by Heller, JB
“I get that. But what’d they do when you went all pale and glassy-eyed?”
Shuffling around, I make myself more comfortable on the hard bench seat. “It’s a little fuzzy. I’m pretty sure Elijah carried me to his bed. His brother, Asher, has heat packs that he got for me, and then they gave me my pills. I remember trying to tell them it was no big deal and them not believing me. Next thing I knew, I was waking up next to the devil’s mistress and copping a hoof to the vulva.”
The look of complete and utter horror on Reagan’s face reflects my feelings on the matter perfectly.
“No,” she gasps. “Not that gorgeous little one that was following us around on the farm tour? She wouldn’t. She was so sweet.”
My snort is involuntary and loud. “You have no idea. I felt sorry for her for, like, twenty minutes because she’s an orphan and Elijah has been bottle-feeding her since she was born. But then she knocked me on my arse in the paddock. She’s got it out for me, I tell you.”
Rhett climbs back in the cab with us and starts laughing, his shoulders shaking violently as he loses his shit. “A llama has it out for you? A baby one, at that. Do you even hear yourself?”
I cross my arms over my chest defensively. “When you’ve taken a hoof to your favourite organ, then we can talk.”
My phone chimes with an incoming text, and I reach for my bag, rummaging around until I find it. Juda lent me a power-bank thing to charge it up on the drive home. I agreed to drop it in to McKenna for him next time I’m in town.
When the screen comes to life, I see it’s a text from Elijah. My smile is instant. I can’t swipe my finger across the screen fast enough.
ELIJAH ~Travel safe. Let me know how you go with your car.~
I deflate. How underwhelming. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it was more than I got. My reply is concise.
CHARLOTTE ~I will. Thank you for your hospitality.~
A moment later, my phone chirps again. I didn’t think he would reply.
ELIJAH ~Is it bad of me to be thankful for your car breaking down?~
I grin and punch out a response.
CHARLOTTE ~Maybe a little. But I’m glad it happened too.~
I can’t stop thinking about her.
When I close my eyes, it’s her I see. Red hair splayed over my pillows as she sleeps. Her beautiful hazel eyes and the kaleidoscope of colours within them. Her brilliant smile when I kissed her in the paddock. The glare she wore whenever Delilah got too close.
She is under my skin, and I don’t know if it’s because of all the shit Juda’s been putting in my head or … No, I know it’s not that. It’s all her.
I want Charlotte. I just have to figure out how to get her.
Now that my lady problems are over for the month, I can get some work done. I’ve spent the morning writing an article I’ve titled “No, I’m Not Pregnant.” This is a common statement for women with endometriosis when the bloat hits. We can stand next to a woman who is actually expecting a small human being to erupt from her vagina and have the same size mid-region.
My fashion blog, Charlotte’s Closet, focuses not just on clothing but the issues that women face that, in turn, affect their wardrobe choices. For instance, the clothes I wear during hell week are very different to my general wardrobe. I’m a big fan of simple bottoms and loud tops.
However, when I’m fighting the red sea, I stick to dark tones. They hide most unexpected leaks, helping lower the mortification levels when such a situation does occur. I also stick to stretchy fabrics on the bottom half, even when it’s not a devil day. You never know when the bloat will strike, and it’s best to be prepared and comfortable.
Then, we have the issue of what to match them with. Tunics are always a winner in my book, but they don’t suit everyone. Basically, anything that is longer than your classic T-shirt is going to be a good idea. I have a whole segment of the blog dedicated to this very subject.
Just because our bodies are faulty doesn’t mean we shouldn’t get to look fabulous when we feel up to it. Every day that I’m not crippled by pain, I celebrate by dressing up. I accessorise and do my make-up, hair, and nails to match.
Don’t get me wrong, I like lounging around in yoga pants as much as any other woman. But I’ve spent too much of my life in my PJs already.
Right now, I’m wearing a pair of dark-blue skinny jeans, strappy caramel wedges, and a cream peasant top that drapes off one shoulder. My long, crimson hair is in a fishtail braid hanging down my spine, and I’ve applied extra mascara to really make my eyes pop.
I feel strong and in control of my life.
Scanning over the article I’ve just finished, I pause. Here I am trying to empower women, telling them not to let one thing get in the way of them going out and living their lives to the fullest, yet I’m not taking my own advice.
I may still be presenting myself as a queen, but I’ve cut out one of my favourite activities—one of the few things that truly makes me feel good—all because of one sexual disaster.
It’s time to get back on the horse. After saving the article, I shut down my computer then grab my phone, opening my favourite hook-up app. It’s settled. I can have sex with whoever I want, and it will be absolutely fine.
I’m scrolling through the list of potential bed mates when my phone chimes, a text notification popping up at the top of the screen.
Elijah’s name is staring me in the face. I’ve been actively trying not to think about him.
Yes, he’s attractive—okay, that’s an understatement, but moving on. He’s all the physical things I look for in a bed buddy, but he’s also so much more. He is also all the things I avoid like the plague.
He’s the triple C threat—considerate, charming, and confident. Then, on top of that, he has this wholesome vibe I never knew I was into until I met him.
Swallowing back my apprehension, I open the message.
ELIJAH ~I’ve been thinking, and I decided we should go for dinner this weekend.~
I blink at the screen several times, not sure how to react or respond. He wants to take me out for dinner. Why? I live in the city; he lives in a little Podunk town in the middle of nowhere with llamas. Dinner is something you take a date to—someone you plan on having a relationship with.
I need to quash this right now. I know what I have to say, despite the little voice inside my head telling me I should at least give this a chance. He’s not like— No. I cut that thought short. I refuse to think about him. I’ll just be dragged into a pit of regret and self-loathing.
CHARLOTTE ~Thanks, but no thanks.~
There. Directness is the best way to handle such situations.
My phone rings in my palm, startling me. I jump. The phone flips and slips between my fingers until I get a good grip on it again. It’s Elijah. And I accidently answered while fumbling with it.
“He—hello,” I sputter.
“Charlotte,” he drawls.
I swallow. I’d blocked out how much I like the deep timbre of his voice.
“Why don’t you want to go to dinner with me?”
Taking a deep breath, I ground myself then straighten my shoulders. “It’s not a good idea.”
“Because?”
“Because I said so.” Duh …
“I think it’s a very good idea. In fact, I think it’s an excellent idea.”
I can’t help it; I smile. “Do you now? And what makes you think that?”
He doesn’t even hesitate. “Because I haven’t stopped thinking about you since you left my house. I want to see you; it’s that simple. What’s stopping you?”
I chew my bottom lip. Should I tell him?
“I bet you’re biting that plump bottom lip of yours right now …”
I catch my breath. “Yes.”
“I knew it. Just come to dinner, Charlotte. Put me out of my misery,” he says, his deep voice gruff.
My heart is beating a million miles a minute. I want to see him, no doubt. But he’s the kind of
guy I could fall for. And that just can’t happen. “No, I can’t. I don’t do dinner dates or relationships. I shouldn’t have given you my number, Elijah.”
“The hell you shouldn’t have,” he bursts out. He sounds angry. Oops. “You felt what I felt. I know you felt it too, Charlotte, so don’t even try to deny it. You don’t do dinner or relationships? Well, I haven’t for the past ten years either, so it’ll be new for both of us.”
I drop my head back and stare at the ceiling. He’s not giving up as easily as I’d hoped he would. Focusing on a small cobweb near the cornice, I tell him, “I just can’t. I’m sorry,” then end the call before he can respond.
Elijah makes me want things I haven’t wanted in a long time—things that don’t work out when you’re me. My emotions are high and all over the place. He does this to me—messes with my perfectly planned life and makes me question my reasons for choosing to be perpetually single. I have a damn good reason for avoiding relationships. I don’t need a man in my life. I might occasionally want one, but I don’t need one.
What I do need is chocolate. Stat.
She hung up on me. Son of a bitch! I throw my phone across the cab of the truck. It hits the passenger window then clatters to the floor.
The door swings open, and Asher climbs in then raises his brows. “Wanna talk about it?”
“No,” I huff. Turning the key in the ignition, I pull the truck out of the lot of our last delivery of the morning. I can feel Ash’s eyes boring into the side of my head. “What?” I snap.
“You’re literally grinding gears …” he points out as I change up from second to third less than gracefully. “What’s up, big brother?”
My jaw locks, then the words are pouring out of my mouth. “I called Charlotte and asked her to dinner. She said no. But she won’t tell me why. I know she’s into me. I kissed her and she responded. She liked it. I know she did. So, what the fuck?”
Asher erupts with laughter, slapping his thigh.
I glare at him. Little bastard.
He eventually gathers his control. Taking a deep breath, his entire demeanour changes to serious.
The way he can flip his mood like a coin trips me out. He’s always done that. Makes me think of Two-Face from the Batman comics I used to love. Creeps me the hell out too. “You know I hate it when you do that,” I mutter.
“Whatever.” He rolls his eyes. “You like her and she shut you down. What are you going to do about it?”
My fingers curl around the steering wheel so tight my knuckles go white. “Fucked if I know. It’s been forever since I was interested in someone.”
He nods, his gaze far away. He’s formulating a plan. Silence engulfs the cab as we drive.
Out of nowhere, Asher clicks his fingers and points at me. “I’ve got it. I overheard her when you guys were talking while I was cleaning the kitchen. She likes a man who cooks and cleans, right? So, we’ll take photos of you doing that shit and drip feed them to her. It’ll drive her crazy. We already know she’s into you physically; this will keep you on her mind.”
“I think you might be onto something. But I need more. That’s not going to be enough to convince her to go out with me. I don’t just want to bone down with this chick, Asher.”
He nods. “Maybe you should do some research on that disease she has. Learn a bit about it, then wow her with your awareness of her situation?”
“Okay, I can do that.”
I feel much better about everything by the time we get home. Having a solid plan of attack has reinforced my determination. I’ve got this.
* * *
“Jesus Christ, why do I have to take my shirt off?” I bitch at Asher.
He stands on the other side of the kitchen counter with my phone aimed at me while I cook breakfast. “Because I said. Just do it.”
I grind my teeth but follow his coaching. I’m halfway down the buttons when he stops me.
“Wait, new plan. Leave it just like that. A tease is better than the whole package.”
Juda is laughing his arse off. Little prick. I glare at him and the coffee he just spilt all over the kitchen floor—a result of his amusement. I can tell he’s about to say something.
“Don’t you fucking dare.”
He clamps his mouth shut, but his smirk remains in place as he cleans the mess he made.
“Just act natural,” Ash instructs, angling the phone and clicking away.
“I feel like a fucking moron,” I grit out. I can’t believe I’m even doing this. It sounded like a good idea at the time, but now that I’m actually standing here … not so much.
Slapping my phone on the counter, Asher grins. “But you look hot.”
I frown, eyeing my brother. “Say what?”
He rolls his eyes. “You don’t have to be gay to recognise attractive traits in other men, Eli.”
“I know that,” I spit, defensive. “It’s just weird to hear my brother say I’m hot.”
With a shrug, he collects Delilah’s warm bottle from the hot water and takes a seat at the dining table to feed her. “I got a few good shots. You can send her one when you get into town.”
I finish up buttering the toast and head to the table with all the plates of food. I hope this works, because I’ve never felt so stupid in my life.
* * *
When I’ve made all the deliveries for the morning, I pull the truck into the parking lot of the supermarket and grab my phone. Opening the pictures Ash took this morning, I’m pleasantly surprised to find I don’t look as stupid as I felt while he was snapping away.
I pick the best one and send it to Charlotte. No caption, because I have no idea what to say. I’ll let the picture speak for itself.
Holy-mother-of-high-fashion.
The picture that just landed on my phone is … I’m speechless.
And there you have it, folks: a sure-fire way to shut me up. While I may be lacking words, I am producing a ridiculous amount of drool.
Elijah is standing at the cooktop in his kitchen, his red flannel shirt open to his belly button, exposing a tantalising sliver of his rippled chest and stomach to my greedy eyes. I just about swallow my tongue when I finally make it to his face. His square jaw is locked, pronouncing his high cheekbones and those full lips.
Just kill me now. I’d die a happy woman.
I wipe my chin, just in case the drool pooling in my mouth has overflowed.
He didn’t say anything—just sent the photo. I can’t help but wonder why. I shut him down yesterday, told him it’s not going to happen between us.
A light bulb flickers to life in my head. He’s tempting me, showing me what I’m missing. That sneaky bastard.
It takes all my willpower to exit the messages app, put my phone on the desk (face down), and get back to work on next week’s feature outfit page on the blog. My eyes drift back to my phone no less than a dozen times over the next hour.
Somehow, I find the strength to resist staring at that picture for hours on end and get some actual work done. Who knew I had that kind of self-control? Not me.
Knocking at my front door startles me. Glancing at the clock, I’m happy to see it’s after five. Reagan has arrived. “It’s open!” I call out. I don’t know why she even bothers knocking half the time; she has a key.
“Heyyy,” she sings as she sweeps into my home office.
I shut down my laptop and swivel my chair around to face her, my eyes instantly finding the bottles of white wine clutched in her hands. “Yes, girl! You have no idea how much I need this.” I tug her into a hug, then we make our way to my kitchen.
Sliding into a bar stool at my floating island, Reagan unscrews both bottles of wine, sliding one across to my side while I rummage through the fridge for snacks. We drink from the bottles because we’re classy like that, and she’s already taking a swig from hers by the time I reappear with a couple of dips, kabana, and a block of cheese.
“Hey, wait for me!” I snap.
She puts her bottle do
wn, and I slide her a cutting board with the cheese. Selecting a knife from the block on the bench beside her, she gets to chopping while I do the same with the kabana. It only takes us five minutes to make a big platter of goodies to complement our wine.
Relaxing into my black suede couch, I prop my feet up on the dark-purple ottoman that serves as a footrest slash coffee table. A stack of fashion magazines are spread across the middle, and I kick them aside to make more room for my feet.
“So, I did some research on llamas this week,” Reagan says.
I raise a brow. “Why?”
She shrugs. “After meeting your llama farmer, I wanted to know more. Anyway, Freddie Mercury and Michael Jackson were recording a duet back in the eighties, right, and Freddie cancelled it because Michael insisted on bringing his llama, Louie, to the recording studio every day.”
I snort. “What? No way. That’s not even true.”
“It is. You know I always do my research.”
“Yeah, but seriously? That’s crazy.” I chuckle. “Okay, hit me with another llama fact.”
My bestie’s grin is huge. Reagan is in her element when talking about random shit. “Okay, so scientists have made a crossbreed between a male camel and a female llama. They call it a cama. They’re pretty damn cute too. Not as cute as an alpaca though. Especially after seeing those gorgeous little things at your sexy farmer’s.”
I choke on my wine, almost spraying it all over her. Once I’ve regained control of my throat muscles, I correct her. “He’s not my anything.”
She chuckles. “Who are you trying to kid? He’s totally yours. He’s your sexy llama farmer. Charlotte the fashionista has the hots for a plaid-wearing llama farmer.” She snorts at her own joke.
I want to wipe that satisfied smirk off her face. Rolling my eyes, I pop a cracker with a chunk of cheese and kabana in my mouth, then chase it with more wine. I have a feeling one bottle isn’t going to be enough for me tonight if this is the tone of the conversation.
“You can’t deny it. You want his hot farmer body,” she states.
