I wait for her a long time in the lobby. Long enough that if she were anyone else and this were any other date, I’d have left. I hate getting dicked around and made to wait. But she sounded pretty miserable on the phone, and apparently I can’t resist the urge to jump in when this woman needs help.
I’m not a big fan of the over-the-top “Western” decor in the Depot Hotel. Cowboy hats and boots hang from thick log columns, and the paintings rehash a bunch of not-okay cowboys-and-Indians themes. But the fire is warm and the leather of the couch is well-worn, and I had a long day at work, so I’m happy to sit and relax.
“Hey,” says a soft voice, and I turn to find her standing behind the couch.
“Hey. Oh. You look… great.”
“Thank you.”
She’s whipped herself back together. Her sunny blond hair is clean and straight—none of the damp wisps that clung to her face in the rain. There’s no sign of the makeup that streaked her face earlier. She’s wearing eyeshadow and some glossy pink lipstick that makes her lips look slick and kissable. And she’s changed into what I’m sure are her “casual clothes”—a soft silky-looking top that clings to her fucking amazing tits and a pair of dark jeans that hug her ass, thighs, and calves. She teeters on another pair of shoes whose spiky heels make me want to beg her to keep them on in bed.
I’m not surprised she’s all polished again. I’d guessed from her clothes and shoes that she probably wasn’t a woman who liked to be out of control.
But I want to see her the way she was before. Rumpled, messy, passionate. Too caught up in the moment to worry about whether her hair is done, her makeup is neat, or her clothes are just-so.
I get a vivid mental picture of doing that to her. Kissing her into not giving a shit about anything except wanting more.
“Bar’s this way,” I say, instead, and lead her toward the back of the bar, to the small quiet corner.
We sit, and I order us two Irish coffees. She raises her eyebrows at me but doesn’t protest.
“Where ya from, City Girl?” I ask.
She blows out a laugh. “New York.”
“That was going to be my first guess.”
“Does it show?”
“Hell, yeah. Clothes, hair, makeup. I can tell East Coast from a mile away. You can see it in the way people move. Fast. Leaning forward, almost, like they’re always going somewhere in a hurry, even when they’re not going anywhere at all. They’re the tourists who’ll almost run you over on the sidewalk.”
“We’re not all like that.”
I shake my head. “No. Some of you think you’re not like that, but that’s because you’ve lived there so long you’ve lost track of how normal people walk.”
She squints at me. “And what, the West is the standard for normal? You’re all in slow motion. I go to the grocery store and I trip over you. Everyone stops at all the four-way stops and is like, ‘You go.’ ‘No, you go.’ ‘No, you go.’ And meanwhile if we were in New York or Boston, twenty people could have gone. Also, the way you talk?” She draws out the last few words into a bad imitation of a southern drawl that sounds nothing like Western Oregon’s relaxed, slightly flat speech.
“I talk like everyone else talks. You’re the one who sounds like the Chipmunks holiday special.” I deliberately speed my last few words up to demonstrate.
That makes her laugh again.
“So what’s a New York girl doing in a town like this?”
She hesitates. Bites her lip. I get the distinct feeling she doesn’t want to answer, and I make a mental note. Right, no personal stuff. But then she says, “Well—my mom’s here. She moved here about a year ago to live with her boyfriend.”
“You’re Adele’s daughter!” The words pop out before I can think better of it. If she doesn’t want to tell me about her life, she definitely doesn’t want me to already know about it.
She makes a sour face. “I should have guessed you’d know who she is.”
“Told you I know everyone. My mother plays Bunco with her.”
“Of course she does,” she mutters. “Small towns.”
“Small towns? Wait a second. Are you knocking small towns?”
“Everyone knows everyone else. Everyone knows everyone else’s business. And everyone feels entitled to everyone else’s business.”
“Everyone looks out for everyone else.”
She rolls her eyes. “Not my experience.”
“You’ve lived in one before.”
“Yeah. When I was a kid.”
She doesn’t elaborate. Instead, she says, “When things… went south for me back in New York, I asked my mom if I could come stay. I think she felt guilty she couldn’t put me up, so she booked a hotel room for me instead, and got me some work.”
“Like a job?”
I have to admit, my heart drops to the floor when she says work, because if she’s staying long-term in Rush Creek, then this isn’t going to happen tonight. I’m not interested in anything except one night of fun.
She shakes her head. “Just a short-term client. I’m in marketing. I specialize in marketing to women.”
It makes total sense to me that Lucy’s in marketing. Marketing people are always polished and in control. I bet she has an expensive leather portfolio that she carries her work around in.
She starts telling me about how women make most of the buying decisions in households, even if men are the ones who end up being the primary users of whatever gets bought. And about how women need to trust a brand before they’ll buy it, and feel safe with it, which are different needs than male buyers have.
“So I work with people, help them capture the female buyers or audience, help them build that trust. And the gig I’m doing here, the one my mom hooked me up with, is helping a business reach more of that market.”
“The New Rush Creek,” I mutter. There’s a banner flying over Main Street that says that in gold script. Every time I see it, I cringe. Way too close to home.
“Not a fan?”
“That’s an understatement.”
“I did my research on Rush Creek and the New Rush Creek, but I wouldn’t mind hearing how you see it,” she says. “It always looks different from inside the story.”
That’s for sure. I’ve never thought of myself as a guy who resists change, but I hate what Rush Creek has become.
“It used to be mostly a rodeo town, but then about five years ago, the rodeo shut down and this hot spring that had been underground popped to the surface. It was like some totally fucked up—” I eye her to gauge if my language is going to offend, but she waves it off. “—cause and effect. Goodbye rodeo, hello hot spring. One day we were all cowboy hats, tack, and tents, and the next, weddings, women’s spa vacations, and romantic getaways. Now if you want to succeed, everything has to smell like lavender.”
She makes a soft sound of understanding and sympathy.
“The shift gave all of us whiplash,” I say. What I don’t say, because it’s such a sore sport for me, is that it screwed Wilder Adventures right to hell. Wilder’s the outdoor adventuring outfit I own with my family. We’ve had to work twice as hard the last few years to get half as many clients—while equipment costs have skyrocketed.
I wish like anything it were otherwise, but business is in the toilet. Which reminds me of something she said earlier.
“You said something about things going south in New York?”
She shakes her head. “Let’s not go there.”
“Fair enough. I hate New York. Happy not to go there.”
She grimaces, then nods, then admits, “It’s a love/hate city. But I love it. I love that you can have anything you want, any time you want it. You can have anything you can dream of delivered to you in a couple of hours. Any kind of takeout. Food from a country you’ve never heard of before. You can see any movie, any play, any concert. You can have your laundry picked up, cleaned, and returned to you and never have to leave your apartment. And I love the anonymity. I love going for days without running into anyone I know. I love that no one knows who I am most of the time.”
“The exact opposite of a small town.”
“Exactly.”
I try to imagine it, and a part of me can see the appeal—no gossip, no expectations, no history. Sex would definitely be easier. I limit my encounters to one-nighters with out-of-towners and a few friends with benefits. Out-of-towners dry up in the off season. Friends with benefits gets stale. Neither of those choices is the perfect solution, but they’re better than getting involved. Believe me.
“But you—love Rush Creek?” she asks.
“Lived here my whole life. Can’t imagine living anywhere else.”
“And your family’s here?”
“My mom, my brothers, my sister, my niece and nephew.”
The bartender brings our Irish coffees. Lucy lifts hers to toast, and I clink glass mugs with her. She takes a sip and ends up with whipped cream on her nose. Very cute. I reach out to gently swipe it off. And her lips part. I drag my gaze up to her eyes, and her breath catches.
Life’s short and Lucy’s right here. I reach out a hand, cup the back of her head, and lean in. When our mouths touch, hers soft and warm, she lets out a gasp that sends blood roaring through my veins. It takes all the self control I have to draw back and enjoy how beautiful she looks, just kissed: blown pupils, pink cheeks, and slack lower lip.
“Wow,” she says softly.
“Yeah. More where that came from.”
Don’t get me wrong. I could have kissed her into next week. I can still feel the imprint of her mouth, and I’m shot through with the need to lick into her and explore. But I like the look on her face right now. Wanting. I’m okay with drawing this out, letting her feel the tug between us.
I like that feeling too. That sense of possibility. Not too long from now, I’m going to make Lucy come apart, make her cry my name. I’m going to make it so good for her. No need to rush, though. The anticipation is part of it.
“So what’s the business?” I ask, as if I’m not mentally undressing her. “The one you’re consulting for?”
“Uh—” She looks completely undone, which is a total turn-on. I love that I was able to make her mind go blank like that. This is what Lucy looks like when she’s so caught up she can’t be all polished and controlled and organized.
“What is this?” she asks, gesturing between us. I know what she means. You don’t get this kind of chemistry with everyone. It feels rare, and good, and dangerous, in the best way.
I’ve got my mouth open to say something along those lines, when she says, “Wilder Adventures.”
My mind is on the question of whether I want to strip off Lucy’s clothes or watch her take them off slowly, so at first, I barely register her words.
Then something in the pit of my brain—the part that leaps back from a snake on the trail before I’m even aware I saw it—gets it, and my stomach twists into a knot. She’s answering my question. As in, “What business are you consulting to?” Answer: “Wilder Adventures.”
Apparently, I’m shaking my head, because Lucy starts to look alarmed. “What?” she asks, and then, before I can answer, because she’s a smart cookie, “Oh, shit.”
We stare at each other.
“You’re going to have to explain this to me.” It comes out a growl. “How are you in town to consult for my business, and I don’t know anything about it?”
Lucy doesn’t flinch. Apparently, I’m not the first pissed-off business-owner she’s had to face. “Gabe,” she says slowly, her eyes searching my face for clues. “Gabriel Wilder. You, um—had a lot more hair. And a beard. In the photos on the web and the business page.”
“It was time for a change.” It’s a dumb thing to say, but I’m in a daze, trying to understand why my mom appears to have hired a consultant without telling me.
Lucy watches me like I’m a bomb that might go off. Which, let’s be honest, I am.
She chooses her words carefully. “Your mom hired me to make Wilder Adventures more female-friendly. A little, um, lavender along with the hiking boots and hunting rifles and fishing charters.”
“Yeah. Got that.” I’m going to kill my mom. In slow painful stages. “Wilder Adventures doesn’t need to be more female-friendly. And it definitely doesn’t need any lavender.”
“That’s not what your mom thinks,” she counters.
“What exactly did she tell you?”
“That she owns Wilder Adventures and runs it with the help of her five sons. That I would meet all of you tomorrow morning. I take it she didn’t tell you that part.”
My hands tighten into fists, an attempt not to slam one of them down on the bar in frustration.
The thing is, Wilder Adventures is not actually mine. My mother still owns sixty percent of it. It’s true that I run it, but there’s no official org chart anywhere that says that. There has never had to be. Everyone who matters knows it, and my mother has never stuck her nose where it didn’t belong.
But if my mom wants to hire someone to stuff those little mesh bags filled with lavender and tied with itty-bitty silk bows into everyone’s sleeping bags…
I can’t actually legally stop her.
My body tenses with helpless rage. I can’t believe she did this to me.
Lucy is watching quietly.
I take a deep breath and cool off. I don’t have any legal authority over my mother, but that doesn’t mean I have to roll over. I can fight back. I can put my foot down.
“Yeah. Well. Not gonna happen.”
This time it’s closer to a roar than a growl, but Lucy still doesn’t flinch.
“It sounds like maybe you and she need to have a little chat?” she suggests, in a voice she might use with a tantruming two-year-old. Which I suspect in this situation, she would say I am.
Guess no one’s getting laid tonight.