A girl of your size really should have shorter hair.
She has wide hips and thighs in a formfitting pencil skirt, and a thin silk blouse that does nothing to hide the shape of her soft, swelling breasts.
Don’t you think that’s more of a “goal” outfit? For when you lose weight?
A mouth in lavender lipstick, the sweet color visible even in the faint reflection.
I wouldn’t draw attention to your face if I were you. I would want to blend in.
Pursing my attention-drawing mouth, I raise the camera and take a picture of myself. It’s not a coincidence all the negative thoughts in my head have my sister’s voice behind them, and I’m done listening. I’m done listening to her, and I’m done listening to my ex-boyfriend, who dumped me last month when I told him I stopped my eternal diet and dropped my gym membership so I could go to dance classes instead.
“But those classes aren’t designed for people to lose weight,” Brian explained patiently, as if there was no way I could understand something as complex as a hobby. “They’re for fun.” Then his expression changed, as if he were about to give me a present. “How about you keep going to the gym, and then if you meet your weight goals, you can take the dance classes as a reward? I bet it’s not even too late to reverse your gym cancellation.”
He smiled benevolently at me then, like he’d just solved all my problems. Maybe a year ago I would have done anything he asked because I’d been so grateful anyone could want to be with me—because I wanted to be this better, skinnier version of myself that he seemed to envision.
But something shifted deep in my brain, and while I didn’t know exactly what it was, I knew I was over it. I was over the diets that didn’t work. I was over the grueling gym schedule that left no time for fun. I was over hiding behind my friends whenever we took pictures. I was over shopping for print tunics at Blouse Barn.
I want to wear the clothes I want to wear, not the ones I’m supposed to. I want to spend my nights doing what I choose, not going to the gym and then listening to Brian’s pointed remarks about my body while I pick at my frozen diet entree and stare miserably at the table. I want to live now, have fun and do fun things now, not wait for some distant, skinnier future that may never come. What if I wake up one day at fifty and realize I spent my youth on diet shakes and broth cleanses for nothing? What if I spent the rest of my years being criticized by Brian and gym trainers and my sister, all while wearing tunics I hated?
So I stopped.
And started wearing the clothes everyone said I shouldn’t—crop tops and leggings and short dresses and over-the-knee boots—and I started taking dance classes for the hell of it, because it sounded fun and because I wasn’t going to care anymore about being the biggest woman in the room or the one who sweats the most or breathes the loudest. I was going to live in my body now.
It was amazing—it is amazing. Yes, my sister still keeps sending me links to new diets and making sure my plate is smaller than everyone else’s at Sunday dinner. And yes, Brian did dump me after it became clear I wasn’t “taking care of myself anymore.” But I feel freer than I can ever remember.
And if the price of freedom is being alone, then fine. I’d rather be alone than be with someone who will only love me if I’m skinny.
For good measure, I take another picture of my reflection, feeling a bite of satisfaction when I glance at the digital display on the back of the camera. Dark, loose curls. Cheeky lipstick. All of my curves on display.
I look good. Fuck anyone who says differently.
The wind picks up, reminding me that no matter how confident I’m feeling right now, I’m still stuck in the mud in the middle of nowhere with an angry thunderstorm bearing down on me. And no cell service.
With a sigh, I finally accept I’m going to have to leave the car here and try to walk to better service. I’m not looking forward to plodding back to the last sign of civilization I saw—a tired gas station five miles back when I turned off the small two-lane highway onto the gravel county road that led me to the mess I’m in now. Ugh, and in my cute pencil skirt, which had been perfect for “young professional meets Kansas farmer for a marketing campaign” but is not ideal for “size eighteen girl hikes five muddy miles in the July heat.”
My thighs are already wincing, knowing from long experience the chub rub to come.
Why couldn’t I have worn jeans?
Because I wanted to look professional, that’s why. A grown-up girl with a grown-up job. Instead, I’m going to be the least professional thing of all—a freaking no-show. I was supposed to be at Caleb Carpenter’s farm twenty minutes ago, and without a working cell phone, I can’t call to explain myself. I’ll just have to wait until I get to the gas station and figure it out from there.
If there’s one thing Brian made me good at, it was apologizing, so at least I know I’ll be able to work up the appropriate amount of remorse when I call the farmer back. So it will just be chub rub and professional embarrassment. No big deal. At least the rain seems to have tapered off.
Well, no sense standing here feeling sorry for myself. I grab the weekender bag I packed, throw in the camera, my wallet, and my phone, and then lock the car and start walking. The cows have already moved away in disinterest. This situation is so dull, it bores livestock.
I reach a mud-covered wooden bridge over a swollen creek, and bang!—like a gunshot. Close enough to make me duck.
Holy shit.
I know Kansas farmers can be fussy about trespassers, but surely it’s fine to walk on the road? Or maybe it has nothing to do with me and it’s normal farm business to shoot off guns every now and then? Or maybe someone is hunting nearby? Do people hunt in July?
Before I can rationalize away the sound, it happens again, much closer this time, and then up and over the hill behind me comes a rattletrap pickup truck, sluicing through the gloppy mud without a single problem at all, easily shaming my little hybrid—even though my hybrid is barely a year old and the pickup appears to be held together with rust and fond memories.
It comes charging through the mud, heading my way, and for a moment, I almost want to hide. Not only because I’m a woman alone in the middle of nowhere and I have no way to dial 9-1-1 if I need to but also because I’m a bit embarrassed. Okay, a lot embarrassed.
Embarrassed of my car and my clothes and—even though I’m annoyed with myself about it—my body. Sometimes it feels like there’s already one strike against me, that whatever happens, no matter what it is, a stranger will look at the situation and then at me and think, Oh, well, it’s because she’s overweight. There’s a whole host of things people assume about my intellect and moral compass because I have a bigger body than they do.
That’s the old Ireland talking, I remind myself. Potential for being murdered aside, it would be just plain stupid to pass up the chance for help because I’m embarrassed. At the very least, he may be able to give me a ride to the gas station.
So I stand by the side of the road and wait for the creaking truck to come closer, and it thoughtfully slows down long before it reaches me, so as not to splatter me with mud.
Up close, I can see it’s an old truck—but not some classic Ford that belongs in a parade. No, this is a brown and white monstrosity from the late eighties with a broken tailgate and rusted wheel wells. The bed is full of an assortment of empty buckets, baling wire, and bungee cords. A tarp, shovel, and a dented toolbox complete the mess.
It rolls to a stop, and the door opens before I can get a good look at the person inside. A three-legged dog jumps nimbly down, barking madly at me but also wagging its tail, as if it can’t decide to be happy or distressed about a stranger.
Three-legged dog. Truck that looks like a rolling junkyard. I’m expecting the man climbing out of the truck to be full Grapes of Wrath—weather-beaten and gaunt and probably in overalls—and I’m hoping he’ll be the kindly sort of old farmer and not the scary American Gothic kind when he walks around the door, and oh—
Oh my God.
He’s not Grapes of Wrath at all. He’s nearly six and a half feet of muscle and potent masculinity…shoulders stretching a Carhartt T-shirt in the most panty-dampening way, worn jeans clinging to his hard thighs and narrow hips. Big boots, bright-green eyes in a sun-bronzed face, and a close-trimmed beard that would redden the inside of my thighs very nicely…
Oh God, now that would definitely be an upgrade from chub rub.
He looks to be in his early thirties, with the kind of straight nose and full lips that make you think things like all-American and wholesome, which makes me keenly aware of how unwholesome my thoughts are right now. Thoughts about his beard and his hard thighs and his hands, which are big and strong and currently flexing by his sides as if they’re itching to do something. I don’t see a wedding ring—or even a tan line suggesting he’s ever worn one—and the bare finger is practically daring me to imagine sweaty, grunting fantasies.
I manage to drag myself away from my dirty thoughts long enough to realize the farmer is talking to me.
“Ireland Mills?” he’s asking. Hearing my name out of this prairie god’s mouth is disorienting, and I merely gape at him.
He smiles, revealing even, white teeth and a dimple sent from heaven. “I’m Caleb Carpenter. Thought you might have gotten lost on the way to my farm.”
* * *
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Blake wasn’t sure what was going on with Gavin, but he’d better figure his shit out soon or she was going to dump him for a vibrator. He’d been distant for the past week, and she had needs, dammit. Granted, he had a show coming up that promised to be a big deal. A local art critic would be there, and Gavin had been obsessing over the presentation of the photos in his collection ever since he’d heard that news.
But that didn’t explain why he didn’t want to get his freak on. Wasn’t sex supposed to relax people who were stressed out? He should be all over her like he had been every other day of the eight months they’d officially been together.
“Why aren’t you all over me?” she asked as she jerked the shower curtain back, revealing a wet and naked Gavin.
“Uh, what?” Gavin said as his hands paused in the act of rubbing shampoo into his hair.
Blake’s eyes moved down his defined chest, the ridges in his abs, and the hardening cock that would soon be jutting out from his body like a rhino horn.
“Blake?” Gavin said, a tone of humor in his voice.
“Huh?” she mumbled, her eyes never leaving that cock she wanted buried deep in her body.
“Eyes up here, babe.”
“No thanks. My eyes are fine right where they are.”
“It’s difficult to talk to you while you’re eying my dick like it’s a lollipop.”
She did look at him then. “I’m not asking you to talk. Except for that filthy stuff you whisper to me while you’re fucking me. You can talk like that all you want.”
“I have to be at work in half an hour.”
“Pfft, it’s not going to take me nearly that long to get off. It’s been days.” Blake had already started stripping, and she was overjoyed to see Gavin track her movements with his eyes. When he gave his cock a long, slow stroke, Blake knew she had him.
Once all her clothes were pooled around her feet, she joined him in the shower. His arms went around her automatically and that, she realized, was what she’d been missing more than anything else. Blake hadn’t let herself depend on very many people in her life—didn’t give many people a chance to get close. But Gavin was different. He always had been. And now that she knew he’d prop her up when she needed to lean on him, she’d grown addicted to the feeling.
She tilted her head toward him and he kissed her immediately, his tongue sweeping into her mouth like it longed to be there. The kiss was deep and consuming, and Blake wouldn’t have ever wanted it to stop except that she wanted to be fucked by him even more than she wanted to be kissed by him.
Slowly turning around, she backed up into him so his cock was nestled between her ass cheeks, and she began to grind against him erotically.
His hands slipped around her and cupped her breasts, squeezing them before letting his fingers tweak her nipples.
A groan left her lips as she dropped her head back against his chest, giving him the opportunity to suck at the soft skin on her collarbone. Letting a hand dip below her stomach and between her legs, she fondled her throbbing clit. She hadn’t been joking before. This wasn’t going to take her long. But she didn’t want her own finger to make her come apart. She wanted Gavin’s cock to do that.
She bent over at the waist and put her hands firmly against the shower wall. Spreading her legs, she offered herself up to Gavin, who wasted no time. He let his finger slip inside her for a moment before lining up his rock-hard shaft and pushing in.
The moan that left her made her sound slutty, and it was the most empowering feeling ever. Because she could be slutty and needy and wanton with this man because he got off on it. And being wanted by Gavin made her feel powerful. For someone who’d always felt comfortable in her own skin, the feeling of imperviousness that welled within her when she was with Gavin hadn’t made sense at first. But she quickly came to understand that being loved for who you were was like coating your bones with titanium. What had been strong before was now invincible.
The rhythmic snapping of Gavin’s hips set up a quick, satisfying rhythm, and Blake unraveled quickly.
“So fucking sexy,” Gavin growled behind her as his hands gripped her hips more firmly.
Blake used her hands to push herself back to meet each thrust. The slapping of their skin was obscene and the most perfect soundtrack Blake could imagine for this moment.
“Fuck, I’m gonna come. You there with me, baby?” he asked.
Hell yes, she was. But the only sound she was capable of making were the moans of pleasure that rumbled out of her throat.
Gavin thrust hard twice more, and that was all it took for her body to convulse with her orgasm. His pace stuttered behind her, and he began chanting, “Oh, fuck,” until he pushed deeply one final time and emptied his release inside her.
They stayed that way for a few moments, Gavin seated deep within her and Blake still bent over. Her legs were a bit shaky, but her back felt locked in place as if her orgasm had frozen her.
Gavin slipped out and pulled her to a stand, which caused a bit of a twinge in her lower back, but she was thankful for the assistance. Without him, she likely would have stayed stuck like that all day.
“I love you,” Gavin whispered in her ear before nipping her lobe.
“Love you too.” She sighed a deep, content kind of sigh before leaning back against his chest.
“I’m sorry I’ve been distracted.”
“S’okay,” she replied. And it was. Mostly. “We should make a mold of your dick so I can bang it the next time you get distracted.”
And as Gavin laughed, she wondered how to tell him she wasn’t even remotely kidding.
Gavin was nervous. Thankfully The Coffee Bean was slow today, so he’d had a chance to practice the design he’d been working on perfecting for the past few weeks. Stu would’ve freaked if he’d known how much coffee Gavin had wasted, but what Stu didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
Blake’s shift was due to start in ten minutes, and Gavin’s heart was beating so furiously, he thought someone might actually be able to see it pounding through his chest.
He got rid of his last attempt, content that it looked as good as it possibly could. Then he busied himself tidying up the counter. There was a lull in customers, which was good. Other than a few people sprinkled about, everything was calm. Calm until a tiny hurricane came in through the door.
“You’re not even going to believe what just happened,” Blake said, her eyes wide and a little wild.
“What?” Gavin asked. “Here, let me make you a drink.”
“Unless you have alcohol back there, a drink isn’t going to cut it. You’re never going to guess who I saw.”
“Probably not, so you should just skip to the part where you tell me,” he said as he walked toward the latte machine.
“I just ran into your mom. And in case you were wondering, she definitely still hates me.”
Gavin quickly turned around at that. “Why? What did she say?” If his mom had been rude to Blake, he would lose his shit. Ever since he’d told his parents he was going to live his life the way he saw fit, they’d barely spoken to him. But his mom had called a couple of times to check in and ask if he was still with “that girl.”
That was typically around the time Gavin hung up on her. He wondered what she was even doing in the city. Sure, she met people for lunch now and again, but the odds of running into Blake would have been infinitesimal.
“Nothing. But I’m pretty sure she put a curse on me with her eyes. If I get hit by a bus, you better tell the cops to search her house for a voodoo doll of me with pins in it.”
Gavin almost pointed out that it likely wouldn’t have pins in it if she was killed by a bus, but that would open up a whole other line of discussion he didn’t want to venture down. “So she didn’t say anything?”
“She said hello and called me Brenda. A real passive aggressive aficionado that woman is.” Blake smiled, which let Gavin relax. Blake had the thickest skin of anyone he’d ever met, and she seemed to get a special thrill from the fact his parents didn’t like her. He didn’t understand but was thankful for it all the same.
“I don’t want to talk about her anymore,” he said as he cast a look over his shoulder at Blake. “She doesn’t deserve to even breathe the same air as you.”
Misadventures with a Country Boy Page 17
