“I see.” I inspected the tree branches pressed against my window. “This is one of your favorite places?”
He laughed lightly, his hand moving to the driver’s side door latch. “I promise this won’t disappoint, but next time you come to town, I’ll take you all around. Hold on a sec.”
Bringing the ice cream cone cooler with him, the deputy shoved his door open and hopped out, leaving me alone in the cab. He pushed past the trees, and I watched his progress until the beam of sunlight behind me made it impossible.
Facing forward, I listened to a series of doors or compartments being opened and closed, felt the truck shift and jostle like he’d jumped into the truck bed, and I contemplated the fascinating subject that was Mr. Jackson James, sheriff’s deputy.
He didn’t seem at all nervous, nor had he been brash and bossy, and this was unusual in my experience. I’d assumed if things progressed tonight, he would either be another fumbler with shaky, sweaty hands or a cocky, dominant type. Fumblers with shaky, sweaty hands and cocky, dominant types were basically the same guy in the sack and seemed to be the only kind of guy interested in me.
They expected me to do everything—play a role, be a fantasy—and when I did anything at all, they came in sixty seconds. At first, I was okay with this since they seemed happy and they’d always go down on me after, which used to be one of my favorite things. Plus, you better believe I made them work for it.
But after so many encounters of the same flavor, I started missing real sex. Eye contact. Touching. Foreplay. Friction. Heat. A man who lasted longer than it took my manicure to dry.
But this guy . . .
Checking my makeup in the mirror, I examined the reflection staring back at me and wiped my hands on the short skirt of my dress, worrying that if things did progress between us, I might be the fumbler tonight.
A sound yanked me from my reflections, and I closed the mirror, turning in my seat just in time to see him draw even with my door. He’d put on a brown jacket, part of his deputy uniform from the looks of it, and pulled open my door, holding back the branches and underbrush.
“Hey. It’s time. Come with me.” Once again, he held out his hand and, once again, I hesitated a split second before accepting it. No longer surprised when a shock of heat ran up my arm at the contact, I unthinkingly returned his small, intoxicating smile and forgot for a moment where we were, and maybe who I was.
He stood between me and the grabbing branches—ensuring they didn’t catch on my hair or my dress, or scratch my skin—until we abruptly cleared the trees and encountered a cliff, beyond which was a sky painted in the colors of sunset while gauzy mist cradled between emerald green mountains.
“Oh . . .” I breathed, my eyes looking everywhere, absorbing the insane levels of beauty. A gust of wintery wind blew my hair back from my face and I blinked against it, turning my head slightly.
“Let’s get up here,” he said, leading me to the open tailgate. Bracing his hands on my waist, he lifted me up onto a cushy blanket he’d laid out.
Splitting my attention between the breathtaking view and my breathtaking companion, I watched as he climbed up beside me, sitting so close our thighs pressed together, knee to hip. He pulled a soft and fuzzy blanket from somewhere behind us and draped it over our laps.
Then and only then did he unzip the cooler and offer me my ice cream. “Here you go, gorgeous.”
“Thank you,” I said on autopilot, admiring the diffused light provided by the sunset and how it teased over his lightly tanned skin, reflected in his rich brown eyes, and glinted off his golden hair.
Sitting so close, I marked details of him that hadn’t come into focus until now, and the sense that he was real and yet unreal at the same time crashed over me. Like a wave. Or being thrown off a cliff. He was really just too alarmingly pretty. And big. And strong. And dreamy. That’s it—that’s the word. He was dreamy.
He’s a fantasy.
I breathed a laugh at the thought, at the irony.
“What’s funny?” he asked, looking interested.
“Oh, I was just—uh—wondering . . .” I focused my eyes on my ice cream cone, but not my attention. My thoughts were chaotic, scattered. This was so weird. Everything about this was weird.
He bumped my arm lightly. “Ask me anything. But I warn you, there’s not much to tell.”
Ugh! And he’s humble too?
I didn’t know how to keep pretending with this guy. So I asked the first thing that came to mind, giving up all pretense of being aloof and mysterious for the moment. “Given this spectacular scenery, I understand why this is one of your favorite places. But where else, what else, is on your list? Where else would we go, if we had more time?”
“Well, first, I reckon I would ask what you like. Waterfalls? Prairies with wildflowers? Historical sights, hiking trails, picnics, views?”
He . . . he wanted to know what I thought? What I wanted?
I twisted my lips to hide the flutter of anxiety in my stomach, and I couldn’t decide if it was the pleasurable kind of anxiety, or the bad, alarming kind. It’s both, and that makes it worse.
The sudden impulse to sabotage this—whatever this was—by unleashing my true, weirdo self urged me to say, “I love to fish.”
“You do?”
“I love to sit in a small boat in the sun and drink beer all day while shooting the shit. I don’t even mind hooking the bait.” I peeked at him, gauging his reaction. He didn’t seem at all put off by this information. Maybe I’ve been in LA for too long? At a Hollywood party, admitting my love for fishing would have gotten me laughed at and labeled an “Elly May.”
I hadn’t understood the reference the first time it had been applied to me, so I’d looked it up. Elly May Clampett had been the earnest, uncouth daughter in the popular 1960s TV show The Beverly Hillbillies.
But the deputy seemed interested. Encouraged, I went on, “Fishing is probably one of my favorite things to do, right behind board game night, camping in a tent, and when my friends let me do up their face with whatever makeup I have on hand.”
He unleashed a wide, pleased grin, but he might as well have released a kraken. I was stunned. Stunned.
His smile. Holy Moses, his smile was unreal, but it wasn’t perfect. His teeth weren’t quite perfectly straight—they probably had been at some point, right after braces, but not anymore—his lips pulled higher on one side than the other, making his grin crooked, and his eyes were nearly lost behind his brow and high cheekbones. But all these imperfections just served to make it—and him—absolutely perfect.
He leaned back, giving me the sense he wanted to get a better look at my face. “That all sounds awesome. My sister used to practice her makeup skills on me, since it was just the two of us.”
I blinked at him, working to disguise my alarm. He’d reacted to my oversharing in the exact opposite way I’d expected, but I guess that made sense if I stopped to think about it. He was a small-town guy; he probably loved to go fishing.
I quietly sucked in a breath to steady my heart as it climbed to my throat.
Maybe . . . maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe the Hollywood fumblers and dominant types were where I should be focusing my energy. But I’d never fully enjoyed myself with those guys, just like I’d never enjoyed visiting the zoo. A tiger behind a thick sheet of glass and regulated to an artificial environment lacked something essential. But there was a reason why people didn’t go visit wild animals in their natural habitats. Wild animals are real; they are dangerous; there are consequences.