20 20 This morning I discovered how to tame an organic farmer’s diesel truck–hating heart. Far easier than I would have thought, too. It wasn’t by way of kale or tatsoi, and there wasn’t any coconut oil involved. Even spending half an hour with my face between her legs hasn’t elicited quite the same reaction as this newly discovered kryptonite.
All I had to do was get her in my truck and press one button.
Heated seats.
Whitney and I had another spirited debate as to what mode of transportation to use when she announced that she needed to run into town and pick up a few things at the co-op. I won in the end and now Whitney is reclined in the passenger seat, making sounds that can only be described as obscene. I’m familiar with how she sounds when I’m doing obscene things to her, so I know these noises pretty well. Her face is entirely relaxed but the way she’s languidly squirming around on the seat, you’d think my hands were somewhere other than the steering wheel.
“God. I take back everything I’ve ever said about this beast. This is the best feeling. I’ve never felt this good. Ever.”
I turn in her direction and raise my brows. She gives a coy smirk and averts her eyes.
“I can’t believe you’ve never been in a vehicle with heated seats before. This isn’t exactly new technology.”
“I don’t spend a lot of time with people who drive anything other than thirty-year-old pickups. But I should definitely meet new people. Based entirely on whether their vehicle has heated seats or not.” She shimmies down a bit. “Can we turn it up? Does it go any higher?”
I reach over to give the dial another turn. “That’s the max. Don’t melt into a puddle or anything.”
Whitney grabs my hand, placing it on her thigh. “Yes. It’s getting even better now. Can we sleep in this thing?”
She slouches lower in the seat and the adjustment draws my hand higher on her leg. I grip the soft flesh and let my fingers trace tiny circles on the inside of her thigh. Between the feel of my pinkie finger skimming her core and the warmth radiating from that spot, I’m about one more moan of hers away from turning the truck around and going back home. The fucking co-op has to be open all day. Plenty of time to prove all the ways that what I have to offer beats the hell out of any heated seat. But when she starts to quietly give up another giggle-moan, I decide not to make this something else because she’s blissed out and happy, which is good enough for me.
Just as we pull into the co-op parking lot, my phone rings with a call from Austin. I debate letting it ring over to voicemail but Whitney tells me to take it, then unbuckles her seat belt to scamper into the store. The sight of her—all of her—headed the wrong direction from my hands is motivation enough to keep the call short.
Austin’s update isn’t particularly surprising. My knee injury means the split clause isn’t going anywhere, and Austin admits that I’m probably going to have to get used to this new reality, the one where I’m no longer a young gun or a sure thing. Instead, I’m the veteran player. The guy who is supposed to be a fountain of wise advice in the locker room and a steady rock of hardscrabble experience on the field.
Unfortunately, anyone who has met me would know I’m not a fountain of anything. As for hardscrabble and steady? Maybe. I’d just have preferred to wait a few more years before taking on this new role.
I shut the truck door harder than necessary and head into the store. The co-op is dusty but organized, with fluorescent lights that cast a yellow glare on the worn linoleum floor, and the entire place is practically a carbon copy of the seed store in my hometown.
With one exception.
Behind the front counter, talking a little too animatedly with my girlfriend, is a dude who doesn’t look anything like the paunchy, burly old-timers who work back home. Instead, it looks a little like country music star Chase Rice stumbled into the co-op and decided to stick around. And I’ve met the real Chase Rice a few times, back when I played against him in college. He was a solid linebacker who probably should have ended up on somebody’s pro roster, but Christ, the fucking guy smiles too much.
The Hotchkiss version is just as bad. A big grin and puppy-dog eyes, sporting a camo ball cap on backward, with a few hunks of light brown hair sticking out from around his ears. When he leans forward to chuckle at something Whitney says, I have to consciously breathe deeply and steadily. All to avoid going over there and doing something stupid, like pissing on Whitney’s leg or knocking the big grin right off Chase’s face.
“—Braden and I duck hunted in the morning, then I went to my mom’s for dinner. She’s over in Grand Junction, so the drive sucked, but the pie was worth it. How about you, Johnny Appleseed? Big turkey day for you?”
Whitney shimmies a little in place, claps her hands together. My eyes instinctively drop to her ass and Chase’s seem to land on her tits. My hands curl into loose fists. Deep fucking breaths. Don’t be an asshole.
“It was practically a Hallmark special. We watched football all day and ate all the traditional stuff. Except stuffing. The stuffing was problematic.”
“You watched football? And ate a traditional dinner? High-five, sweetheart.”
He raises his hand and Whitney slaps palms with him. Five seconds and I’m going over there, close enough to let my pheromones do the talking.
“I figured you were going to say you spent the day in silent protest and meditation to all that is Thanksgiving. If I’d known you were going to act regular, I’d have invited you along to hunt ducks on the slough. Who’s we? You invite over some Pilgrims?”
There’s my opening. It takes less than five seconds and I’m behind Whitney, pressing my fly to the roundest part of her ass and slipping one arm around her waist.
Chase immediately looks confused. He darts a glance between us, then takes a better look at me, and recognition dawns as he puts the pieces together. His mouth drops open a little.
“Oh! Garrett, this is Cooper Lowry. He’s the we part of my Thanksgiving,” Whitney explains.
Garrett nods slowly, then one of those grins—and, they’re nice, I’ll admit that—takes over.
“Thought I was seeing things there for a second. Explains the football watching.” He extends a hand my way and I latch on, finding his grip is as strong as mine. “Nice to meet you, Cooper.”
Up close, I can see that he’s younger than I first thought, so I’m able to dial down my initial insanity to claim Whitney with a fireman’s carry out of here, while grunting the word mine over my shoulder. Still, he’s got a good handshake, a killer grin, and puppy-dog eyes. Now I’m worried about a daughter I don’t even have yet. Because this guy would be the main reason I’d keep her in the house as much as possible.
“You probably still won’t get her into a duck blind. It was a ninety-minute conversation just to get her into my Dodge this morning, so there’s still work to do.”
Garrett laughs as Whitney takes worthless swipes at both of us, one hand shooting out toward his bicep and the other floating back to swat ineffectively at my side. Garrett ducks her jab and shakes his head.
“Come on, you’re still my favorite tree hugger. But I’m guessing if anyone can bring you over from the hippie side”—Garrett holds up his index finger and thumb, keeping them close together—“just a little, it’s this guy.”
A quick shift of his eyes to mine, and there’s no ego or subtext in what he just said. I grew up with lots of guys like Garrett: honest, humble, and uncomplicated. Raised to do the right thing, always. Which means they bide their time and wait their turn—in everything. Even if it means that life sometimes leaves them behind.
He saunters into the back to grab the two jugs of dormant oil that Whitney needs to treat her trees, and when he comes back, he hefts them onto the counter and gives the tops a tap.
“Want me to carry these out for you?”
My alpha ego roars to life again, unbidden and unruly. I carry her stuff. I drive her wherever she wants to go. I give her orgasms. I do all of it.
Jesus Christ. Who am I? No other woman has ever inspired this obnoxious, over-the-top instinct to ensure that I’m the one who takes first position in everything she needs. Not that I ever considered otherwise, but polygamists are crazy, because I can’t imagine loving more than one woman this way. It’s fucking exhausting.
My hands thrust out and I tug the bottles forward. “No need. I’m here now.”
Whitney’s hands freeze as she digs deep into her wallet for a fifty-dollar bill, turning all her suddenly peeved attention my way. Garrett smirks a little and lifts his hands away emphatically.
“Got it.” A few clicks on his cash register. “You two coming to the booster party tonight?”
Whitney looks up and relaxes her posture. “Is that tonight? I totally forgot.”
“Yup. Starts at six. You guys should definitely come.” He thumbs in my direction. “People will swallow their tongues when they see this guy. Bonfire, deep-fried foods, all the usual stu—”
Whitney thrusts her hands up and smacks them over Garrett’s mouth. “Gah! Stop. Don’t say anything else!”
Garrett’s brows shoot up and he immediately looks my way, his expression making it clear he wants me to see that this turn of events is not his fault. She pats his mouth with her fingers and pulls away. Garrett visibly releases an exhale through his nose while still keeping his mouth tightly shut.
Whitney shifts from foot to foot, in a playful tap-dance shuffle of sorts. “Not another word. I want it to be a surprise. Yes, yes, yes. We’ll be there.”
Despite her excitement over the booster event, as we walk out to the truck I’m on edge, waiting for the inevitable browbeating I’m sure she’ll eventually remember to give me. Whitney does not disappoint.
“Just out of curiosity, was that necessary?”
“What?”
I drop the tailgate on my truck. I know exactly what she’s talking about, but this feels like the kind of moment when you play dumb for as long as you can.
She won’t understand. She can’t possibly understand what it feels like to be a guy, fall for a woman harder than a box of rocks off a skyscraper, and hate having any other man within a three-state radius of her. It isn’t about trust or lack thereof, it isn’t about thinking she isn’t capable of handling herself—she can, because she’s amazing. And, all her amazingness is part of the problem. Amazing women are amazing. Men like amazing.
She sighs. “The whole I’m here now bullshit. Garrett’s a good kid. I emphasize the word kid. There wasn’t any need to stick a flag in the ground next to my feet and proclaim my body to be a sovereign state recently claimed by you and your man-parts.”
I set the dormant oil in the bed and close the gate, then gesture for her to move around the side of the truck.
“I’m sure he is a good kid. But he’s also thought about bending you over the front counter in there and giving you his own personalized seed report, babe.”
As I open the passenger-side door for her, she freezes and screws her face up. “There are so many things wrong with that statement. ‘Seed report’? Gross. He hasn’t ever thought about that.”
“He’s a guy. You’re a beautiful, interesting woman who, I guarantee, is totally different from what he’s used to. Different and unique fascinates us—and intrigues our dicks. So he’s absolutely thought about it.”
I sweep my hand toward her seat to urge her to get in the truck. She narrows her eyes and pins her gaze on me. I sigh. “What?”
“You’ve been such a Neanderthal over the last few days. First, the no-riding-shotgun thing, and now this. That’s also the third time you’ve called me babe. And I can’t quite figure out how I feel about that.” She takes a step forward, putting one foot on the running board, but doesn’t climb in. “I think I should hate it, but I’m not sure. Say it again.”
I lean forward. “Get your cute ass in the truck, babe. I’ll turn your seat on.”
“Shit.” She climbs in and shakes her head. “I think I kind of like it. Look at me. Sitting in this ridiculous truck, just thrilled at the prospect of you turning on my heated seat, and my belly all topsy-turvy because you called me babe. Get me home. I feel a sudden need to burn some incense and renew my Sierra Club membership.”