Southern Player

by Jessica Peterson

  I see nothing but forest and marsh beyond it.

  Glancing down at my phone to make sure this is right—looks like it—I turn onto the drive.

  My Jetta bounces over the uneven gravel as I slowly make my way through the property. At first it’s just marshland, stretching out on either side of the driveway.

  The drive takes me directly into a line of tall pines and oaks. The sound of crickets, of rushing water and the sigh of leaves moving in a breeze, fills the air.

  The trees thin, and abruptly I’m in the middle of a field. Neatly planted rows of something leafy—leeks? corn? cabbage? I wish I knew—stretch as far as the eye can see.

  I slow to a barely-roll-almost-stop, tires crunching on the gravel.

  My chest fills to the point of pain as I take in the tidy rows of growing green things. Each one lovingly and carefully tended to.

  Luke did this.

  He grows things. Nurtures them.

  It’s fucking glorious.

  Glorious, and somehow frightening. Why can’t Luke be less? I almost feel insulted by all this extra.

  The extra way he wants me.

  The extra impressiveness of his hard-on.

  The extra care he’s clearly poured into this place.

  Everything would be so much easier—keeping this casual, no strings attached—if he were just less.

  At last I round a bend, and the cutest little farmhouse you ever did see comes into view. It’s not big, and it’s certainly not fancy.

  It’s just…perfect.

  Beautifully restored. White siding, black shutters, a tin roof and two chimneys. A wide, welcoming front porch, complete with rocking chairs.

  A flat stretch of green lawn in front of it. Enormous oaks, gnarled branches draped in moss, on either side.

  The whole thing is backlit by the sunset. Light catching on the moss and the dormers on the roof. A window, its spotless glass wavy with age, glints.

  The fullness in my chest swells. Makes me smile big and hard.

  Maybe that’s why I don’t see the two women by the front steps until they’re scurrying toward me, waving.

  “Grace!” the first woman, a blonde, calls out. “Gracie Jackson, I knew that was you! Oh, we’re so happy you’re here.”

  “So happy,” the other woman, also a blonde, says as I pull to a stop beside Luke’s hulking pickup on a patch of gravel beside the house.

  I can’t help but smile when Georgia, Luke’s mom, opens my door before I even put it in park. Her wife, Gwen, holds it open as Georgia pulls me out of the car and into a hug.

  I love these ladies. According to Eli, Georgia and Luke’s daddy got divorced back in the nineties. About eight or so years ago, Georgia started dating Gwen. They’ve been together ever since—they’re both landscape architects—and got married a few years back when gay marriage was legalized. They call themselves the “G spot”, although that’s a little much for Luke. He just calls them his mamas.

  I call them heroes for raising such a stand-up man.

  Luke’s daddy is still around, although Luke is much closer to his mamas.

  “Hi, Georgia,” I say. “How are you ladies?”

  She steps back, still holding me by the shoulders.

  “We’re not supposed to be here,” she whispers conspiratorially. “But when Luke said you were stoppin’ by, we couldn’t resist lingerin’ for a bit.”

  “We’re out here helpin’ Luke with his watermelons,” Gwen explains, holding up her forearms. They’re covered in dirt. “He’s got some big ones.”

  Oh, heaven above. I forgot how funny—how inappropriate—his mamas are.

  “Told us we had to skedaddle ’cause y’all were gonna visit.” Georgia’s eyes are gleaming. “You’re the first girl he’s invited out here.”

  My body flushes with a pleasure I absolutely, positively do not want to feel.

  “Really?” I manage. “That’s—”

  “Wonderful, I know,” Gwen says. “So what’re y’all gonna drink?”

  “Some beers?” Georgia adds. “Each other?”

  Gwen is positively beaming at me. “I always knew y’all had a little thing goin’ on.”

  “Will we see you in the mornin’ then?” Georgia asks. “You know, if y’all…drink too much. And you have to spend the night.”

  “You should definitely spend the night.”

  “Definitely. And the night after that, too.”

  My eyes move between the two of them.

  “Um,” I say.

  “Luke was braggin’ about you—we heard your business is growing by leaps and bounds and that you have a whole new kitchen you’re makin’ pastries in. You should use some of Luke’s produce,” Georgia says.

  “His zucchini,” Gwen says, nodding. “They also got some good size on ’em.”

  “You can put them in your muffins!” Georgia gasps, clapping. “Imagine how tasty that sweet-salty combination would be.”

  Gwen nods. “Moist.”

  “Satisfying,” Georgia says. “I do love a good muffin.”

  I stare at them. Not sure if I should laugh or—

  Or what, to be honest.

  So I go with a laugh. Then I try to steer the conversation in a more wholesome direction.

  “Y’all read my mind,” I say, ducking back into my car. I produce a white box, which I carefully balance on one hand while I close the door with the other. “I stole some of Luke’s veggies from Elijah and had one of my pâtissiers whip up a batch of sweet potato cupcakes with rhubarb-cream cheese frosting this afternoon.”

  I open the box so they can peek inside. Georgia gasps again. Gwen grins.

  “They are gorgeous!” she says. “You know, Luke’s rhubarb is especially hard—”

  “Hey!”

  My heart jerks at the sound of Luke’s voice. Skin buzzes. Mind races.

  I turn to look up at him.

  He’s standing on the porch with his hands on his hips. Dressed in jeans and a clean white tee that he fills out with so much male muscle and certainty it should be a crime.

  He’s barefoot, and his hair is wet. Making it look a shade darker so that it matches his beard.

  He’s standing twenty feet away, but I swear I can smell the soap on his freshly showered skin.

  The fullness in my chest migrates, gathering between my legs. I just shaved this morning—landing strip, everything else is gone—so the rush of sensation feels especially poignant.

  “How many times I gotta tell y’all those food puns are not appropriate?” he says, shooting his mom a glance.

  She smiles. “But they’re so clever.”

  He smiles, too. An echo of his mother’s, right down to the way the lines around their mouths crease.

  “They’re not. But just this once I’ll let it slide, ’cause y’all got Gracie laughin’.”

  His gaze moves to me. All sharp-edged blue and frank lust.

  For a second I think I’m going to have a full on cardiac event.

  “Gracie girl,” he says. Voice a thickly accented rumble.

  He’s the only guy who calls me that.

  The fullness inside me is almost too much to bear.

  “Hi.” It’s all I can manage. Because I can’t breathe and I’m smiling like a big fucking idiot.

  Be careful.

  “You find it all right? The farm?”

  “Yes. Yes, I did. GPS took me right to your driveway. This place—” I glance around. Just for a second, because I’m having trouble focusing on anything but him. “It’s so beautiful, Luke.”

  He rests the heel of his half-fist on the porch railing. Leans into it, making the ropey muscles in his porny-perfect forearms harden.

  Oh shit.

  Ooooh shit.

  “Thank you,” he says, gaze flicking down my body. “Come inside. I’ll grab some beers and give you a tour.”

  “Can we come?” Georgia asks hopefully.

  “No,” Luke says, eyes not leaving me.

  “Got
it,” Gwen says. “We’ll leave y’all to it, then.”

  “Show her the eggplants,” Gwen says.

  “The peaches, too,” Georgia adds. “Has Luke told you how much he loves peaches?”

  “Mama.”

  “Right then. We’re off,” Gwen says.

  Georgia pulls me into a quick hug. “Remember the zucchini,” she whispers in my ear.

  “Will do,” I say, laughing as I watch the two of them scurry to their truck.

  I turn back to Luke to see him pushing off his hand. He lumbers down the steps, the treads creaking beneath his heavy footfalls.

  Huge hands hanging languidly at his sides. Like they don’t have the power to tend to whole farms or tear down whole human beings.

  His eyes never leave my face as he approaches.

  I feel another earthquake coming.

  I should run. Find someone less to fuck.

  This is not going to end well, a voice inside my head warns.

  But instead, because my heart is beating loud and strong and I am apparently incapable of self-control, I raise my face to him. An open invitation to kiss me or kill me or keep me as his prisoner for however long he likes.

  He’s wearing this expression—this smirky, hazy kind of smile that’s more apparent in his eyes, squinted almost, than on his lips.

  He puts a hand on my neck and leans down to kiss my cheek. Scruff bristling against my skin. Body surrounding me.

  The pulse of crickets intensifies around us. Or maybe it’s my heart that’s making that sound.

  “While we’re on the theme of terrible food puns—honey, you look good enough to eat.”

  Boom.

  The tremors start.

  Luke burrows his brow. “You all right? You’re shakin’.”

  This is exactly what I didn’t want. All this emotional stuff mixing in with the physical. This is just supposed to be about sex. A straightforward fuck-buddy situation.

  But looking at Luke, that same voice in my head tells me it could never be just sex. Not with him. He comes with baggage.

  Good baggage. But baggage I’m nonetheless not prepared for.

  My God, what the hell am I doing?

  Why the hell can’t I stop looking at him? Wanting him, even though we don’t want the same thing?

  Why can’t I stop shaking, excitement and anxiety coursing through my body in equal measure?

  I am a fucking mess of contradictory feelings. And I cannot help it.

  I came this far. I’d be a coward to turn back now.

  “Beer,” I say. “I’d like one. Please.”

  His hand curls around my nape.

  “Already asking for what you want,” he murmurs. “Good girl. And Gracie?”

  “Yeah?”

  His eyes bounce between mine. “Remember who you’re with.”

  “You,” I say.

  He nods. One dip of his head.

  “Just me.” He gives my nape a squeeze. “The guy who may or may not have had a mullet when you met him. Who likes pervy tractor jokes and Trisha Yearwood cassette tapes.”

  I smile.

  “The mullet,” I say. “How could I forget that fine example of a Kentucky waterfall?”

  Luke makes a mullet-shaped motion behind his head. “Smooth like a mountain stream.”

  I laugh.

  And the shaking—it stops.

  Chapter Eight

  Gracie

  Luke gives me a quick tour of his house on the way in. The interior is just as beautiful and carefully restored as the outside. Original wood floors, simple layout, clean, crisp color palette. It’s beautifully furnished, too. None of the usual man-child staples: not a mattress on the floor in sight. No crusty, heinous, science-experiment bathrooms.

  A real man lives here. One who knows what he likes and takes good care of his shit.

  We end up in the pretty kitchen, lined with white cabinets and dark soapstone countertops. It’s true farmhouse style, right down to the enormous vintage sink and blown glass pendants above the island, and it works.

  “What’s that?” Luke says, nodding at the box I slide onto the counter.

  I watch as he grabs two bottles from the fridge, popping the tops off with quick, steady movements.

  “Thanks,” I say, taking the beer he holds out to me. I’m feeling better. Less unsteady. A beer will help keep me there. “And those are cupcakes Marie made with your sweet potatoes and rhubarb. I may have plundered your delivery to The Pearl yesterday.”

  He smiles, his brows flicking together. “Really? Thank you, Gracie. That’s so thoughtful. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Technically I didn’t do it,” I say. “I wanted to. But then I remembered I had a pastry chef who makes delicious things for a living, so I asked her to whip up something on my behalf. But my intentions were good. I didn’t want to show up empty handed—had to bring something.”

  Taking a pull from his bottle, he holds the beer in his mouth. Swallows. “I thought you were bringin’ your bucket list.”

  I look at him. Now is the time I put the focus on sex and keep it there. Maybe once we start getting physical, the other stuff—this tug I keep feeling—will go away. Or at least fade a little.

  I led three meetings today. I can do this.

  I got this. I am going to make sense of this and keep this simple if it kills me.

  “I have the list,” I say. “Want me to tell you?”

  He shakes his head. “I want you to show me. Is it in your bag?”

  I blink. Luke thinks I have an actual, physical list.

  “Wait. Wait—Luke, I’ve never, like, written it down or anything.”

  His brows come together again. This time in consternation.

  “So you don’t have a bucket list, then.”

  “It wasn’t a bucket list until you called it that.”

  “You need to write that shit down. Why haven’t you?”

  I think about that for a minute. Sip at my beer.

  My heart has started to pound again. Why does he have to make everything so complicated? I ask him to fuck me, and he wants more. I bring him my fantasies, and right away he wants to make them real.

  Because writing down my list would make this whole thing—my desires, my wants, my goal of taking back my sex life—real. There would be no going back. No opportunity to hide or fudge or deny.

  I was afraid to make it real with Nick.

  I promised myself I wasn’t going to be afraid with Luke.

  I run through my reasons in my head. I have nothing to lose. If I scare him off, no biggie. There are other fish in the sea. Other dicks to be had downtown. I can’t keep smothering myself like this. Can’t keep trying to fit that square peg in a round hole.

  It’s never gonna fit.

  I remember that line from My Deal With the Duke—when Max told Jane not to be afraid to speak her mind with him. If our desires are not compatible, so what? We couldn’t make each other happy anyway.

  If I turn Luke off with my bucket list, we weren’t meant to be together anyway.

  And I don’t even want to be together. I want to come. I want intense. And like Luke said, the only way I can get it is to tell my truth.

  And that’s what I’m going to do for once.

  “Let me go grab my bag in my car,” I say. “I have a notebook—”

  Luke turns and grabs a pad of paper and a pencil from beside the phone on his counter. Then he crosses the kitchen and sets them on the small round table in the corner.

  “Come here.” He pulls out a chair. “If you need some space, just say the word. But I’d love to sit in on this bucket list session if you’re cool with it.”

  He’s looking at me. Hair drying in these wild licks and waves, making him look like a deliciously rumpled, lumberjack-Jude-Law-lookalike.

  Splash of Chris Evans to top it all off.

  I cannot.

  “Depends,” I say, sitting down. “Are you going to laugh at me?”

  “What’s
the first thing on your list?”

  “Are you going to laugh?”

  He flattens his palm on the table in front of me and leans down. Leans in. Surrounding me in the smell of Ivory soap and his skin.

  The tension between us is so thick I can taste it in my mouth.

  “Don’t make me ask twice, Gracie.”

  “Please tell me you’re this bossy in bed, too.”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  I meet his eyes. Pulse pounding.

  “Fine.” I feel like my heart is five seconds from popping out of my mouth. “Probably the first thing I’d put on my list is anal. I’ve never done it before, and it’s always something I’ve wanted to try.”

  His nostrils flare. Just once. Revealing a flicker of feral.

  Then he straightens. Reaches for my hand and without preamble brings it to his crotch. He presses my palm against an impressive erection. Curls my fingers around it.

  A single, blaring pulse of heat impales me right between my legs.

  Right where I want him.

  “That feel like laughter to you?”

  I swallow. Resist the urge to squirm as my pussy floods with heat.

  It’s not just his dick that’s egging me on. I mean, let’s be real, this amazing, alarmingly large penis I’m touching right now doesn’t hurt. But his obvious arousal points to an obvious acceptance of, and even excitement for, my fantasies.

  Well. One of my fantasies, anyway. Yeah, it’s not even that exciting or weird or interesting of a fantasy to begin with.

  Still. It’s something I’ve never shared with anyone else. I took a leap. And Luke seems pretty damn willing to leap right beside me.

  “So I guess my list isn’t scaring you off yet,” I say.

  “Nothin’ scary about butt stuff. Clearly,” he replies, pressing my hand down a little harder. “Can I sit?”

  I glance at the chair beside mine. At the small, neat pad of paper and sharpened pencil waiting for me on the table.

  “Yes.”

  He releases my hand. It shakes as I pick up the pencil.

  He lands heavily in his chair. One hand on his beer. He spears the other through his hair, letting out a long, low breath that rustles the pages on the pad.