by M. E. Carter
“Give me more!” she yells, really getting into it. Her lack of balance is coming out full force, but I can tell she’s having fun, so I comply, giving the knob one more nudge.
That nudge is all it takes for her to lose her grip completely and she goes flying off the bull, landing in a heap just a few feet away.
“Greer!” I yell and run to her, dropping to my knees and scan her body for injury. “Are you ok? Where are you hurt?”
She puts her hand on her head and grimaces. “In my pride. My pride is really, really hurting right now.”
I can’t help the laugh that bursts out of me. “Are you hurt anywhere else besides that?”
“No,” she grumbles as she sits up and straightens her clothes. “That was supposed to be an act to turn you on.”
“Oh trust me,” I say as I grab the back of her neck and kiss her lightly on the lips. “That was sexier than when Deborah Winger tried to impress John Travolta.”
She crinkles her nose in disgust. “Urban Cowboy? Seriously? That was a terrible movie.”
“I had my first wet dream to that scene.”
Her eyebrows raise and her demeanor completely changes with that information. “Really.”
“Really.” Leaning over her, I press into her body forcing her back onto the mat. She runs her hands down my shoulders and across my back, never breaking eye contact. “I’ve always fantasized about a sexy woman riding a mechanical bull and then taking her right there on the floor next to it once her hips were nice and warmed up.”
Grounding my own hips into hers, she gasps. That’s my cue to kiss her again. So I do. Hard and fast, plunging my tongue I her mouth like my life depends on it. She responds, thrust for thrust and before I even realize what’s happening, she starts laughing.
Pulling back, I look at her quizzically.
“Urban Cowboy, Ace? Really?”
Smiling wide, I lean down to nuzzle into her. “What’s wrong with a teenage cowboy dreaming about a hot chick practicing her bull riding? They were practically forcing me to picture her naked.”
She smiles again, making my heart swell. This is the woman I love. The best thing that has happened to me in a long time and if I could keep her right here like this with me forever, I would.
“Trying it out was fun and all, but I don’t think you’re ever going to get me up on the dusty thing without panties on.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Shifting above her, I rest my hips between her legs and grind for good measure. “Besides, I have other ideas on how we workout those sexy hips of yours.”
So we do. Several times.
And it’s amazing.
“Aaaaahhhhh,” I groan and collapse on top of Greer, depleted from my release. She runs her fingertips down my back, giving me goose bumps. “I love afternoon sex,” I mumble in her ear, making her giggle.
She pushes me off her, which I’ve learned over the last couple of months is her way of telling me I’m getting too heavy and she can’t breathe anymore. “It’s ’cause it’s the only kind of sex you’re getting.”
“You think that’s what it is? I thought it was just because it’s so good.” And it is good. Phenomenal, actually. The more we learn about each other’s bodies and what each other likes, the more fun it gets. I don’t mind exploring new ways to please her. But knowing I’ve already figured out some of her hot buttons is a turn on too.
I rub my hand on her stomach absentmindedly while I wait for my heart to stop galloping. I love the way her stretch marks feel across my fingertips. The faint ridges are a combination of smooth and rough, and a reminder of why we’re careful about our sex life. There are children involved.
When we first started sleeping together, we knew we were going to need to be creative with our time. We don’t have the luxury of dropping everything whenever we miss each other or the mood strikes. We’ve got responsibilities. But what we also have is a running lunch date.
At some point, we finally realized we could have naked lunch if we did it at her place. Naked coffee too. So that’s what we do now. It’s cheaper than always eating out, and I prefer “eating in” anyway.
Yeeeah. We won’t go there.
“How is your stomach feeling anyway?” I ask and pull her hand to my lips, kissing her knuckles.
“I’m not one hundred percent yet, but I’m sure glad that stomach bug is almost finished running through this house.”
“No kidding. I’m gonna start stocking the shelves in the barn with vitamin C and pray the farm never gets hit like that again.”
Right after Christmas, all my farm hands started getting sick. By the time it was over, half of them had come down with some form of stomach virus. At first, we thought it was food poisoning. But then Oli got sick, essentially eliminating that theory. Then Julie went down. And finally, after resisting it for a couple weeks, Greer came down with it too.
Finally, finally everyone is starting to pull out of it. Almost everyone anyway. It seems to be hanging on for some of them. Greer included, which is why I’m hoping she’ll fall back to sleep. She has a lot more energy these days. My current relaxation is proof of that. But she still winds easily, so I know she’s not quite one hundred percent.
My arms wrap around her, spooning her from behind, as her breathing levels out, and I’m pretty sure she’s asleep.
“What time do you have to be back at the farm?”
Or not. Rolling on my back, I resituate us so she’s lying on my chest. I like it when she lightly runs her fingertips over my abs.
“I should probably get back since we’ve been short-handed lately. But I definitely need to be back by the five thirty milking. Phillip is still visiting his religion in the bathroom several times a day.”
“Huh?” She raises her head slightly to look at me.
“Praying to the porcelain god?”
“Oh right.” She lies back down and snuggles into me. “You really do need to stock up on vitamin C.”
“I know. And maybe even some Airborne. Since Phillip can’t seem to kick it, I should probably run second shift tonight.”
“Do you have some time off this week—?”
Before she can finish her sentence, our ears perk up.
The bus is here.
“What the hell?” she screeches and jumps out of bed. “They’re not supposed to be here for at least fifteen minutes. Why is it here early? And where the hell is my bra?”
Grabbing it from underneath the pillow, I throw it at her, and she snags it out of the air one-handed.
“Thanks.”
Greer scrambles to find the rest of her clothes; I’m tossing items her direction as I find them. Knowing Oli isn’t the one we have to worry about, I take my own sweet time getting dressed. He’s come home several times when we’re still enjoying our post-coital bliss and has never put two and two together. Julie, on the other hand, seems to know something is up. But I can tell by the look on her face she’s in denial, so we don’t speak of such things.
Greer buttons her jeans and races out the door to greet Oli. I hear low voices coming from the kitchen as he has likely headed there for a snack. One thing about Oli—the way to his heart is definitely through his stomach.
Slowly, I put on my clothes, making sure to include my shoes and socks, for Julie’s denial of course. And then I carefully make the bed. Satisfied I no longer look disheveled and like I just had the best sex of my life, I meander out of the room and into the kitchen where, once again, there is an argument about peanut butter happening.
“Oliver,” Greer says gently, “that’s too much. You need to spread it on the bread and put the excess back in the jar. We talked about this.”
“No, we didn’t,” he responds and makes no move to follow her instructions.
I walk up in the middle of the conversation and greet him. “Hey Oli. Making a peanut butter sandwich?”
“Yeah.”
He grabs the honey, but before he can squirt it on top of the peanut butter, I say, “I�
�m kind of hungry too. Is there enough peanut butter for me?”
Greer’s lips twitch as she fights an amused smirk. Ever since our fight over Thanksgiving, we’ve come to an unspoken agreement: sometimes “good cop, bad cop” works. Tag teaming seems to be the most effective way to get Oli to comply. Today, I get to be good cop and maybe even get a snack out of it.
Oli looks from his sandwich into the jar and back at his sandwich. “We don’t have anymore.”
“Sure we do,” I say, pointing at his sandwich. “You’ve got way too much peanut butter there. I bet if you spread it out, you’d have enough to make me a sandwich too.”
“I don’t know how to do that.”
I don’t necessarily believe him, but one thing I have learned about Oli: if something is hard for him to do, he’ll only try once or twice before he gives up. He doesn’t have a lot of patience for accomplishing tasks. At some point, he will forget the technique of how to do something, just because he hasn’t practiced.
“Here. Let me show you, and I bet you can do it.”
Picking up the knife off the counter and grabbing a piece of bread out of the bag, I scoop some of the peanut butter off his sandwich and put it on mine. Slowly, I show him how to spread it correctly while he watches intently. Finishing it off, I take a bite.
“See? I bet you could do it.”
So he does. It takes him twice as long to get it done, but no one is complaining. In fact, Greer looks up at me, shaking her head and trying not to laugh. I can’t exactly read her mind, but my guess is she’s thinking something along the lines of “If only I had thought to try that years ago.”
Once I show Oli how to put the excess peanut butter in the jar and get some honey, he takes his own big bite.
“You did good, Oli.” I point at him with half a sandwich in my hand. “That’s a real man’s sandwich right there.”
He smiles shyly around his mouthful of bread, pleased with the praise he’s getting.
I offer my sandwich to Greer. “Want a bite?”
She nods hungrily, and I know she must be practically voracious at this point. A week of a liquid diet isn’t exactly filling.
Greer no more than chews and swallows than her hand flies over her mouth and she runs out of the room. “I’m not eighty percent like I thought,” she calls out over her shoulder. Seconds later, we hear gagging sounds from her bathroom.
Oli makes a face as he swallows. “Ew. That’s gross.”
I chuckle lightly, not because he’s wrong, but because last week he was laughing when one of the farm hands threw up in the back field the bessies were grazing in. Sometimes there’s no rhyme or reason to Oli’s reactions.
A few minutes later, Greer comes out, rubbing her stomach. “This is not fun. I’m ready for this virus to be over.”
Putting my arm around her shoulder, I pull her toward me. “I’m sure it’ll only be a few more days. Phillip’s been struggling for over two weeks now, and you resisted for a long time. Maybe it hit you harder.”
“Maybe.”
Kissing her on the top of the head, I tell her, “As much as I want to stay and take care of you, I really need to go check on the farm since we’ve been short-staffed. But”—I point at her authoritatively—“no more real food for you.”
“But I’m hungry,” she whines.
“I figured you would be. That’s why I put some of Brittany’s soup in the freezer a few days ago.”
Her eyes widen in delight. “The turkey noodle soup with the really good broth?”
“That’s the one. Just take it out and defrost it so you can get a few calories in you tonight. And call me if you need something, okay?”
She nods but has no other reaction as she flings open the freezer door, searching for the food.
Grabbing her, I spin her to me and make sure to look her in the eye. “I love you.”
Her face melts into a grin. “I love you too.” She lifts up on her toes, and I kiss her gently.
I hear Oli say “ew,” amusing both Greer and me. Turning back to him, I just say “bye” to which he doesn’t respond, instead finishing off his food.
As I open the front door, I practically run into Julie, startling her. For a split second, I know she’s trying really hard not to think about why I’m here in the middle of the day, so I have pity on her.
“Your mom still isn’t feeling well. I brought soup.”
I don’t tell her it’s actually from several days ago. I’m happy to let Julie continue believing I’ve done nothing more than hold her mother’s hand. And from the way her shoulders relax, she’s happy to let me.
“Thanks, Ace. I can take over from here.”
I chuckle as I pass her and head to my truck. If this is the pretense she wants to keep up for a while, I’ll just roll with it.
Pressing send on my email, I lean back in my chair happy to have that edit off my plate. I love helping with the creative process, but one hundred forty-five thousand words are a lot to go through with a fine-toothed comb. It seems like even more when you’ve been as sick as I have been.
Glancing at my calendar, I realize I haven’t heard from Adeline Snow yet, and part of her book was due to me two days ago.
As much as I’d like to take the rest of the day off, I need to deal with this first. It’s not like Adi to be late, and that has me worried.
Grabbing my phone, I search for her contact information and dial.
“I can’t do this, Greer,” she answers without even a greeting.
I settle into my seat further, already knowing this is going to be an interesting conversation.
“I see the promotional tour is going well.”
“We’ve been here for one day,” she begins, “and I’m already practically breaking out in hives thinking about how many times I have to stand next to Spencer in all his athletic glory and try not to barf all over his shoes.”
A laugh bursts out at the visual image. Then I think about how close I came to throwing up on Ace, and suddenly, I’m empathetic. And I already felt bad for her. Somehow, word got out Spencer Garrison is her muse, and she ended up on a promotional tour at the insistence of her publisher and his agent.
“Don’t you think you’re being overly dramatic?” I ask, only half-heartedly trying to calm her down. It’s going to take more than a conversation to get her to relax. More like a total body massage and a full bottle of tequila. Even then, it’s iffy.
As suspected, my attempts don’t work. “Overly dramatic? You’ve heard the saying ‘Never meet your heroes’? Yeah, well, meeting your muse is even worse!”
“Well, has he disappointed you yet?”
“That’s not the point.” Okay. Obviously, my attempts at rationale aren’t going to work. Maybe I should have taken a nap.
“Then what is the point?”
“I don’t know!” she huffs and suddenly calms down considerably. “I get this is good cross promotion, ya know? He pulls in some X-Games fans who have never read my books. I pull in some readers who have never watched the games. It seemed like a good idea, but now he smells fantastic, like Red Vines. I just want to lick his neck.”
I want to laugh because she’s funny and witty when she’s anxious. But I’m too tired to have much energy. Instead, I say, “I would highly advise against licking any part of him without his consent.”
“You’re not helping.”
“What do you want me to say, Adeline? I agree with your publisher. This is a fantastic opportunity.”
“It’s an embarrassing opportunity, that’s what it is.”
“Why? Because he knows he’s your muse now?” She doesn’t say anything, so I continue. “Adi, the only ones who know about the cardboard cutouts you used to stare at are you and me. Someday, if you opt to share that information with him, you can. But until then, we’re going to keep it our creepy little secret.”
“Fine,” she acquiesces. “But tomorrow when the headlines say, ‘New York Times Best Selling Romance Author Passes Out as
Spencer Garrison Points and Laughs,’ that’s on you.”
I chuckle lightly. “That’s definitely a more likely headline than you barfing on his shoes, so I’m more than happy to take the blame for it. I assume this is why I don’t have your manuscript in hand.”
She groans and I hear a thud like her head just hit the desk. If she keeps banging her forehead on things, she’s going to give herself a concussion and definitely pass out in front of Spencer.
“This whole thing threw me for a loop. I was starting to write my story and then it just… well… it sort of changed when he came into the picture,” she explains. “Spencer Garrison as a fantasy is amazing. But Spencer Garrison for real is… is…”
“Is your wet dream come to life?”
“No!” she yells through the phone, forcing me to pull it away from my ear while I laugh. “No, that is not what I was going to say! I was going to say it’s even more amazing.”
I can’t help being amused she’s this off-kilter because of one man. I think it’s sweet. And while I’d never tell her this, secretly I hope they fall in love. I’ve seen a couple pictures of the tour, and they are cute together. Her with her ‘50s poodle skirt dresses and coifed hair. Him with his baggy jeans and skater boy qualities. They’re precious together. It’s one instance where the real-life love story would be so much better than a book.
“Okay, I’m focusing now,” she says. “When was the manuscript due to you?”
“Two days ago.”
She pauses. “Wait. It took you this long to track me down? What’s wrong? Are you ill?”
I laugh because she’s right. Normally, I’m contacting her a couple of days before it’s due to make sure she’s on track. This time, I wasn’t willing to keep a trash can on my lap so I could message her without worry.
“Actually, I have been sick, thank you very much.”
“Oh no. Is everything all right?”
“Yeah. Just a stomach virus that seem to be running around town.”
“A stomach virus,” she deadpans and puts me on alert.
