by Anne Jolin
My attraction to her has always been more than physical. Without sounding like a potential jerk-off, I am well aware of what pretty women look like, and the result of an appearance-based relationship is tepid at best. Beauty is hardly enough to keep the beast of love satisfied. Beauty is so poorly defined, for it is not with a beautiful face that one wins wars, but with a beautiful heart and a beautiful mind that the beast is reverently tamed.
It’s as such with London. Her soul leapt from the pages of magazines and chased me relentlessly. Her heart caught mine like easy prey, and while that was alarming, it didn’t keep me from pursuing her. She is both complementing and consuming to me. I cling to each parcel of information about her like it is worth more than all wealth I’ve acquired.
“Success is nothing if you have no one there to share it with.”
My father’s words ring in my ears, and a smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. The bastard is always right, and I love him for it.
Approaching the bar, I find Mack stocking cases of beer. He’s exactly who I needed to see.
Gripping the edge of the bar, I greedily wait to see if my request is something he’ll consider.
“This date has been amazing,” London hums as I return to the table.
I hold my hand out as she stands. “This wasn’t a date.”
“Oh, I . . .” She trips over her words.
I’m ecstatic with the way her body quivers as my lips brush against her cheek. “This was to make you comfortable.”
She seems adorably confused as I pull her towards the center of the bar. “I don’t understand.”
“Today was about getting to know you, and you getting to know me so that, when I pick you up for our first date tomorrow, there will be no mistaking that you are mine entirely.”
Her breath hitches just as my boots come to a halt.
“I’ve been waiting for you.” I spread a hand over the small of her back and gently pull her against me. “And I don’t like to share.”
Her mouth parts just as the first twangs of Chris Stapleton’s “Tennessee Whiskey” fill the empty bar.
“Dance with me, London.”
Conceding to my request, she rests a palm on my shoulder and folds the other into my waiting hand. We move slowly in time with the beat, the strength in my body giving way to the softness of hers. I’m holding my breath at the intimate proximity to her, the moment rich in things even I have no capacity to understand.
The steady clamor of her heart ricochets over my skin when her head lays claim to my chest. I am a man brought to his knees with each of her touches, and I’d not trade being that man for anything in the world.
“I think I’ve been waiting for you too,” she whispers just below the music.
This girl, with blond hair and a steel-laced spine. This girl, with blue eyes and a bleeding heart. This girl, with fair skin and a passionate prison in her mind. If this girl is the death of me, then I surely wanna die.
THE NIGHT AIR HAS DEVELOPED a chill as we make our way out of the bar. I can smell his cologne on me from our dance together, and subsequently, I shudder at the sensation.
“Are you cold?” he asks as we reach his car.
If it can even be called that. His car is prettier than most of the women I know.
Swaying on my feet, still entranced in my lustful dizzy spell, I nod. “A little.”
Concern is etched in the edges of his eyes. “It’ll be cold with the top down,” he murmurs. “Here.” He lifts a suit jacket from the back seat and holds it out to me.
I slip my hands through the too-big sleeves, shrugging it over my shoulders. Then I turn back around to face him. “Thank you.”
After running his hands across the lapels, he drags me towards him. The heady spell I’m under dissipates when he kisses my forehead. Again. I’m overwhelmed by sudden disappointment. I’d expected him to kiss me at least once before the night was through. The tension between us has been thick and I could most certainly cut through it with a butter knife, but nonetheless, he refrained.
After helping me into the passenger’s seat, Branson buckles me in as he did earlier. The graze of his knuckles against my chest is a ruthless tease. I desperately want to understand why he hasn’t yet kissed me. I thought I was quite obviously displaying signs of need.
The drive back is comfortable. The local country station filters in through the car stereo, and I sit huddled in his suit coat, wishing the drive could be longer. I am infinitely worried that my body will no longer be able to function after leaving him.
I don’t want to leave him. I don’t want our day together to end.
“How do you feel?” He watches my face intently, never once dropping his gaze to my heaving chest as he moves the vehicle into park.
“Better,” I breathe on a whisper.
He tucks a stray piece of hair behind my ear, and I find myself leaning into his hand shamelessly. “Let me walk you in.”
Shaking my head, I reach for the handle of the door. “I’ll be just fine on my own,” I tease him. Truthfully, I don’t think I can handle the letdown of another kiss on my forehead or cheek if he were to walk me to the door and not pin me against it.
Frowning, he looks around the area as if he sees a serial killer lurking about. “It’s dark,” he murmurs as I slide out of his coat.
“I’m a grown woman, Branson. You can watch me walk inside if that suits you.”
Something like a growl escapes his lips.
“Today was unexpected”—I lean forward to peck his cheek—“and wonderful. Thank you.”
I don’t wait for him to answer. I would quite like our night to end like this. On my terms. Much like how I watch The Notebook, for example. I have never been one for the crippling sadness. As such, I turn it off in a happy place and consider that the ending.
I walk around the hood of his car before starting towards the barn.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
My heart thumps in my chest when I think he means a kiss, but as I turn around, the anticipation gives way to laughter. “That could be helpful,” I singsong.
“I wouldn’t want that ass of yours to see any discomfort,” he teases.
After taking my ridiculous ass pillow from his outstretched hand, I place it on the hood of his car. “Thank you,” I hum, leaning my hip against his car door. “Such a gentleman.”
“Only for you.”
The pounding in my chest at his response spurs my actions. “I wish I could find some way to thank you for today.” My voice uncharacteristically drops to a purr as I subtly pull the fabric of my dress up.
“I don’t need your thanks.” He leans back into his seat, the perfect display of confidence over cockiness. “I just need you.”
When the material skims the middle of my thigh, I sneak a hand up my dress. “Hmm.” My lips form a pout as I hook my fingers into the edge of my thong and shimmy my hips from side to side, letting the barely there lace slide down my legs. “What kind of game are we playing?”
“I’m afraid you’ve lost me.” He searches my face for an answer to my change in demeanor.
“You won’t kiss me.” My voice has a little whine to it, and if it weren’t for the flash of lust in his eyes, I’d be a little embarrassed by my brash behavior.
“I will—when I think you can handle it,” he rumbles. “If this is a game, angel, I’m playing for keeps.” His voice deepens to a husky whisper, and my body involuntarily shivers.
Lifting my legs one at a time, I step out of my panties before bending over the car door. “In that case, Mr. Tucker,” I hum, “let me remind you that, while you’ve made it clear you don’t like to share”—I stand, folding the lace where he can finally see it—“neither do I.”
As I tuck them into the front pocket of his dress shirt, I’m rewarded with the low growl rumbling from his throat.
Handle that, handsome.
While it was indeed a move that would cause even the sinners in Heaven to blush, i
t was so fulfilling in its boldness. In what could not even be considered a full day together, Branson Tucker gave me pieces of myself I’d thought were surely gone forever, and in return, I gave him my panties and what I assume is my heart.
After blowing him a kiss, I pull the pillow off his hood and sway my hips for his benefit as I walk into the barn.
“Mine!” he calls out gruffly.
It would seem so.
“Look who decided to grace us with her presence.”
Poking my head out of the tack room, where I’ve just about finished putting away the obscene amount of leather Charlotte brought, I roll my eyes at Aurora. She’s bringing the last horse through the barn aisle, which will wrap up the morning turnout.
“Maybe don’t ship off your slave labor with potential serial killers if you don’t want to do all of her work for the afternoon,” I sass. “Just a suggestion.”
“Oh yes.” She comes to a halt in front of the door, a stunning chestnut-brown racehorse likely a few years past his prime flanking her right side. “I left you alone with the hunky urban cowboy. Please forgive me. Such an injustice!”
The gelding snorts in response as Aurora flails one hand in the air to dramatically prove her point.
Leaning against the doorway, I wince a little as I laugh at her. Then I change the subject, looking over her shoulder at the horse. “Who’s this?”
“This here is Gentleman Jack.” Her voice lowers, and he twitches his ears in response to her tone. “Charlotte said he belongs to Katie, whoever that is.”
“Branson’s niece,” I say, rubbing his forehead with my palm.
She fans herself in excess. “Branson, eh? Well, how ’bout that.”
“Oh, shut up,” I reprimand her, but it’s all in good fun. She’s never had much of a chance to tease her big sister about a date, and truthfully, I don’t mind all that much.
Aurora’s always been the more romantic of us girls. She frequently has men falling at her feet, and she always picks the ones most damaged. Not because she wants to fix them in some twisted way, but I think she’s simply curious about them is all. Our family suffered tragedy, and we came out on the other side with a different view on the world. Occasionally, I wonder if she’s looking for someone who sees that in her too.
“Well, if you could toss me a bone, that would be great,” she huffs. “I didn’t do all of your chores yesterday just so you could come back and go all Secret Garden on me. Spill.”
“He was”—I pause, searching for the words—“amazing.” While I’m not a gusher by nature, I can’t help the way the words fall from my mouth, although they do no justice to the man I am utterly enamored with. “He’s . . .”
“London!”
Aurora and I both wince as the shrill sound of a woman’s voice shrieks through the barn. Before I have a chance to open my mouth, she yells again.
“London!”
Looking past Gentleman Jack, I see Charlotte barreling up the center aisle, looking like she jumped right off the pages of Horse & Rider magazine. Perfectly fitted, beige riding britches, black, knee-high boots, no scuffs, and a crisp, pale-pink polo.
“Yes?” My voice sounds annoyed yet professional. Then I wait to see what could possibly have her so worked up as to break one of the few rules every barn is accustomed to working around.
No Running.
No Yelling. She is definitely yelling.
No Smoking.
The first two are for the horses. They spook easily, especially thoroughbreds, which are notoriously high-strung, so we move slowly and consciously around them. The third is for the property. We are coming up on the end of summer, so everything is very dry in Alberta. It would only take a spark to set fire to the dry hay and, subsequently, the wood in the barn. It is, if possible, the most important of the three, and not tolerated in any way.
She scowls as she approaches us, and I wonder if it’s simply my presence alone that irritates her, or if it’s some kind of bitch resting face she has going on.
“Where is Street?” she asks.
“He’s—”
“Did you turn him out with the other horses?”
Aurora bites her lip out of the corner of my eye, presumably to keep from laughing, before leaving the barn with Jack.
Abandoning me two days in a row. Nice.
Briefly, I consider messing with Charlotte, because it seems like it would be fun to watch her run around like a chicken with her head cut off some more, but for the sake of the horses and, likely, my eardrums, I opt to clear up the misunderstanding.
“Street is in the north paddocks.”
Charlotte opens her mouth to speak, but I raise a finger to shush her, politely of course.
“He’s facing the back of the property, in the individually sectioned area.”
“He can’t—”
“He can’t be turned out with the other horses, because he has hind shoes on. I, too, was raised in a horse stable, Charlotte, and while I appreciate the”—I nod towards her, not exactly sure what she’s doing here—“help, I don’t enjoy being spoken to like an imbecile. Perhaps if we could tone down the condescending manner in which you seem to have deemed so appropriate to talk to me, then I think we can resume a professional working relationship during your time here at Willow Bay.”
Her mouth opens and closes, but no words come out.
“I’m glad you agree.” I flash her the debutant smile I perfected during my years in front of the camera. “The tack you had delivered has been sorted and arranged in lockers with the corresponding horse, and there’s coffee in the lounge.”
With that, I leave Equestrian Barbie standing in the aisle of my family’s barn, choking on her own rudeness.
ELEVEN-EIGHTEEN.
I was hoping to arrive earlier than this to surprise my girl with our first date, but the break-in at the office had stolen most of my time this morning. It was a particularly odd break in—although not our first, given that the location of the office is in downtown Edmonton—but nothing was taken. Just a weak attempt at hacking our client records, e-mails, and personal information. After a three-hour meeting, I was assured that the system was secure and the faults in the security system were being rectified immediately.
As I come up the driveway, I can see why her father would entertain almost any option to keep this place. Given my profession, I harbor a deep love and appreciation for not only a good piece of land, but also the structures on its grounds. Willow Bay Stables is among some of the most gorgeous farms in Alberta. Pride tugs at me for being able to help this family afford to keep it. I am deeply invested in earning a blessing from Larry Daniels, but I would proceed without one if that were my only option.
Just as I pull the truck up outside the main entrance of the barn, I see her. Wild, blonde hair is being tossed around by the wind, and she seems indignant, muttering under her breath. She’s sporting the same cut-off shorts as yesterday, her mile-long legs tucked into faded cowboy boots.
Perfection.
Her head swings up at the sound of my door slamming, and the frown on her face fades a little. “Good morning.”
“Mornin.’”
Her body quivers as my hand settles over her hip.
“You look lovely,” I praise before kissing her on the cheek.
I know she hates it, but I’ll admit I’m inclined to torture her a little after the show she put on last night. Her brazen behavior caught me off guard, but only further showcased the fire under her otherwise settled demeanor. Nonetheless, all of it left me with a raging hard-on and a long drive back home.
“What are you doing here?” she asks as I spread my hand across the small of her back.
Feigning sadness, I playfully growl at her. “Not happy to see me?”
She rolls her eyes, placing a palm on my chest. “I didn’t say that.”
Her fingers graze my heart as if there’s no barrier between her and it. She’s simply able to touch it whenever she pleases.
“
I’m here for our first date.”
“Oh.” Her head tilts up, excited, blue eyes finding mine. “And what might that entail?”
I skim the edge of her denim shorts with my fingers. “Well, after last night, I was thinking we’d start off by getting you”—I tug on one of her belt loops—“wet.”
“This is not exactly what I had in mind,” London pouts, looking at the ground between her feet and back up at me for the third time in a minute.
After tying the slipknot on Street’s lead rope, I bend under his neck and come to stand behind her. “Is that so?” My voice is intentionally a husky whisper, and I’m rewarded with the small goose bumps that pebble her fair skin. “What was it you had in mind?”
She involuntarily sways back against my chest when I wrap my arm around her. “You know . . .”
“I’m not so sure I do.” My lips trail over her shoulder. The devil himself surely would be proud of the tease I’m giving her.
As if reading my mind, she grumbles and straightens her body. “You’re the devil.”
“I was entirely chivalrous, Miss Daniels.” I reach to take the hose from her hand. “I believe it was you who started this particular facet of our relationship.”
After snatching the hose back from me, she aims it into the soapy buckets at her feet, mumbling under her breath.
A chuckle rumbles from somewhere in my chest as I pull my shirt over my head in time to hear what sounds like a growl come from the woman now standing out of my line of vision.
“Do you enjoy teasing me?”
Not turning around, I toss my shirt onto the railing next to where Achilles and Street have been tied up so we can give them the horse equivalent of a bath before the weather gets too cold. “Yes, and you like it.”
My girl took a hit to her confidence where riding is concerned, and it makes me want to wage a war on Hell itself for making her feel that way. Or more so on a particular pompous asshole. I know she’s not able to ride, at least not for another two months—provided she sustains no further aggravation to her back. But I desperately want her to find some of her strength again. Which is why today is going to be about her and the horses. And, of course, me.
