by Anne Jolin
She is mine.
After clearing a few more feet, I lean over the edge of my convertible and settle her into the passenger’s seat. Her face contorts and my heart plummets.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
Leaning my forearms onto the door, I turn her face towards me. “Are you going to be sick again, London?”
“No.” A blush stains her face. “It’s my ass.”
I’d be willing to bet the whole damn farm that my face looks priceless as all heck. “Pardon?”
“My injury.” She looks down, defeat clouding her features.
The lion in me wants to roar, desperate to protect her from anything that makes her feel like anything less than the beautiful, talented woman she is.
Cue the trumpets. Another bachelor down, and a lovesick fool returning in his place.
I can tell she feels the need to explain what she means, but there’s no need. I’ve seen the videos and read the articles. I am well aware of her injuries, and an idiot for having handled her the way I did. In my haste to touch her, I could have hurt her.
“Look at me.” I expect her to protest, but baby blue eyes lift to mine. “We all have scars, angel. Wear yours proudly. They were not earned lightly, and as such, they are nothing to be ashamed of.”
The eye contact is almost too much, and like a coward, I sever it in an attempt to gather my thoughts before rounding the hood of my car. Sliding behind the wheel, I look over to find her watching me with intense curiosity. If I were a lesser man, I’d certainly have shrunk under her scrutiny.
What finally falls from her perfect lips is a mere but powerful. “Thank you.”
“What do you like to eat?” I ask, positioning my sunglasses back over the bridge of my nose and putting the car into drive.
“I can’t go out with you looking like that”—she waves a hand in my direction—“while I look like this.” She subsequently waves a hand over her own body the way she did with mine. “I’m not wearing nice clothes.”
I’d take her out in a goddamn burlap sack if I wouldn’t be so damn worried about men looking at her long legs in it.
When I lean over her, her breath hitches and her lips part. “You look beautiful,” I praise. Then I grab her seatbelt, my knuckles grazing the front of her hoodie before I buckle her in.
Satisfied that she’s affected by me, I put the toe of my boot down onto the gas pedal.
Throwing her head back, she huffs in a whisper, “I’m not even wearing underwear.”
What the fuck?
My foot hits the brake so hard that I’m worried we’ll both have whiplash.
“Get out,” I demand.
“W-w-what?” she stammers.
“I said get out of the car.” My voice deepens as I put the car in park. “Now.”
She scurries under my request, fumbling with the seatbelt. In her clumsy movements, I understand what my words must have sounded like to her.
“You were right.” I close my hands over her fidgeting ones. “I can’t take you out like this.”
Her face falls, and I want to shake my head at the absurdity of what she’s thinking.
“If I take you into town knowing you’re bare under those shorts, one of two things will happen. Either I’ll kill every man who looks at you, or you’ll be what I’m having to eat.”
Now, her mouth moves, but no words come out.
“I don’t think you’re ready for the latter, and I’m too pretty for prison, so you have five minutes to change into something”—I trail my thumb along her jaw—“with panties.”
“I, um . . .”
“Don’t make me wait any longer than five minutes.”
Her eyes snap up to mine, the blue a pool of heat.
“Or I will come get you.”
She scrambles from the car, managing to do it with grace despite her haste, and once again I can’t help but smile.
This will certainly be a story to tell our children.
Exactly four minutes and thirty-eight seconds later—yes, I was counting. Lord knows I wouldn’t have thought twice about carrying her out here again if I’d thought she was going to run from me—she’s walking back to me.
She changed into one of those long dresses women wear—the kind that goes all the way to the floor—flip-flops, and a jean jacket. Her hair is still in the adorably messy ponytail, and clutched under her left arm is some brown thing.
“What’s that?” I inquire, gesturing to the lump tucked tight against her side.
Pursing her lips, she puts her sunglasses on and shrugs. “It’s my ass pillow.”
If I were chewing, I’d have choked.
“Your what now?”
Holding it out to me, she laughs while opening the car door. It’s a donut shape, and it’s ugly as sin. My curiosity is certainly piqued at its reason for tagging along with us.
After laying it down onto the leather seat, she slowly eases her perfect ass down on top of it. “See?” She grins. “The wonders of my medically prescribed ass pillow.”
This time, my mouth is opening and closing without any words coming out.
“Sure you still want to take me to town, bossy cowboy?” She raises an eyebrow over the brim of her aviators. “Ass pillow and all.”
“So long as you promise me one thing.”
Turning slightly towards me, she crosses her arms over her chest and nods for me to continue.
I drape an arm over the back of her seat and lean towards her so my lips brush her bare shoulder when I speak. “So long as you promise me there’s a pair of panties covering what’s mine under this dress.”
“PROMISE.” I’M NOT ENTIRELY CERTAIN my voice is audible in the small space between our bodies, nor am I sure what I’ve just promised ends at my undergarment choice.
“Good.” He skims his lips over my cheek. “I don’t like to share.” With that, he opens the horsepower of his vehicle and unleashes it on our driveway.
While I’ve never been the type of woman to cater to a man’s whims, it would seem I am doing exactly that. It’s as though I simply don’t have a choice. Something about him calls out to my soul, and having not been the kind of person to waste blessings, I returned to the car seat beside him without a moment’s hesitation.
“The people and places your heart burns for matter. Your mind is hardly an equal opponent when it comes to the whims of love. Don’t fight your heart, London. It will win regardless. No need to bruise its walls just for the sake of it.”
He is not safe.
He is not boring.
He is something I want to make mine, when I hardly know him.
My body aches for him. My soul begs and pleads for him.
In remembering my mother’s words, I am very much a woman inclined to give her heart everything it wants, and it wants him.
Fifteen minutes later, we pull up to the Sundance. My stomach rolls at the sight, in memory of the one-too-many drinks I consumed the night prior.
While it is indeed the only bar in our small town, it is also one of our better restaurants. Like almost everything else in Willow Bay, it is family-owned and operated, and their food tastes like it.
It would seem my stomach holds little capability for a grudge as the rolling quickly gives way to a hungry rumble. Branson helps me up from the passenger’s seat. Then he holds my ass pillow in his left hand before offering me his right elbow.
“Did I hurt you?” He frowns, worry clouding his eyes.
“Hurt me how?” I ask, puzzled by the question.
He winces. “I braked the car abruptly before without thinking of how it could have hurt you. I would never want to hurt you.”
Sliding my arm into his, I smile. “I’m not a china doll. I’m perfectly fine, but thank you for checking.”
The very many sides I’m seeing of him in such a short period of time are intriguing and somewhat of a wonder.
He leads us through the heavy wooden door, and when I remove my sunglasses, it
takes my eyes a minute to adjust to the darkness inside. Without asking, he moves through the bar with an odd familiarity for an out-of-towner, and settles me—ass pillow and all—into a booth in the corner before taking the seat across the table.
My body does not take the separation from his well, and the magnitude of that feeling causes me to roll my eyes.
I guess I drank the crazy in the water too.
Reed, a girl I went to school with, a few years my elder and who also owns the bar, comes over and slides two menus onto the table.
“Nice to see you again, cowboy.” She nods towards Branson.
I fist my hands into my dress at their encounter.
“I see you found what you’re looking for.” She laughs, tossing her red hair over her shoulder and shaking her head.
“It was only a matter of time,” he responds. “I’m not a patient man.”
My jealousy is overtaken by the clear understanding that there’s an underlying conversation happening in front of me. Well, that, and it’s obvious they’ve met before.
“London.” She turns her attention towards me, and I’m suddenly aware of how beautiful she is. “Nice to see you’re still alive after last night.”
Last night.
“Oh, God,” I groan. “I’m sorry if I caused any trouble.”
She waves me off, chuckling. “You’re perfectly fine. I understand.” There’s sympathy in her eyes, and while I do appreciate it, I hate when people look at me like someone just kicked my puppy. “What can I get y’all to drink?”
I settle on iced tea, my favorite, and Branson orders black coffee. Just when I thought he couldn’t get any manlier than he is, he surprises me.
“How do you know Reed?” I blurt out. I suppose subtlety has never been my strong suit.
Smirking at my outburst, he rests his forearms onto the table. “I stayed at the hotel in town last night and came by for a drink.”
“Ah,” I mumble lamely before my eyes widen. “Please tell me you didn’t . . .”
“Oh, I did,” he finishes for me, and I really, really want to bang my head on the table.
You just had to ask, I think, cursing my mouth with no filter. “This is so embarrassing.”
Reed returns with our drinks, saving me from any further discussion on my drunken escapades, and takes our orders before leaving me alone with my lunch date.
My date.
“I want to know everything about you,” he states, bringing the coffee to his lips.
I haven’t been on a date in Lord knows how long. It was likely back when dating was watching a movie at your parents’ house with the door open. It dawns on me that I don’t have much of a clue about what dating as an adult looks like. I was always too busy training with Chil to have much spare time for the whims of romance, certainly not with someone like Branson.
As he watches me over the rim of his mug, he ripples intensity and radiates intimidation. While he is both beautiful and kind, he seems somewhat unapproachable. Nonetheless, I find myself wracking my brain for something to tell him.
As I fidget in my seat, he gently leads me into the conversation.
“What made you choose dressage? I’ll admit, having met your family briefly, it seems like an odd choice.”
I twirl the straw in my tea, pushing the ice cubes around. “I love the discipline,” I breathe out, my tone a mix of awestruck wonder balanced by the hint of sadness that still lingers there. “I crave the way the harsh structure and its little tolerance for error transforms into a thing of seemingly effortless beauty.” When I look up, he’s set his cup down, giving me his utmost attention. Thus, I feel compelled to offer up my truth. “I gave my life to the sport”—I move another ice cube in my drink—“and it protected me. It was my safe haven,” I whisper, twirling the straw one more time, mirroring the whirlpool of emotions swimming in my chest. “Until now.”
“What did it protect you from?” He speaks with want of understanding in his voice. It’s a multitude of shades different than the tone most people use where my career, or current lack thereof, is concerned.
While it didn’t occur to me that he’d home in on the most personal part of my description, it shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise to me either. The man seems to miss very little.
“It protected me . . .” I pause. It seems odd to share so much so quickly with someone who’s still a perfect stranger, but the hesitation is fleeting and the words fall from my lips without any more thought. “It protected me from myself.”
“Hmm,” he hums. “I care only to know so much about your riding, because the passion you harbor there is painted on your face each time I watch you with a horse. There’s a tether between you and the sport, London. Why would you need it to protect you from yourself?”
Momma always said the common misconception in relationships was that people got so caught up in finding someone who understood them when, in reality, all they needed was someone who wanted to understand them. With the right person, that would be more than enough.
“Simply put?” I ask. “I’m that girl.” I drench the word in heaviness. “The girl who bleeds dry for the things she loves. While that’s most certainly something I am not ashamed of, I’m not particularly well equipped to deal with the emotional fallout that comes with caring for something or someone to that degree or magnitude. As such, the sport laid claim to my heart and I deemed it best to give everything I had to the thing I loved most. My momma always made sure to remind us how important the breaks in our hearts are. I just chose to control mine as best as I could, but I never imagined . . .”
“It is always the things we love without abandon that have the power to truly cripple us.” He rests his elbows on the table.
“That’s a terribly scary notion,” I concede, leaning back against the booth.
“Pain comes with heartbreak, and fear often comes with change, but growth is ensured in both. There’s hardly anything wrong with being that girl.” He hovers on the word, much like I did. “In fact, being that girl is one of the very things I like so much about you. People are too coy in the pursuit of their passions, and few would so bravely line up to defend them. Your mother sounds like a smart woman.”
My heart swells in response to the way his words seem to fill the spaces I didn’t realize were empty. “She was,” I say. “I think she’d have liked you.”
“May I ask what happened to her?” He seems unsure of the question, even as each word leaves his full lips.
“It’s perfectly all right to ask.” I smile, hoping to ease some of his discomfort. “She died when I was sixteen after losing a long battle with pancreatic cancer. I’m blessed to have been raised by such a strong woman. I can only hope to emulate half the love she did.”
He gently lays his arm over one of my hands. “I’m sorry for your loss. I would have very much enjoyed meeting her.”
I swallow against the lump forming in my throat. The raw quality of our conversation is both a filling and a purging of the soul. “Tell me about your family?” It comes out as more of a request than an actual question, but amidst the depth between us, I wish to get to know him with equal if not matching intensity.
He draws his hand back and wraps it around the mug, engulfing the white ceramic with its size. I am momentarily envious that he’s now holding it as opposed to me, but I bury my envy in curiosity.
“My parents, Ashley and Charles Tucker, still live on the ranch I grew up on in Coal Hill. Much to my mother’s dismay, she had three boys and no girls.” He laughs at some memory I’m unaware of, but the light it brings to his handsome face is contagious, and I beam back at him as he continues, “Heath, my older brother, is the COO at the company. He married his high school sweetheart, Kailee, and they have two boys. Greg, my younger brother, is a sports photographer and single father. His daughter, Katie, is, as it stands, the only Tucker girl my family has ever had, spouses excluded of course.” He smirks as if the last statement were abundantly obvious.
&n
bsp; “Do you want kids?”
Perhaps it’s not typical to ask that on a first date—if that’s what this is. Then again, not much of today has been typical.
“Yes. I’ve always wanted kids. I’ve just been waiting for the right person.”
The moment feels layered with something unsaid, but I have no time to investigate it further, as Reed delivers our food to the table and I begin to devour my lunch.
Our conversation moves to lighter topics during the course of our meal, and I find myself soaking up even the littlest details he shares. I learn that he began riding almost as early as he could walk, and worked on his parents’ farm all through school prior to moving to Edmonton to start his company. His favorite color is blue, and he has a deep-seated, nerdy kind of love for Harry Potter. I make a mental note to watch the movies so I can understand what the heck he’s talking about. I’ll admit that wizardry is not my specialty. I’m more of a The Horse Whisper and Hope Floats kind of girl. Give me a Tom Booker or a Justin Matisse, and I’ll be happy any day of the week.
Unsurprisingly, we both have a love for country music, and I spend nearly five minutes gushing over my newfound obsession—Chris Stapleton.
Even after our plates are cleared, the conversation never ceases. I’m entirely enraptured by each movement, touch, or word that showcases the ever-varying sides to his personality. Both of us are unable to learn enough about the other, and our lunch date effortlessly bleeds into the evening.
“WOULD YOU EXCUSE ME FOR just a minute?”
After wrapping her lips around the straw in her tea, she sucks slowly, the hollow in her cheeks spiking my blood pressure with ease. She smiles, coming off the plastic with a small pop. “Of course.”
Lord, have mercy on me.
I stand, leaning over to drop an innocent kiss on her forehead before I allow the distance to expand between us. With only sheer physical strength am I able to move my body away from hers, and even then, it’s only with the promise that I’ll get to hold her soon that my body obeys its commands.
My heart pounds, against the walls of my chest desperate for reprieve from our time apart. As the hours added up, my resolve only grew more determined. She is everything all at once, and all of it pooling in my heart is overwhelming; a graceful assault of sorts.
