“I stopped by it this morning. It’s coming along.”
She gives me a look. “You stopped by? It’s not exactly easy to get there from that road.”
I almost blush. Un-fucking-believable. I gave myself away. “I was curious.”
“Hmmm.” She taps her chin. “Curious… or, perhaps, you missed me and were too chicken to call me, so you went to a place that reminds you of me.”
I stare at her and try like hell not to have a reaction. I think I’m successful, but her smirk tells me I’m wrong.
“That’s what I thought,” she singsongs.
“You don’t know,” I argue, but it’s weak sounding.
She turns the full force of her gaze on me and I tighten the hands I have wrapped around my knees to keep them in place. “Oh, Wes, yes I do know.”
She’s right. She has my number. Former soldier, cowboy, rancher, tough guy I like to think I am, she can pin me to the wall with that brain of hers.
A small smile curves the corners of her mouth upward. She breaks the spell by looking toward the stage where the band is setting up. When I don’t think she can see me, I suck in a deep breath. She fucking knocks it out of me on a regular basis.
And she does it again when she says, “We need to discuss some logistics of our arrangement.”
She looks at me, and I nod at her to continue. Her gaze sweeps the people sitting nearby. In a lower voice, she says, “I tried to talk to you about this last week, but your dad was in the hospital and I didn’t want to push you emotionally.” Her hand rests on my arm and she leans closer. I should get a medal for resisting the temptation to bury my face in her hair. “Have you thought about this past the part where we both get what we want?”
“Not really,” I start, the wheels in my brain beginning to turn. “I guess I just thought we’d be married, whatever that means.”
Dakota lifts one eyebrow. “Whatever that means doesn't work for me. I need specifics. Am I supposed to move in with you? Do we sleep with other people? Because I don’t know about you, but I”—she pats her chest— “cannot be celibate. I’ll make the Wicked Witch of the West look like Florence Nightingale.”
The mention of us sleeping with other people makes my stomach turn over. She has a valid point, but still…
Clearly, I am the worst at this marriage of convenience bullshit. I know nothing of how to structure a deal of this magnitude. I feel like an idiot for proposing an idea when I didn’t have any planned parameters. “Do we have to hammer it out now? Can we just let it flow for a little while?”
Dakota lifts a solitary finger into the air. “On one condition.”
My eyebrows lift, silently asking her what she wants.
“I need a beer. Badly. This talk has made me thirsty.”
My entire body sighs in relief. Behind Dakota, I spy a beer stand. “That I can do.”
While I stand in line for beers, my mind runs through everything Dakota said. But instead of thinking of her exact words, what really sticks out to me is the ease I feel when I’m around her. Most of the time when I’m around people I have the desire to move, to be in motion, like I’m going to come out of my skin. Dakota makes me want to settle, to let go. I turn around, seeking her out in the crowd. She’s leaning back on her arms, her face upturned to the waning sun, her eyes closed. For a brief second, I let my mind wander into forbidden territory… a place where I’m allowed to be happy. It’s a place where Dakota looks at me like she couldn’t possibly love me more. We’re married because we want to be. We have kids. Our hearts belong to the ranch, to the soil we ride on, to the grass where our children play.
It’s a pipe dream, but I can’t help it. What if I’m drowning, and Dakota is my life preserver? How long am I supposed to keep refusing to grab hold?
On my walk back to Dakota, with a beer in each hand, my expression looks exactly like it did on my walk to the beer stand. But inside? I feel lighter. Like even the concept of grabbing on to the life preserver was enough to give me life.
I settle back down beside Dakota and hand over her beer. “You weren’t kidding about this being a popular event,” I comment, my eyes sweeping the crowd. I’m noting the best exit points. We shouldn’t need them, but nobody ever died from being too prepared.
“I got here an hour ago to get a spot,” Dakota says as she sips her beer.
“And you were still this far back? Guess you should camp out next time.”
An uncomfortable look passes over her face. “Right.” She laughs, but I can tell it’s forced.
Then it hits me. An image of Dakota setting up her blanket near the back corner of the park, passing up the closer open spots on purpose.
Because of me.
Because she wanted to make sure I didn’t feel trapped.
Because she knows I have PTSD, even though I haven’t told her.
Because I’m the fucked-up guy who needs special attention.
“Wes?” Dakota’s voice is soft.
“Yeah?”
“Look at me.” Her words are accompanied by a gentle cupping of my cheek and the slightest pressure, urging me to comply.
I do. And when I look into her eyes, I hate what I see.
Pity.
The band starts up and Dakota startles.
I yank my chin back to the front.
I finish my beer and go for another, looking out over the crowd while I wait. Thirty feet away from Dakota, I see Dixon’s blond hair. He’s leaning against a tree, looking out. When he meets my stare, he smirks.
“Sir?” The voice belongs to the girl at the line of taps.
By the time I order and pay, Dixon is gone. Hopefully he’s crawled into whatever hole he came from.
I sit back down and sneak a glance at Dakota. Her shoulders are lifted, and her chin tips up determinedly.
She looks like she’s about to throw me yet another life preserver.
One guess as to what I’ll do with it.
21
Dakota
Wes is drunk.
He’s not hammered in a take off all your clothes but your shirt and pass out way. But definitely in a way that he has no business operating a vehicle.
To be fair, I’m not sober either. After the awkwardness where Wes realized I’d chosen the back corner of the park on purpose, what else was there to do to fill the silence between us? Yeah, the band was playing and so it wasn’t actually quiet, but there was nothing but dead air between him and I. Multiple drinks it was.
Now the consequence of that choice is staring us right in the face. The concert is over and I don’t know what to do from here. I finish folding the blanket and tuck it under my arm.
“So…” Wes says, looking around at the people passing us.
I answer by tucking my top lip into my bottom lip and raising my eyebrows at him.
Wes digs into the pockets of his jeans and produces his keys. “Can I see you tomorrow?”
“We’d better.” I frown, watching his keys spin around the keyring on his finger. “Believable whirlwind romance and all.” I reach for his keys, but he pushes them back into his pocket. Even in his buzzed state, he is surprisingly agile.
My arms cross in front of my chest. “You cannot drive right now.”