I’m… twitchy.
Lucy left with Amanda and Hanna a couple of hours ago. Everyone else has gone home.
I’m looking at upcoming registrations for the umpteenth time, hoping the numbers will look different this go-round.
They don’t.
I jump on some of the outdoor discussion boards where people post asking for recommendations for fishing, hunting, and hiking trips. I answer a bunch of questions. I never try to sell my business on those sites, but my signature does make it clear that I run trips, and sometimes that fact comes up in conversation. We get quite a few bookings that way.
Not enough to move the needle though.
I reply to all the comments on Wilder’s Facebook page, and update my own Facebook profile with some photos from Easton’s and my last hunting trip.
Then I go on Instagram.
The business has an Instagram account, but I basically never look at it. All of us are supposed to post photos there, but none of us ever does. Amanda and my mom yell at us about it, but it doesn’t change our behavior.
Truth, though: I am not looking at the business’s Instagram or trying to figure out how to be more strategic.
I am looking to see if Lucy has an account.
I discover that she does.
I’m not at all surprised to discover that it’s curated and flawless.
She sets up her Instagram in those nine-square puzzle patterns. There are two whole nine-squares that look like a trip to San Francisco, including several pictures of her beaming beside a curvy redhead, who she identifies as her bestie, Annie. There are all kinds of artsy pictures of New York, including a few selfies of Lucy. Made up. Dressed up. Every hair in place.
Those kinds of selfies take a lot of work—I know because every once in a while, Amanda or my mom makes me take one for some reason. Then they make me retake it until the lighting’s right, I’m looking at the camera, I’m not squinting, and my arm isn’t in the picture.
There are also pictures of her apartment. Her apartment is spare, and the decor is elegant and clean, like buttoned-up Lucy. Everything is mostly white, with splashes of color. Each photo looks staged—her desk, with an expensive looking pen and a leather-bound notebook; her kitchenette, with meals plated restaurant style.
I’m not going to learn anything about her this way.
I swallow disappointment that makes no sense.
I’m about to stash my phone when an impulse makes me look at Amanda’s Instagram. Sure enough, there are two photos there from this afternoon. One is of her, Lucy, and Hanna standing outside of Nan’s bakery, big chocolate chip cookies in hand. Amanda’s beaming. Hanna’s scowling. Lucy’s expression is unreadable.
The next photo is from a few minutes ago. I recognize the setting immediately, from the elk head visible on the wall behind. It was taken at Oscar’s Saloon & Grille, in one of the booths. Hanna, Lucy, and—
Easton, turned toward Lucy and saying something, both of them smiling.
Something primal inside me howls.
I’m heading toward my car before I can reason with myself.
I slide into the booth next to Amanda, who turns to look at me with undisguised shock.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she demands.
“Can’t a man get a drink with family and friends?” I ask.
She raises both eyebrows. “Um, he can. He just never does. What, are you afraid Lucy is going to make plans to redecorate the office pink while you’re not watching her?”
My eyes meet Lucy’s. Hers flash amusement. She thinks Amanda’s right, that I’m checking up on her.
I am, just… not in the way she thinks.
“It’s not Lucy he doesn’t trust,” Hanna says, tipping her head toward Easton.
“Who, me?” Easton asks, all innocence.
Amanda rolls her eyes. “Yes, you, Easton, melter of panties.”
“Easton the Panty-Melter,” he muses. “It has a nice ring to it.”
“The fact that you think so really says it all,” Hanna says with disgust.
“Hey, hon,” says our waitress, Jill Cooper, a petite brunette I went to high school with. Jill and I are friends with occasional benefits. Right now, she’s seeing someone seriously. Last time I ran into her, she told me she and her boyfriend were waiting to hear on a promotion he was anticipating and that she thought a proposal was in the offing. I’m happy for her. She deserves good luck.
“Hey, Jill,” I say. “How’s Matt?”
She grins. “Really good. He got a promotion to manager.”
I fist bump her. “He gonna put a ring on your finger?”
“Your mouth, God’s ear,” she says, grin getting bigger. “What can I getcha? And you guys, how about some appetizers?”
I order a pitcher of beer for the table and a few rounds of wings, potato skins, and cracklings, mostly because I bet you good money they don’t have those in New York, and I want to see how Lucy will react. My goal is to figure out how to leave with Lucy and saddle Easton with the tab. Okay, not really, but it’s satisfying to picture.
“How was your tour?” I ask Lucy.
“Really fun!” She’s still wearing the blouse with the single button at the throat. She’s drinking something from a martini glass that might be a lemon drop. She looks like someone photoshopped a slice of big city into our small-town bar. I wonder how she sees Oscar’s. The swinging saloon doors, the mounted animal heads, the mural—does she think it’s all camp? Or can she see what I see, which is that Rush Creek is where the West meets the Pacific Northwest, a place all its own?
“It was Amanda’s tour of her favorite stores,” Hanna grumps.
“My favorite shopkeepers,” Amanda corrects.
“I liked everyone I met,” Lucy says. “People were super welcoming.”
Hanna frowns. “That’s because we’re a tourist town and newcomers are money.”
“Nah,” Easton tells Lucy. “It’s because you’re charming.”
“Do you ever worry about becoming a cliché of yourself, Easton?” Amanda demands.
“Too late,” Hanna says.
Lucy tries to hide a smile. She lifts her eyes to meet mine, the smile fading when she sees the expression I can’t keep off my face, the murderous rage toward my younger brother. She looks away.
Fuck. She thinks my furious expression was aimed at her.
“Who was your favorite?” Amanda asks eagerly.
Lucy thinks for a sec, then says, “I think Kiona at Five Rivers Arts and Crafts.”
“You know her story, right?” Easton asks her.
Lucy nods. “She told me her people are Wasco, and she bought the shop from the previous owners, who were basically selling anything vaguely-native-flavored and now all the artisans are actually Native American. So that’s one good thing to come out of the New Rush Creek, right?”
I’m still not ready to concede anything good has come out of New Rush Creek. “She was turning that place around before the hot springs showed up.”
“Right,” Lucy says. “Gotcha.”
Once again, I’ve knocked the smile off Lucy’s face. I can’t hold back my asshole tendencies tonight. I should’ve stayed home where at least I wouldn’t have made things worse. At this rate, I’ll have driven her into Easton’s open arms before my drink comes. And the look Amanda gives me—you idiot!—says she knows it.
“Mack’s Tack is downsizing from two storefronts to one,” Amanda informs me.
“The feed store’s hours are down to nine-to-five, Tuesday through Saturday,” Hanna adds.
Amanda traces a finger around the rim of her wine glass. “Krandall’s Outdoor Outfitters is now selling gifts, which mostly seem to be bachelorette party favors and girls’ night games.”
Hanna wrinkles her nose. “And Wagon Wheel Sandwiches changed its name to Spa Day Sandwiches. The wheel’s still out front, though. Which is just dumb.”
“Yeah, but what would you put there instead?” Easton asks. “A giant pump bottle of massage oil?”
“A huge bridal veil,” Amanda suggests.
“A basketball-hoop-sized garter,” Easton counters.
“A lavender eye pillow for an elephant,” Lucy mouths to me.
I snicker, and she bites her lip, hiding a smile. She hasn’t totally given up on me. My grinchy heart grows a half-size, because that’s about what I can manage.
“Did any of you ride in the rodeo?” Lucy asks.
Easton shakes his head. “Nope. Too busy skiing, fishing, hunting, you name it. But we all miss going. There are rodeos all over Oregon, but Rush Creek’s was part of our growing up.”
“Could it come back?”
I shake my head. “No. It’d been hanging on by a thread. Losing money in the last couple years. When the hot springs surfaced, it was a miracle for the town. Just—”
“Hard for some of the businesses,” she says. “Including yours.” Her voice and expression are soft. Sympathetic.
“Yeah.” My voice is hard, even though I want my better self to accept her kindness.
But she doesn’t look away this time. The warmth in her eyes does something messy to my chest. And I think she might know it, because her eyes soften even more.
“Well. I know you guys are all broken up about the rodeo, but I’m excited for the spring festival,” Amanda says. “I finished my dress.” She gets a look on her face. I recognize it. It’s the prequel to mischief. When we were kids, I used to love that look because it meant something fun was about to happen. Now it scares the shit out of me.
“Lucy!” Amanda says. “You can be my model for the trashion show!”
“Trashion show,” Lucy says slowly. I’m torn between amusement at her confusion and irritation with Amanda for blindsiding her.
Hanna squints at both of them. “You didn’t ask me. I’m hurt.” She lays the sarcasm on “hurt” with a trowel.
I love Hanna.
“I mean, if Hanna wants to do it, she should definitely do it.” Lucy clearly has no idea what a trashion show is but knows she’s being roped into something she wants nothing to do with.
Amanda rolls her eyes. “Hanna’s totally messing with you. You couldn’t pay her enough.”
“This is true,” Hanna says.
“Besides, even if Hanna actually wanted to model the dress, she and I don’t have the boobs for it,” Amanda says, unfazed. “Lucy has way better boobs. And a waist. Lucy, you’re like a perfect hourglass. You’re like who I designed the dress for.”
I try hard not to make a sweep of Lucy’s body to confirm the boobs claim, but my eyes betray me. Amanda is absolutely right; Lucy is a natural for the job. On the upswing, of course, I catch Lucy’s eye. Damn—busted. Lucy raises her eyebrows, and the corner of her mouth twitches with amusement. This sign of feistiness, along with the visual feast I just enjoyed, strikes enough sparks in me that I have to judiciously adjust my position.
“I have boobs,” Hanna insists, scowling. “You just can’t tell, because sports bras.” She turns to Lucy. “But I get it. And, okay. Before you agree to anything, you should know the dress is made of Tillamook cheese bags.”
“Tillamook cheese bags?”
Hanna nods. “The ones the shredded cheese comes in.”
“That really doesn’t clear things up,” Lucy says, shaking her head, laughing.
I’ve had enough. “Are you seriously trying to talk a woman fresh from New York City and dressed to kill, into putting on a dress made out of cheese bags? Does she strike you as someone who would wear repurposed cheese plastic?”
“She has an excellent sense of fashion,” Amanda says. “She would carry it off with panache.”
“Um,” Lucy says. “I still have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Every year, as part of the spring festival, there’s a fashion show of garments made exclusively from recycled materials,” I explain.
“Is that, like, a New Rush Creek thing?”
I shake my head. “It’s an Old Rush Creek thing. Oregon is the third-greenest state in the U.S.”
“Well,” Lucy says. “I appreciate the show of faith in both my… boobs and my fashion sense, but I’m probably not your girl.”
“Is it the cheese bags?” I murmur and am rewarded with another trying-not-to Lucy smile.
“Bummer,” Amanda says. “But I’ll find someone.”
Jill brings my beer and the appetizers. We dig in. The cracklings are fresh out of the fryer, crisp, hot, and flavorful.
“These look unhealthy,” Lucy says, nibbling on one. “Oh. Yum. What are these?”
“Cracklings,” Easton says.
“Pork rinds,” Hanna bluntly adds. “Pig skin.”
Lucy pauses midchew. She’s tough, I’ll give her that; her facial expression barely changes. But I notice she switches to potato skins after that.
She doesn’t touch the wings.
Too messy, I’d bet. She doesn’t strike me as the type to lick sauce off her fingers.
Great, now I’m picturing it. Those soft, plump lips tugging along the length of her finger, savoring.
I’m tempted to reach out and squeeze her hand. Instead, I move my foot to nudge hers. I’m trying to say, I see you.
Her gaze flicks to mine, and I feel a gentle pressure back against my foot.
The sensation buzzes up the whole length of my leg and lodges itself in my groin. And we’re talking two layers of shoe leather here.
It’s not very well-lit in here, but I can see every last tiny freckle on the bridge of her nose. The pale parts of her eyelashes that mascara hasn’t touched. The faint translucency of her eyelids. I want to run a thumb lightly over that eyelid. Across her cheekbone. Over her plump lower lip.
That lip.
I have to look away and get my thoughts under control.
“So Lucy,” Easton says, “Tell us about New York. What do you do there?”
Lucy gets a deer-in-headlights look on her face. I know from our disastrous drinks date that she hates talking about herself, and I want to kick Easton under the table.
But she’s a trouper. “I work for a marketing consultancy called Grand Plan. I work on a team that specializes in marketing to women.”
“Do you live in the city?”
She nods. “A studio in Manhattan.” Her voice flattens.
Easton doesn’t notice. “Wow! In Manhattan! The marketing gig must pay well.”
For a charmer, Easton can be dense as brick.
“It was my grandmother’s. I inherited it when she died.” She bites her lip, like even that information reveals too much.
“Is your life like Sex and the City?” Amanda asks. “Do you have glamorous friends and Tinder hookups—?”
Quit it! I try to will Amanda to leave Lucy alone.
“They didn’t have Tinder back when Sex and the City was made,” Easton says.
Amanda nods. “I wish they’d do a remake, because I feel like I need to know how they would have dealt with Tinder.”
“You need a whole episode devoted to dick pics?”
“No one needs to devote any time to dick pics.”Amanda scowls. “But seriously, Lucy, what’s it like? Living in New York City?”
Why can’t Amanda see that Lucy hates answering questions about herself? It’s all over her face. She wraps her arms around herself, self-protective, and I suddenly want to yell at them all: Leave her alone!
She waves a hand. “Oh, you know. All the takeout you could ever want. Lots of nightlife. Nonstop fun.”
Amanda opens her mouth, but I jump in. “Amanda. How are things going with the dinner option?”
Amanda is easily distracted, and starts telling us about the challenges of expanding a catering business from lunch to dinner, and the conversation moves on from there without circling back to Lucy and New York.
Jill checks in to see if we want dessert, and we all groan and say no. After she leaves, Lucy excuses herself, asking Easton to let her out of the booth. When she stands, she sways a little. “Oh,” she says. “I think those drinks were stronger than I thought.”
“Oscar’s is notorious for that,” I say. “No one warned you?”
She shakes her head, then sets out for the restroom, unsteady on those heels. Easton watches her go. When he turns back, I accuse him, “You let her order two and didn’t say anything.”
He shrugs. “So sue me.”
“Asshole.”
“She looked like she needed to relax.”
“Not your way, she doesn’t.”
Amanda and Hanna are watching me curiously. “To be fair,” Amanda says, “we didn’t warn her either.”
“Yeah, but you’re not going to try to walk her back to her hotel afterwards and get in her pants,” I say.
“Who says—?”
“Don’t bother, Easton,” Amanda says.
Easton sulks. “I’m so maligned.”
“Sure you are.”
When Lucy reappears, she says, “I should probably head back.” She pulls out two twenties and drops them on the table. “Is that enough?”
“It’s on me,” Easton says, and hands her back her cash. “And let me walk you back to the hotel. I should have warned you Oscar’s makes strong drinks. Plus we’re at 3,000-plus feet here. Alcohol works faster.”
“I’ll walk Lucy.”
They all turn to look me.
“She and I have business stuff to talk about.”
I see the faint surprise bloom on Lucy’s face. This is news to her. Her eyes meet mine, and I see a hint of the naughty shine that was there the other night in the Depot Hotel. My cock twitches in answer.
“Gabe’s right,” Lucy says. “He and I have things to talk about. Thanks for the offer, though, Easton. Some other time.”
“Like in your dreams,” Amanda murmurs.
I turn away before anyone can see my grin. No one likes a winner basking in his victory.