Chapter 37 - Chase Me, Cowboy

The next morning is like the montage in a movie. I wake up to the smell of coffee and his hand running down my side, pulling me close. My eyes crack open. Two mugs sit on the bedside table, steam rising into the early sunlight.

We fucked on the couch, and I fell asleep. I don’t remember him carrying me to bed, but clearly he did.

“Hey,” I whisper.

He pushes his face against the side of my neck. “Hey, sweetheart, how you feeling?”

“Pretty good, after the three orgasms you gave me,” I murmur.

“One more before coffee?”

He moves against me and pulls my leg back the way he did last night. This time, I arch my spine and let him in. Something is different—even from the first time I realized things had changed. Nobody knows where we are, what we’re doing. It makes me feel like he’s…what did he say last night?

Mine.

He slides his hand between my thighs and touches my pussy. I’m soaked and on the edge. It takes a few minutes of fucking and touching me before an orgasm wells up. It’s slow, clear, perfect. He groans, hips stuttering. I smile as our bodies sink into a puddle together. He keeps his face nuzzled into the dip below my ear for a moment, then pulls out and reaches for his coffee as he sits against the headboard. I turn on my back and stretch, spine crackling deliciously.

I’m having the best day of my life. I can already tell.

“What do you want to do for breakfast?” I ask.

His eyes travel down my naked chest and stomach, to where the blanket covers my hips and thighs.

“Guess,” he says.

Rolling my eyes, I sit up and grab my mug. “I’m hungry. You’ve been on me since we got here.”

“I have, and you’ve been on me.”

He has a point.

“Good, so you’re hungry, too,” I say, standing up naked. “How about you find the nearest diner and take me out?”

“How about I put a biscuit on each of your tits and eat them off?”

How does he say shit like that with a straight face? Our gazes lock, then his eyes glitter, and we both laugh.

“Fuck you,” I say, turning on my heel and heading into the bathroom.

“Fuck you too, sweetheart,” he calls. “I like seeing that ass go, but don’t be gone long.”

When I get back, freshly showered and in my shortest pair of shorts because I love it when he looks at me like he’s starving. He’s made more coffee and heated some breakfast, all piled on the same plate. Sitting cross-legged, I start picking at a biscuit. He goes in the bathroom and comes out in his sweats, the ones that look so good on him I can’t help but take a peek beneath his waistline. Then, he sinks against the headboard. His phone goes off, but he ignores it.

“So, you miss home at all?” he asks, reaching for some bacon.

I shrug, then nod. “I miss Sabrina a lot.”

“Not your dad?”

Guilt twinges beneath my ribs. “Yeah, I do. He’s in Portland.”

He studies me for a bit. “You girls got a complex relationship with him, huh?”

“Are you my therapist?”

“Serena, cut that the fuck out.”

My jaw drops. “What?”

He gives me a stern look that melts my anger and, maybe, makes my panties a little wet. “You don’t have to kick and fight every time I ask you something personal.”

“Well, you’re not exactly opening up, either.”

He taps beneath my chin with the side of his finger. “Alright, I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Fine. Yeah, we don’t have a great relationship with him. It’s not that we don’t love him; it’s that he can be kind of difficult. You know why my parents divorced, right?”

He shrugs. “I don’t remember a lot, even though I came around as a kid…before Dad died. I had a lot of my own shit going on.”

“Well, he cheated on Mom,” I say. “And…to his credit, he regretted it forever. But that doesn’t mean I forgive him for fucking up our family.”

“But you picked growing up with him.”

“Yeah, I did because Sabrina did,” I say, trying to ignore the wriggle of pain. “For most of my life, I did what Sabrina did because I was trying to be good, stay out of the way.”

He’s thoughtful, brow creased. “You like growing up on the ranch?”

“I did,” I say slowly. “But I also wish I’d grown up with Mom.”

“You like the country, though,” he points out.

I think about the ranch, the hills, the mountains in the distance with their wispy clouds. About the coast of Maine, without a house in sight. About this little cabin where the grass ripples like the ocean when the wind hits it.

“Yeah,” I say. “I really do. If I could have picked, I’d have grown up with Mom and Dad and Sabrina, in a house like this.”

He touches my thigh, running his fingers over my bare skin. I wait, wondering if he’ll speak. Finally, he clears his throat. “I was still a kid when Dad died. Mom was already gone. My aunt took me in after that.”

“I know a little bit,” I say.

He nods, eyes distracted. “Their deaths fucked me up. But what fucked me up the most was that they both died of a stroke, the same exact kind. What are the odds?”

I don’t want to add the reasonable statement that strokes are common enough, and it’s not unheard of for something like that to happen. That’s not what he needs right now.

“Then, I got involved in the industry because Aunt Thalia was an agent. She wasn’t prepared to have a kid, so she’d take me everywhere with her. In boardrooms, on tour. In the summer, she’d send me back to Wyoming sometimes, if she was too busy to drag me around. The ranch where Coen and I worked let us live in the bunkhouse. That part was fun.”

“So you were kind of a nepo baby, huh?” I ask.

He smiles. “Yeah, sort of. Not really. Aunt Thalia gave me connections, but I had a natural talent for finding talent. But it was Coen who gave me the credibility I needed to keep signing people.”

He falls quiet, staring at his hands. I wait, then shift so I’m against his side. He glances over.

“I’m okay,” he says. “It’s been a long time, I did grief counseling.”

“You did?” I’m shocked.

“I had some problems, and Marion made me go. It was that, or she threatened to tell Coen.”

I search his unreadable face. “Does Coen know how much you were struggling? At all?”

He shrugs. “Nah, not really.”

“But he’s your best friend.”

“Yeah, and he had his own shit. Plus, he’s my friend, but he’s also always been my client. You can’t separate work and personal shit completely, it’s impossible.”

“So only Marion knows?”

He faces me, touching my cheek. “Marion and you.”

I sink into his touch, my heart tender and vulnerable. He’s looking at me with a soft gaze that cuts right through me.

“You carry way too much,” I say finally.

“It’s what I’m good at.”

“But you don’t have to do what you’re good at all the time,” I say. “Sometimes, you should…live. Let yourself fuck up. Or fuck around like you are with me right now.”

“This conversation is fucking around?”

I laugh. “No, I mean, coming to this cabin. Doing nothing but eating together, sleeping together. What’s something you’ve always wanted to do but never got to?”

Confusion crosses his face. “I don’t know.”

“Well, think about it.”

He does, fingers gently stroking my waist. I love the way he touches me, like it’s a meditation. “I really like the winter. I’d love to go out to a lodge someplace and do some ice fishing. Or fly fishing in the fall.”

“Really? You like fishing?”

He smiles. “Yeah, I’m really damn good at fly fishing.”

“When was the last time you went?”

He thinks hard again. “I think I was about twenty-two. Before Coen and I started hardcore touring.”

“Why did you stop? Too busy?”

“No,” he says, energy shifting. It’s a little sad. “I have trouble doing things that don’t make my clients money. They depend on me, and I struggle with wasting time.”

I study him, thinking about the things I enjoy. That’s one thing I can say about myself—I’m good at enjoying myself. “But if it makes you happy, shouldn’t you pencil it in?”

“I don’t have a lot of time to consider that.”

I frown, a little alarmed. “You’re never happy?”

He turns his eyes to mine, and they’re so naked. “I’m not sure what my baseline for happiness is…what that feels like anymore.”

He falters, then seems like he’s going to say something else. I wait, but he goes silent. His energy drops. I touch his chest and rest my palm on it. I think his walls are coming back up. Does he regret being that honest?

“You okay?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says, releasing a short sigh. “I got some work shit that came up. Marion texted me earlier, and I was thinking I should make a few calls at least before we go to bed.”

My heart sinks, but not with surprise.

“That’s fine,” I say, drawing back. “I know you can’t ignore your work.”

“Oh, I can ignore it. I just have to smooth some ruffled feathers.”

He gets up and heads downstairs. I force myself not to ruminate. This is our little bit of time where it’s only us, and nothing is going to ruin it. So, I wait until he’s probably done with his phone calls, get dressed, and go downstairs. He’s leaning on the counter, swiping his phone, but he sets it aside right away.

“Hey,” he says.

“You want to go for a walk or something?” I ask. “It’s really nice out.”

He hesitates, then nods. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

I put on a sweatshirt, and he goes out in his T-shirt. I say I don’t know how he’s not cold, but he says it’s the perfect temperature. It’s such a normal conversation…a couple’s conversation. We cross the lawn to a winding path along the woods. Leaves crunch beneath our feet. The air smells so damn good, not like fall in Wyoming. This is a crisp, cold, east kind of smell: rotting leaves and damp wood and fresh air. It’s so perfect.

“Can I?” I ask, holding out my hand.

He looks down.

“Well, fuck,” he says. “Of course.”

He slides his fingers around mine. Big, a little rough. And so safe. I glance up and can’t bite back a shy smile. Tingles run along my arm, through my chest long enough to warm it, then all the way to my toes.

We don’t talk for a while, and when we do, it’s about nothing in the best way. What things we like. He watches movies—which I’m surprised by because of how busy he is, but he’s quick to add it’s almost always on a plane—and he tells me what he liked best out of everything he saw. Turns out, we have a lot of overlap. I talk about my favorite books, and he tells me which ones he likes. I don’t know what I was expecting—maybe some business books—but he says he likes horror and sci-fi. I tell him I like fantasy, and he says I should give him some recommendations.

We have lunch, and the conversation winds on and on.

All the way to evening.

We don’t fuck right away. Instead, he turns on the TV, and we pick something we’ve both watched before. I curl up against his side. He pulls me to lie across his lap, my head on his thigh.

His fingers play with my hair. We’re both quiet without any pressure to speak.

Is this what I walked away from?

Because now I have two things I’m going to regret. Damned no matter what I choose.