by Penny Wylder
Like returning from a long vacation to find your familiar old comfy clothes right where you left them.
Except this isn’t a return from vacation for me. This is just a break in my normal life. I remind myself of that as I stride out into the kitchen.
Once again, there’s already a pot of coffee brewed and some rolls out by the microwave. I grab one and pour two cups of coffee this time, checking out the kitchen window.
It doesn’t take me long to spot Grant. He’s set up next to the shed today, ripping up the fence that borders the house to replace the posts. There’s a stack of new posts beside him, and some wire to run between them. He’s about halfway done.
I shake my head, in awe of how fast this man works. Then I scoop up both cups of coffee and pad out barefoot into the yard.
“Grant,” I call.
He turns, glances over his shoulder.
I lift the second cup. “Re-up?” I ask.
He smiles and runs a hand through his hair, turning away from the fence and setting down the post holer he’d been using.
He jogs across the grass to my side, and I pass him the cup, sneaking a peek at his white tank top, which sticks to his sweat-slicked muscles as he leans back to take a long drink of the coffee.
I fucked him last night, I think, a thrill sparking through my body. My belly tightens with pleasure at the thought.
Then he finishes drinking and I quickly tear my gaze away, back to the fence, sipping from my mug as well. “Finished the roof already?” I ask when we’ve both taken a few more sips.
“Yesterday,” he nods. “While you were resting.”
“Thank you.” I bite my lip and catch his eye. “I… Sorry again about that.”
“Don’t be,” he says, his voice fierce and sincere. It’s so vehement that I don’t even try to argue with him this time. I just bow my head in agreement and take another sip of coffee.
“Need any help with these?” I ask, nodding at the fences.
He shakes his head. “I’m good on these.” Before I can butt in and insist that I want to help—that this is as much my project as his, if not more so, since it’s my mother’s farm we’re fixing up. His dad just bought into it was all—he seems to preempt my argument. “I had planned to start on the house itself soon, though,” he says. “Repaint the rooms now that the electrical wiring’s done, and get a head start on the gardens out front.”
“That gate too,” I say. “And the porch, the tire swing…”
“What’s wrong with the tire swing?” he responds, almost defensive. I blink, startled.
“Nothing, just… It’s ancient. The rope has got to be rotten through by now. It can’t be safe.”
He shakes his head. “Some things don’t need changing, you know. You can leave some stuff be.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What’s so special about that one swing?”
“Nothing!” He groans and takes another long drink of his coffee. “Never mind. Forget it.”
“Grant—”
“There’s a party tonight,” he says, startling me.
I blink up at him for a few seconds in silence, not exactly sure how I’m supposed to respond to that. “Okay?”
“Would you like to come with me?”
I let that hang for a moment. He wants to spend time with me, thinks one part of my brain. He wants to be seen with me in public, thinks another part. Even after yesterday. Even after everything. But still… I bite the inside of my cheek, thinking about what kind of party it could possibly be in a town like this. “You don’t seem like the partying type,” I say after a moment, mostly to stall.
“Normally I’m not,” he replies simply.
I lift an eyebrow. “Is this a special occasion then?”
“I’m normally not the partying type,” he clarifies. “But I am the attend-a-local-social-event-with-a-sexy-as-hell-woman-on-my-arm type.”
“Ah.” I grin a little more deeply. “Well, in that case… I’d love to go.”
His smile deepens, just for a second. “Good.” Then he turns his back to set down his coffee cup on the back table and dust off his hands. “Well. I should get back to work.”
“I should start work,” I reply with a sigh. “I don’t know how you get up and at it this early.”
“Stamina,” he calls over his shoulder with a wink.
My cheeks flare red, even as I smirk back at him and scoop up his cup to bring it inside. Out front, I stand and confront the mess of the front yard. Right. To work it is.
I lose track of the hours, elbow-deep in grease as I am. I oiled and cleaned and adjusted the front gate until it shone, until there wasn’t a single speck of rust on the whole thing and it swings open and shut without so much as a squeak or a creak.
Then I weeded the front garden, a little patch of flowers and herbs that Mama used to keep around for cooking. There are still a few surviving ones, so I pick some fresh basil and oregano for dinner tonight. I figure if Grant wants to eat before this party, whatever it is, we can whip up a simple chicken dinner with the oregano, and I’ll make a side salad with the basil and some veggies.
God, listen to me. I’m starting to sound like a country bumpkin. Like a housewife.
Like my mother, part of my brain calls out, and for a second, I pause in my work to wonder if that would really be so bad. Living life her way. Mama was always happy. She didn’t love that I hated this town so much, of course. And while she visited me plenty in NYC, I could tell she didn’t love the city itself. But every time I’d talk to her, she’d be bursting with excitement over something. A new flower that took in the garden, a new dish she figured out how to cook, a new friend she made in town, whatever hapless new neighbor had just moved nearby enough for Mama to latch on and start introducing them to everyone in sight. She was a social butterfly, my Mama, country girl or no.
A life like that might not be so bad, I find myself thinking.
But. I remind myself why that was our life. We didn’t have any choice. Not after my father up and abandoned us both. Ran away, left Mama brokenhearted, a heartbreak she never really recovered from enough to date again. And left me holding the pieces together for years, until she finally healed enough to feel okay. She was happy in her later years, content without a partner, but still…
I shake my head.
Not to mention how I felt… But no.
I don’t go there. Not anymore. Not ever.
I finish weeding just as a clatter inside lets me know Grant is stomping around the house. He sticks his head out the front door long enough to holler, “Lunch is on the table,” then he’s gone again.
I bag up the weeds and dust my knees off, then head inside the house to find fresh sandwiches on the counter and a salad full of veggies he clearly harvested from the farm out back.
“You really need to let me cook sometime,” I call in the general direction of the shower, where I can hear him puttering.
“Dinner tonight then,” he replies. “If you insist.”
“I do,” I answer, grinning.
“Fair enough.” He pops his head out of the bathroom, and I have to suck in a breath at the sight of his shirtless chest. Damn. The perfection of those muscles manages to shock me every damn time. “Make it 7 though, cause the party starts at 8.”
“What kind of party are we talking exactly?” I ask, digging into my sandwich. It’s nothing complex, but it’s delicious nonetheless. Simple, fresh ingredients. Just the way I like it.
“Nothing big. Just a little get-together over at the Johnsons’ farm.”
I mull that over while I chew a big bite of lettuce. By then, Grant is back at the table with me, scooping up his own sandwich and taking a huge bite while he pours a glass of water. He plunks that down in front of me with a significant, pointed look, and my cheeks flush at the memory of yesterday. Sufficiently cowed, I accept the water and take a long gulp.
“You sure you want to be seen with me in public around here?” I ask with a smirk. “I’m not exac
tly on the county’s most popular list.”
“I went out with you yesterday, didn’t I?” he points out, and I have to give him that one.
“Social event will be different though,” I say. “Yesterday you could write off as a work necessity. This is voluntary.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “I know.” He locks eyes with me for a long moment, and my heart leaps against my throat. But before I can ask anything else, he finishes the last of his sandwich in one huge bite. “Seven work for dinner?” he asks as he shoves his way out the back door once more.
“See you then,” I confirm as the door swings shut between us. Then I dust off my own hands and get back to work.
8
Sasha Bluebell
Dinner turns out great. I make chicken oregano and Caprese salad, which Grant has never had before. He didn’t exactly gush about the homemade pesto sauce I mixed in for added flavor, but he definitely helped himself to four servings, then admitted between bites that it was “addictive.”
There was something weirdly calm, almost familiar, about sitting across the dinner table from Grant and chatting about the day. He told me all the progress he’d made, and any problems he’d run up against, and I did the same. We charted out plans for the rest of the week, what we’d aim to fix up and what we were okay with letting go. It felt weirdly… fun, to plan like that. To tackle a problem like this, a simple, concrete problem that we could fix with our hands.
Nothing at all like my usual work explosions, which have twelve different possible solutions, half of which depend on other people in the office who are unreliable.
That, and it helps that the whole time we’re talking, his hand keeps brushing past mine, his knee touching mine under the table, both of us cracking flirtatious jokes that make me blush and him smirk wider, a look that says he has plans for me later tonight…
Then he takes over the dishes—he insists—and I slip out to my room to change for the party. After digging through my suitcase, I settle on the little black dress that I packed—just in case, I’d figured when I was tossing half my NYC closet into this suitcase. Thanks a million, past Sasha, I think as I pull it on and turn before the bedroom mirror, grateful for the thinking ahead.
This dress is one of my favorites at home. It’s chic, stylish, and couture. It hugs my every curve, showing off my slim waist and my hips to perfection. There’s beading along the chest, hugging the neckline, which plunges just far enough to hint at cleavage without revealing too much. In the back, the skirt hugs my thighs tight, shows off my pert ass.
I twirl a little in front of the mirror and grin. Perfect.
Pair that with a pair of heels—not the mud-stained pair I tripped in on day one, but the backup pair of Manolos, neon red heels flashing under the sleek black-and-silver top halves. Then I just have to do my makeup—I keep it simple, mascara, cat eyes, and a hint of gold lipstick that lets the rest of my outfit speak for itself—and shift my possessions into the little silver clutch purse I brought, the one shaped like an old Cuban cigar case.
I twirl before the mirror, loving the effect I have. I look like a million bucks. I look like my old self, my New York self. I look ready to slay whatever this party holds.
I stride out of my room into the hallway. Grant, for his part, is already waiting by the door, truck keys in hand. Oh no.
“I’ll drive,” I say before he even looks up from his phone, which he’s checking for his usual once-a-day stop to make sure he hasn’t missed anything.
When he does look up at last, his eyes do a slow, steady sweep of my body that sends shivers down my spine. When those eyes finally lock back onto mine, he’s grinning, a sly, knowing look. “Are you trying to skip this party tonight?” he asks.
“What?” I frown. “No, why?”
His grin widens. “Because wearing that makes me want to throw you over my shoulder and drag you right back into the bedroom,” he says.
My legs clench, as the shivers race all the way down into my pussy. So let’s, I almost say, but Grant doesn’t give me time. He’s already opening the front door and holding it for me to pass, half-bowing at the waist, ever the gentleman.
“After you,” he says.
Only then do I really take in his outfit, and remember where the hell I am.
He looks good, don’t get me wrong. He looks hot as hell, actually, in clean black jeans and a loose V-neck gray T-shirt. But he doesn’t look like this is a party party. At least not the kind that I’m used to.
But of course it isn’t. I’m not in New York. I’m in my hometown, home to no more than 2,000 residents max. I wince. “Crap,” I say, hesitating.
“Forget something?” His eyebrows rise.
“No, I just…” I shake my head and stare down at myself. “Should I change?”
“Are you kidding?” Grant snorts. “You look beautiful, Sasha. You always do.”
“I’m going to stand out though. In this.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “You were always going to stick out, Sasha. No matter what you wear. You stick out anywhere you go—I’d wager you stick out just as much back in the big city as you do here. A girl like you couldn’t help it.” His dark eyes latch onto mine, keep hold. “And I love that about you.” With that, he offers his arm, bent at the elbow. “Now, are we going to go be the talk of the town, or am I going to have to drag you back into the bedroom to peel that excuse for a dress off?” He says it with a grin though, eyes appreciative as they dip across my body again, and my belly tightens with anticipation.
I hook my arm through his. “If we go to this party, does that mean you won’t peel this dress off me later? Because I was rather looking forward to that. Not sure I can get out of it all on my own…”
He laughs softly as he leads me outside and lets the door swing shut behind us. “Don’t worry, Sasha. One way or another, I mean to have you tonight.” He leans in close to kiss the edge of my earlobe, then nips at the skin lightly, just hard enough to make me gasp, before he whispers, breath hot on my neck, “Wherever that may be.”
I shiver and lean into him, already feeling the throb of my hungry clit between my thighs. “I’ll hold you to that promise,” I warn him.
“I would expect nothing less.” He winks, and opens the passenger side door of the truck. But I shake my head this time and pull out my clutch.
“My car this time.” I grin at his wide-eyed expression. “If we’re going to be the talk of the town,” I say, “we’re going to do it in style.”
It takes my poor rental Porsche a while to ease back down the dirt driveway. But as soon as we hit pavement and Grant’s able to direct me toward the Johnsons’ farmstead, I really gun it. A smile creeps onto my face as I take the back-road country highway by storm, letting this car do what it was built to do—dominate the road.
Grant laughs over the country music blasting on the radio—because I changed the channel to his the moment I turned it on. What can I say? Something about the old nostalgic beats got me going.
“Didn’t take you for a speed demon,” he calls.
“Yeah, well, you don’t know everything about me, Grant Werther,” I toss back with a smirk.
“Not yet,” he rejoins, and just that simple promise makes me shiver all over again.
We race along the back roads, and it takes no time at all going the speed I’m doing to reach the Johnsons’. As soon as we get close, though, I can already tell where we’re heading. It’s the only place for miles around with its lights on, and a few big tents out back, all illuminated by candles and bonfires and a few stoves out on the back patio. There must be fifty cars all up and down their driveway. Small party by NYC standards, but a regular who’s-who of the whole town for these parts.
I whip into a spot at the head of the drive, and Grant hops out too fast for me to slow him down. Fast enough to swing around and open my door and offer me a hand. That man is never going to stop doing that, is he? I wonder as I accept his help and climb out beside him, purse clutched under my a
rm.
I loop my other arm through Grant’s and follow him up the driveway toward the distant music. It sounds a lot like what was just on the radio actually—only louder, and faster, and, if I’m not mistaken, live.
“Is that a band?” I ask as we reach the front yard. But Grant skips right past the front door and heads for the back. I’d forgotten what is was like in a small town. Just walking right inside like you own places.
“Few of the local guys get together once a month to play. In the summers, the couples and families like to come out and do a turn together while they listen. But this’ll be the last hoedown of the season, so near about everyone’s turned out for it.”
We round the corner then, and my eyes widen. He wasn’t kidding.
At least 150 people are around—kids racing underfoot, chasing one another across the grass, couples up on the dance floor in front of the 4-person string band, doing a complicated square dance that I vaguely recognize from old school dances, though Lord help me if I remember the steps. Still more people are dotted across the yard, some playing lawn darts, another group lined up by the garage playing regular darts against its closed door. Between those two groups, set up under the tents on the tail end of the driveway, are a couple of pool tables.
Both occupied at the moment, though my eyes linger on them for longer than strictly necessary. I always loved pool—played it as a way to escape when I was younger, back when Dad was still around, when he’d get into his rages. Then I kept playing through college, mostly because guys found it sexy. After college, I kept playing to dupe guys out of drinks in bars. Guess you could say I’m a regular shark about it.
I grin a little to myself. I’ll have to challenge Grant to that later.
Grant, for his part, has drawn more than a few stares and shouts of welcome as we walked in. He’s waving back now, and gesturing from me to the crowd.
