by Penny Wylder
Half an hour later, I’ve made it down from the roof too and dusted myself off. I head into the bedroom to grab my stuff and go change. But when I pass the lone bathroom in the farmhouse, the steam escaping through the open door catches my eye. It’s only opened a crack, just a couple inches. But it’s enough to glimpse, via the mirror hanging over the sink, a reflection of what’s happening in the shower.
I should keep walking. I know I should. But my feet have their own idea. They slow, stumble to a halt before the door, and, unable to help myself, I steal a peek through the open doorway.
At first all I see is shower tile. I’m about to take a deep breath, tear my gaze away and turn toward the bedroom instead, when movement catches my eye. Grant steps into view, reaching for something on the other side of the narrow shower. He’s turned to the side, giving me a glimpse of muscular thighs, and an ass so tight and round it makes my stomach clench and my mouth water. But then he turns back toward the shower again, and my jaw drops.
He is a big man. Huge, in fact.
He’s not even hard right now, I think in shock, at the sight of his thick cock. I can’t imagine what it would be like to be fucked by a man like him. I’ve never been with anyone that big. But my pussy tenses, my panties damp. Clearly my body wants to find out.
Too bad, I scold it. I spin away from the door and hurry toward the bedroom before I get caught gawking at someone I should definitely not be fantasizing about. But the whole time I shrug out of my tank top and into a clean shirt for our run into town, I can’t stop picturing his body. The water from the shower curling down over his taut muscles. I imagine being in that shower with him. The way he’d pin me against the wall and lift me off my feet easily, like I weighed nothing at all. The way he’d thrust into me, and how thick he’d feel inside my tight pussy, stretching me out, making me scream with pleasure…
Stop thinking about it, Sasha. Clearly I’m just horny. It’s been a long time since my last hookup. That’s the only explanation I can think of for why I’d suddenly be so into a guy like this, a guy so different from my usual type. I like pretty nerdy boys. The kind of guys I can have a long intellectual conversation with before we make love to our favorite soundtrack. Not guys like this.
Not guys who could probably fuck me harder than I’ve ever been fucked before.
I force that thought, along with all the rest, from my mind. Force them out and focus on what I need to do now—go finish our errands for the day.
I straighten my fresh shirt and consider my jean shorts for a second. I could change them. But I’m remembering Grant’s eyes on my ass, and the way he smirked at me. That one word he uttered. Don’t.
So I leave the shorts on, grab my wallet, and head out into the living room.
When I get there, Grant is already dressed and waiting for me. I resist the urge to glance at his crotch, wondering if I’d be able to see the outline of his cock through those jeans. Wondering what it would take to get him hard for me.
I can’t think like that. I’m too distracted as it is.
For his part, Grant just smiles when he sees me, ambiguous, hard-to-read. Is he smirking at me, or does he just always look a little bit haughty, like he knows something I don’t?
“Ready?” he asks.
I nod, and he leads us out toward the cars. He bypasses mine straightaway—and I can’t exactly complain. The dirt roads aren’t too helpful on this rental’s undercarriage. He heads straight for his truck and I trail after him.
Then we nearly collide because he’s stopped in front of the passenger door to open it for me.
“Oh, I can…” I reach for the handle then pause halfway. Because he’s shaking his head.
“I might be a country boy, but I was raised with manners,” he says. He opens the door and swings it open, then steps aside while extending a hand.
I glance from the truck to him and back again. The step is two feet off the ground—nothing I couldn’t handle with effort, but still. I place my hand in his, and thrill at the warmth of his skin, the strength in his hands. I lean on him as I step up, and he lifts me easily toward the cabin as I climb into the passenger side seat.
He shuts the door behind me and circles around to his side of the truck while I’m still catching my breath from that touch. Dammit. Why does he have such an effect?
He climbs into the driver’s seat and shuts the door, not bothering with a seatbelt as the turns the ignition. Country music blares over his loud speakers, but louder than that is the growl in the truck’s engine, itching to be gassed.
Just the sound of the truck motor—a real engine—brings back a flood of memories. Riding shotgun with Mama into town for groceries, bouncing on the seat with every bump to make the ride feel like a roller coaster at the county fair.
Learning how to drive myself on these roads, gunning it as fast as I could so I could feel like I was flying—flying away from all this.
Riding shotgun with Dad, back before—No. I cut that memory off short. I don’t think about those days.
I run a hand across the dashboard, unable to conceal my smile.
“Been a while since you’ve been taken for a real ride, has it?” Grant asks, a wide smirk on his face. I’m not sure if he’s talking about the truck, exactly. My face flushes.
“Might be,” I admit.
“Well. Might want to buckle up then,” he replies, grinning.
Without further warning, he guns it. We’re facing down the driveway, but even though I just drove up and down this twice yesterday, it feels completely different from here. From the seat in a truck built for this terrain, driven by someone who knows how to handle these country roads. Pretty soon we pick up enough speed to barrel along, and I whoop, unable to contain my elation.
Grant laughs. “You need to loosen up once in a while, City Girl,” he calls over the roar of the road under our tires, the rush of wind through the cracked windows, because of course this thing doesn’t even have air con. And for some reason I don’t even mind. “You’re a lot more fun this way.”
“Yeah, well you’re a lot more fun when you’re taking me for a ride instead of calling me names,” I shout back with a smirk.
He lifts an eyebrow at that. “Can’t I do both?”
“Guess that depends on what kind of names you plan to call me,” I shout back, just as we reach the end of the driveway and he slows down, enough that my voice echoes in the cabin.
Grant barks out a laugh. “Oh, I can think of a fair few that’d suit you, City Girl.” He glances over at me, and his eyes do that thing again, that slow wander across my body that sets every nerve ending on fire.
“I’m working on a list of my own for you, Country Boy.”
“Still think you can handle this, do you.” He doesn’t say it like a question. He says it like a challenge, a dare. At the same time, he turns onto the main road toward town, not meeting my eye anymore.
“I like a challenge,” I reply, chin lifted.
“Hm. Careful what you wish for,” he answers to that, casting one last sideways glance at me before he turns his attention to the road.
For a few moments we fall silent, listening to the upbeat country tune that’s currently pounding in his speakers. It’s one I recognize, one I forgot I even knew the words to, and I find myself mouthing them under my breath as we roll through town.
Just like yesterday when I first drove in—and in the afternoon when I rode down to talk to Mark at the hotel—all eyes are on us once more. But this time, as we drive through the town square, the center of town, the social hangout for everyone and their parents—and their grandparents too, for that matter—I sense a difference. This time, I notice far more girls turning to eyeball the truck, following its path, their eyes eagerly searching out the driver’s seat.
And I notice more than a few of those smiles shifting into frowns when their eyes wander past the driver’s seat toward the passenger side and finding it occupied.
Well. Can’t blame them. I’d be thirst
y for a guy like Grant too, if all I had to choose from were the pickings in this small town.
You’re hungry for him even when you do have more options, the unhelpful voice in the back of my head points out.
I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from fantasizing again. But that’s hard when the whole cab of this truck smells like him. When his warm body is just a couple feet away from mine, his arm muscles bulging as he shifts the truck down a gear and turns away from the plaza.
“Are you paying attention?” he asks, and I startle, tearing my gaze from his biceps.
“Hmm?”
“You wanted to know how to get to the hardware store, didn’t you?” He rolls his eyes, but he’s smirking too. He’s enjoying how distracting he is, damn him.
I lean back in my seat. “Right.” I force my eyes on the road. Force my mind to stop imagining how it would feel if he swung this truck into a parking spot and used those thick, strong hands to reach for me instead of the gearshift. I’d bet he could pull me onto his lap before I even had time to gasp and tell him it was improper in public.
Then I imagine what that would feel like—kneeling across him while he wraps those strong hands around my firm ass and pulls me down into his lap. I picture the bulge in his jeans from thick cock; imagine grinding myself against him… Fuck, I could probably get off on that alone, like a horny teenager.
“You’re drifting again,” he points out, and I blink, startled to realize we’ve already gone three more streets while I wasn’t looking.
“No, I’m not,” I protest.
“Sure. And we’re where, again?”
I lick my lips. Frown. “I’m not great with directions,” I protest.
“Uh huh.” He swings a left in front of a site I do recognize, though—the church Mama used to go to. The church I went to growing up, and that helps me orient myself.
So many of the other stores have changed. Call me naive, but I’d have thought that in a little town like this, the big chain stores wouldn’t make much of a dent. But I spot a Starbucks on one corner and an IHOP across the way, and frown. “Where’d Billy’s go?” I ask, before I think better of it. Before I realize that’s a memory lane I don’t want to ride down. Fraught with all the things I remember after mass, heading there every Sunday for pancakes and coffee with—No.
“Not such a bad sense of direction after all.” Grant shakes his head with a sigh. “Billy’s closed down about ten years back. After Billy passed. Neither of his sons wanted to keep the place running. Rick tried to sell it for a while, but…” He shrugged one shoulder. “Not many people into the small town life these days. Everyone wants to run away to the big city. Forget their roots where they buried them.” He shoots me a sideways glance at that, and I clamp my mouth into a thin line.
“As long as they’re doing what they enjoy, don’t think you ought to blame them,” I say.
“Course not,” he says. “As long as it’s really what they enjoy.”
With that enigmatic statement, Grant pulls into the parking lot attached to Tulip Hardware, just a couple blocks up from where Billy’s used to be. At least that’ll be easy enough for me to remember.
We head inside, and Grant gives me a list of supplies to find while he hunts down the rest of the things we need. I manage to locate the nails we’ll need to finish the roof, as well as the various yard tools that have either rusted away or been borrowed from our shed and never returned in Mama’s absence.
I beat Grant to the counter and find an older couple chatting behind it. Their gazes slide over to me, at first with an absent glance, then narrowing in recognition and suspicion, in a way I’m getting used to spotting.
These people must know me. Or knew Mama, at any rate.
“Can we help you?” the man asks, a bite in his tone.
The woman doesn’t say anything, just stares.
“Er, I wanted to buy these.” I place the items on the counter.
He eyes them doubtfully. Doesn’t make a move to stand or start checking me out yet, though.
The woman leans over to pick up a cup of coffee from its perch on a neighboring stack of books and sips it politely for a long moment.
I stand there watching, eyes wide. Are they really just going to ignore me?
But after a long, almost never-ending moment, the woman finally sighs and pushes to her feet, grumbling like I’m asking the biggest, most interminable task of her. “Thirty for the lot,” she pronounces, without even looking at what I’ve laid on the table.
“But…” I bite my lip. I did the math already. None of this should add up to more than twenty bucks at most.
“Thirty,” she repeats, fixing me with a glare.
Just then, I feel a warm body approach behind me, and a thick, strong hand comes to rest gently on my shoulder. At the same time, the woman’s face transforms into a bright smile.
“Grant, honey, how lovely to see you.”
“How’ve you been? How’s the farm coming?” the man interjects.
“Great to see you too, Etna,” he replies to her first, bobbing his head. “And it’s coming along, Hank, slowly but surely. I see you’ve met my business partner, Sasha.”
“Your partner, is it now?” Etna’s eyebrows rise.
I remember her now, though. Those names—Etna, Hank—they triggered memories I didn’t even know were buried in my head. I remember Mama going over to tea at their place sometimes on Saturdays, when I couldn’t have been more than ten years old. I remember cavorting around their yard with some other kids. What were their names? I shake my head. Don’t know, but still.
I extend a hand, smiling. “Etna, I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you at first. How are your kids doing?”
She smiles back, her cheeks flushing a little, clearly surprised and pleased that I remember anything at all. “Just fine, thank you dear. And, a bit belated I suppose, but my sincerest condolences about your mother. She was a fine woman, Maryanne.”
“You’re the spitting image of her,” Hank puts in, a little warmer now that I’ve spoken up. But still. There’s a downturn at the corner of his mouth, a faint suspicion in his gaze. When he glances back at Grant, though, he’s all smiles again. “Hope you aren’t tiring yourself out too much, working up there all alone.”
“Got some help now,” Grant says with a smile, his hand tightening slightly on my shoulder.
Just that touch, even through the fabric of my T-shirt, is enough to make my body tense and a pulse of electricity flare in my nerves, deep in my belly.
“I hate to say hey and run, but…” Grant gestures from the supplies to the clock above the couple’s head. “Running low on sunlight and high on chores, so.”
“Of course, no problem, honey.” Etna beams. Then she darts a glance at me, something maybe almost apologetic in her gaze, before she turns to start counting up the items. “All together?”
“Sure,” Grant says before I can butt in.
I turn to glance at him all too aware of his hand still resting on my shoulder. “Grant,” I start in a low voice, but he cuts across me in a voice just as low.
“I’m saving receipts,” he says. “They’re all business deductions, we’ll take it out of the profits once we’ve sold the place.”
“You’re selling?” Hank butts in now, eyes wide.
“That’s the plan,” Grant replies, now looking over my head at the man. But I can’t help but notice the tightness around his jaw, or the way his hand drops off my shoulder and he doesn’t meet my gaze anymore.
What’s that about?
I don’t have time to wonder, because Etna’s already finished bagging up our supplies, and Grant accepts them from her to lead us out of the store.
I trail after, casting one last glance over my shoulder at the couple to wave as we leave. They wave back, though I have a feeling it’s mostly for Grant’s sake, from the way their eyes narrow when they catch mine, and their hands drop back to their laps the second Grant is out of sight.
W
e load up the truck in silence, and I climb into the cab—after Grant yet again insists on opening the door and helping me up—without a word.
“I need to stop at the grocery on the way back,” he says. “Figured I’d cook tonight. You want to do a run too?”
“Sure,” I mumble.
He lets that sit for a few seconds. “What’s eating you?” he asks when he starts the truck up again.
“Nothing.” I glance out the window.
He snorts faintly. I spin to glare at him.
“What’s so funny?”
“You acting like a grumpy teenager,” he replies bluntly. “You don’t want to talk about it?”
I bite the inside of my cheek again, annoyed at how easily he can read me. At how transparent I’m being. “It’s nothing,” I say. “It’s just…” I sigh. “The way Etna and Hank were, the way Mark was yesterday… People don’t like me here. They don’t want me around.”
“Why do you care what they think?” Grant replies with a shrug. “You left this place behind for a reason once. You’re planning to do the same thing again. What’s it matter to you how the people you left behind feel about that?”
He has a point. I lean back in my seat and wrap my hands around the belt, tugging at it. Why do I care, anyway? I’m never going to see these people again. I didn’t have a damn thing to do with them for fifteen years, not since I left for my better, far more exciting life in the city. Why do I care if they resent me for having that life, for choosing it over this one?
“Fair point,” I mumble, not quite sure how to respond. How do I articulate why it bugs me? Because, despite the fact that I shouldn’t give a damn what anyone in this town thinks… It does still bother me. I just can’t put a finger on why.
We hit the grocery store, shopping in separate aisles. I finish a lot faster—I figure Grant has a lot to stock up on, since he lives here, whereas I’m just passing through. I only need enough to get me through this week, and in my book, that’s mostly pasta and ramen, plus a few fruits and veg for my lunchtime salads.
I check out, but still no sign of him, so I figure I’ll get a head start and haul my bags out to the truck before he can come and offer to carry everything for me again, Country Man With Manners style.
