“Are you alright?” Raylan asks me, his blue eyes full of tenderness.
“Yes!” I cry.
He nuzzles his face against the side of my neck, inhaling my scent. He lets go too, cumming inside of me with a long groan that thrills me from my head down to my toes.
When we’re finished, we lay there a long time, with Raylan still inside of me, and my arms still wrapped tight around his neck. I’m smelling the warm, clean scent of his skin, which is endlessly enticing to me. I can’t seem to stop pressing my face against his chest, inhaling slowly and deeply.
At last we can hear the noise of breakfast below.
Raylan says, “I guess we better get up before they start shouting for us. That’s the downside of ranch life—nobody can stand to see anybody sleep in.”
“That’s alright,” I say. “I hate sleeping. It’s a waste of time.”
But for the first time, that’s not actually true. I had the best sleep of my life last night. Not a waste of time at all.
Raylan and I pad over to the shower.
This is something else I’d usually avoid—cramming two full-size adults into one tiny shower. I’ve always viewed that as a ridiculous inconvenience.
But today, I want to be close to Raylan. I want to be right next to him for as long as I can. I don’t care that it takes longer to shower, or that sometimes we have to trade spots under the warm spray, and for a moment I’m shivering until he pulls me back under again and helps me rinse out my hair.
It feels lovely, having his thick, strong fingers massaging my scalp, feeling our bodies pressed together all slippery and wet and clean.
When we get out to towel off, the foot or two of space between us seems like too much. Having fallen into this unprecedented intimacy, I’m afraid to let us drift apart again, in case it never rematerializes.
“Are you hungry?” Raylan asks, toweling off his thick, dark hair.
“Starving,” I admit.
I feel like I could eat an entire outrageously-sized Raylan breakfast, down to the last bite of toast.
As we thump down the creaking stairs, a cornucopia of delectable scents hit my nostrils. The Boones never disappoint when it comes to food. The table is piled high with plate-sized pancakes, bacon, sausage, scrambled eggs, poached eggs, biscuits and gravy, and bizarrely, what looks like freshly sliced papaya.
Tucker and Lawson are each attacking a stack of syrup-drenched pancakes that would stymie grown men. Or at least, grown men who aren’t Boones.
Grady and Shelby are sitting next to their sons. Grady has a black eye as dark as a ring of boot polish. He looks like he’s wearing a giant monocle.
Celia is eating poached egg on toast. She looks up as her eldest son comes into the room.
“You were fighting, too!” she says accusingly, spotting Raylan’s split lip.
“Ah, it was nothing,” Raylan says dismissively. “Just a little dust-up. Nobody got stabbed or shot. Sheriff Dawes was pulling in as we left—I’m sure he cleared out anybody who hadn’t had enough already.”
Celia looks over at Bo. “Tammy Whitmore texted me and said that Duke started it.”
Bo flushes guiltily. “No, not really,” she says, without confessing exactly what happened.
“I saw him dancing with Lindsey,” Shelby says, knowing that she’s skirting the edges of the truth.
“Was he?” Bo says.
Bo doesn’t seem to have much appetite this morning, sticking only to a mug of coffee and a couple slices of papaya.
I’m piling my plate high with bacon and scrambled eggs, torn between my curiosity at whether Bo is going to admit what actually happened, and my desperate need to eat a ton of food as quickly as possible.
But Bo simply pushes her chair back from the table, saying, “That’s enough for me.”
“You barely ate!” Celia protests.
She turns to me, probably expecting me to make a similar comment, but instead I’ve got both cheeks as full as a chipmunk and I’m still shoveling in more.
Celia can’t help laughing.
“At least we’re having a good influence on you,” she says.
“Yesh,” I mumble, mouth full and belly happy.
Raylan laughs too, loving that he’s managed to sway me over to the joys of breakfast, if nothing else. His laugh is loud and mischievous, the kind that pulls everyone else into mirth. The boys start giggling, and soon Shelby and Grady are, too.
I like this family so much.
They’re warm and welcoming, unpretentious and hardworking. They love animals and the outdoors.
I like them and respect them, as much for our differences as our similarities.
I don’t know why they seem to like me too—maybe they’re just kind to everyone. But I’m grateful all the same.
“What’s your plan today?” Celia says to Raylan and me.
“I’ve gotta run into Knoxville this morning to get some new horse stall mats,” Raylan says to me. “You wanna come with me, before you start working?”
“That’s temping,” I say. “I do love shopping for horse stall mats . . .”
Raylan chuckles. “I thought we could get you some toiletries and clothes,” he says. “I’m aware that horse stall mats aren’t a big draw for you.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” Grady says. “A nice, thick flexible mat with that fresh rubber smell . . . they oughta make that into a candle scent.”
“Are you gonna go to the crêperie after?” Bo asks.
“Sure,” Raylan says, easily.
“Then I’m coming.”
“Me too,” Grady says.
We all pile into Raylan’s truck. I’m starting to like the wide, comfy bench seats and the view of the dusty roads from way up in the cab. Unlike with bucket seats, there’s nothing separating Raylan and me. It makes the drive strangely intimate, our free hands just inches apart on the seat.
Grady insists on picking the music, which is all country, and mostly all awful. That doesn’t stop him from singing along to every song, and drumming on the back of the seats. I’d usually find this annoying, but today it just makes me laugh. Maybe it’s all the pleasure chemicals still zipping around in my blood. Or maybe it’s the huge breakfast I just ate. Whatever the cause, I’m in a bizarrely good mood.
As we drive into Knoxville, the city strikes me as surprisingly pretty. The streets are tree-lined and shady, and the high rises are built along the banks of a river, similar to Chicago.
It’s busier than I expected. The shops and cafes are crowded with people, and the downtown streets look prosperous. There’s no empty or boarded-up shops, and only one small brick building for sale.
There’s a pleasant air of friendliness—people smiling or nodding as they pass us on the sidewalk. I don’t know if it’s a southern thing, or if Raylan’s grin just makes people want to smile back at us.
Raylan waits while I step inside a CVS to buy what I need, then we go next door to something called the CAL Ranch Store. Bo wanders off to the firearms section, while Grady and Raylan get the mats. I’m distracted by several incubators full of eggs, in which dozens of chicks are currently hatching. The chicks look wet and bedraggled, and not nearly as cute as the fluffy yellow ones in the next box over, who have apparently been hopping around at least a day or two. Still, I’m fascinated by the slow, painstaking process by which they break out of their shell prison.