformed. The new tourists wear yoga pants and sports sandals, travel in packs of laughing women, and carry pretty tissue-paper stuffed shopping bags.
It still has more or less the same look—low, saloon-style architecture, Western front porches, barrels and T-shaped light stanchions. Wide plank horizontal wood siding, and here or there something a little more cottage-styled, with flower-boxes in the windows.
I surf a wave of nostalgia as Brody pulls into town. I think basically everyone who grew up in Rush Creek has some longing for the old rodeo, even those of us who thought we were indifferent. It was the heart of the town for so long.
Brody and I hop down from the truck and head into Rush to Read Books. Jem owns the shop; she’s my mom’s age and they’re good friends. She was a second mom to me when I was growing up—or third, if you count Barb Wilder.
Jem comes out from behind the desk to hug me. She’s Haitian-American, first generation, with dark cool-brown skin and medium-length straightened hair. She dresses, like my mom, in mom jeans, t-shirts, and sweatshirts—hers with the Rush to Read logo on the front. She and her husband have two teenaged girls who also sometimes work in the shop, although neither of them is here today.
Jem crosses her arms and narrows an eye at Brody. “And this is one of the Wilder boys. Brody, right?”
He’s pretty distinctive, even among his brothers. The tattoos, boots, and cuffs, which have made a return today, are a dead giveaway.
“That’s right, ma’am,” he says, and shakes her hand. “I’m actually here to make a business proposition.”
Her eyes flick to the tattoos and cuffs, but she says, “Go ahead.”
“I want to do book clubs on my boat. But it’s not my skill set.”
Jem, to her credit, just nods at that.
“So I was wondering if you’d want to do it. I could give you a small cut of the trip profits, and everyone would have to buy the book from you.”
She sighs. “Brody, my dear, I wish I could help you, but book clubs are tricky with tourists. They’re not here long enough to read the book.”
I feel a pang of sympathy—shot down so fast on his first attempt—but Brody comes right back at her. “What if you sold them on consignment through the hotel? As people show up, the books are sitting right there, and people can grab a copy. The money still goes to you. They get their copy and sign up to come out on the boat and talk about it. And you host.”
Her eyebrows go up. “I thought Gabe was the businessman in your family.”
He shrugs. “He is. This is just an idea.”
“It’s a good one,” she says, thoughtfully. “I’m willing to give it a shot.”
They talk for a while, working out some of the details, then shake hands. “You should also reach out to the library,” she says. “They’re always looking for programming ideas. As it gets harder to attract patrons into the library, they’re looking for creative ways to reach people. Ask for Donna when you go in there and say Jem sent you.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Brody says. “Will do.”
Jem turns to me. “How’s your mama doing?” she asks. “How’s that foot?”
“Healing. Slowly. She’s not in nearly as much pain anymore.”
“Oh, good,” Jem says.
I tell her that while we’re in there, I would like to get a couple of books for my mom. “She’s going through them like wildfire.” I turn to Brody. “If you don’t mind?”
He shakes his head. “I’m going to grab a cup of coffee. You want one?”
“Yes, please.”
“Jem?”
“Make mine a latte and you’re on.”
We both try to give him money, but he waves it off and disappears out the front door. I can’t help it; I watch him going, admiring the view. Broad back, narrow hips, and a butt that might, with enough exposure, banish my bad Werner memories.
“Those boys,” Jem says, shaking her head. “Cutest things on two legs, and the manners! And that one’s smart, too. So,” she says. “Romance, right?”
My mouth falls open.
“Rachel,” she says. “You and your mom want romance books. That was my question. What did you think I was asking?”
But it’s pretty obvious, and she doesn’t bother to hide her grin.
15
Brody
“When do you have to be back?” I ask Rachel, when we’ve made the rounds of the shops in town and climbed back into the truck.
“No particular time,” she says.
Our rounds in town went really well. People loved the idea of hosting an event on the boat. Kiona of Five Rivers Arts and Crafts said she could do beginning weaving and had friends who might be interested in basketry and simple jewelry-making. Nan from Rush Creek Bakery said she didn’t know what services she could provide, but if I was interested in having her prepare baked goods or sandwiches for the outings, she was all in. (I said hell yes.) The day spa signed up for two different events, chair massage and reflexology. They said no to mani pedis because precision’s tough on a boat, and I was relieved. And the game store said they had a bunch of simple games that would work even with a breeze.
When people expressed wariness about partnering with me—the game store even brought up my hostile reviews—Rachel stepped in and talked me up. She said I kept the boat clean and well-maintained, was a careful, responsible skipper, and quick on my feet. She told the story of how I’d defused a f
ight (not getting into the details of how it started), and said I was friendly and easy to work with and that they shouldn’t be fooled by how little I talked. That was where they came into the deal! she said cheerfully. And there were really positive reviews, too. She pulled out her phone to show them.
Looking at myself, like that, through Rachel’s eyes?
I almost didn’t recognize myself.
I wondered if that was how people felt after getting makeovers.
“Makeovers on the boat would be really cool,” I told Rachel.
“Tricky not to stick an eye pencil in the wrong place,” she pointed out. “And the mascara’s a nightmare.”
“See. This is why I keep you around.”
I’m feeling pretty damn pleased with myself, I have to say. My calendar is full of events, basically through the end of tourist season.
And somewhere in the middle of it all, I caught Rachel watching me with this thoughtful expression. Not the look I’m used to seeing on women’s faces, which lands right around my center of gravity, with a brief trip up only to make sure there’s a face attached to the rest of me.
Rachel’s eyes on my face feel like approval in its purest form. As if everything she said out loud, selling my idea, is truth.
Like I said, it’s been a long time since anyone looked at me that way.
It feels good, and a little scary.
I don’t want it to end.
“We’re going for a picnic,” I announce. I pull the truck out and point us toward the wilderness.
“Wait!” she says. “We can’t just go for a picnic. I’m not ready for a picnic. I would have dressed differently.”
“You’re dressed perfectly.” My gaze falls to her legs, smooth and warm brown beneath the mid-thigh hem of her sundress. They’re slightly paler inside, and my fingertips desperately want to explore that softness.
“And I would have made sandwiches! Or, well, I would have gotten my mom to make Cuban sandwiches.” She wrinkles her nose. “And we don’t have a blanket. Or water bottles.”
