Ruby
The last time I was in a limousine was prom night in Ohio when I was seventeen years old. That was six years ago. A year later, I moved to Los Angeles, thinking that my life would be limos and champagne and handsome movie stars every day.
As you can probably guess, that’s not how things worked out.
At all.
My glamorous life includes working behind the front desk of a three-star chain hotel, eating questionable takeout because it’s probably not moldy yet and payday is still two days away, and acting in an occasional commercial for orange juice or zit cream.
My Oscar speech is ready, though. I’ve been working on it since I was twelve.
Truth be told, I was getting close to calling my folks for bus fare back home when I got the message that I won an all-expense paid trip to Paradise Ranch. I’m a city girl, but I wasn’t going to turn it down. It felt like a lifeline when I needed it most. Massages, gourmet food, 1,000-count sheets, and drinking poolside. Maybe the cabana boys wear Stetsons. A girl can only hope.
Finally, the universe was taking pity on me.
I settle back into my plush limo seat and pretend this is what my life is like every day. What would it feel like to not worry all the time? To have the satisfaction of knowing your bills are paid and you can still eat without visiting the food bank every couple of months. To be able to buy a new outfit once in a while and not have to skip a payment on your light bill because of it? To not have to choose between your dignity and your survival?
I used to want the mansions and the pools and the fancy cars. Now I just want to not be worried all the time and maybe even enjoy the work I’m doing. They aren’t big goals really. It shouldn’t seem out of the realm of possibility that I don’t have to choose between buying a loaf of bread or having enough quarters for the dryer.
We’ve been driving quite a while and the champagne is starting to take its toll on my bladder. But the driver assures me we are almost there.
Imagine. Me in paradise. Finally, finally, finally things are going my way. It might only be for a week, but I am going to enjoy the hell out of it. I think about the red lacy lingerie I packed. I’ve had the bra and panties for a year and a half and haven’t worn them once. I’ve been saving them for a special occasion, and well, I haven’t had any special occasions in twice as long as that.
In my fantasies, I put them on for a third date with a fabulous CEO who’s been wooing me with wine and roses. I’d wear them under a pretty little black dress that makes his eyes goggle whenever he looks at me. After a four-course meal and dancing, we’d go back to his place and I’d reveal my lacy secrets after he declares his love. We’d make love, and I’d be glad I waited until this night. My patience would be rewarded, and the sex would be glorious.
So far, though, third dates have been scarce. When I put the lingerie in my suitcase, I decided that this vacation was the perfect time to have a fling. I deserve to have a great memory of losing my virginity. Since I haven’t found the guy who wines and dines me and professes his love, then maybe it’s time I look for someone else. A vacation fling. Someone impossibly hot. Someone whose memory gives me that secret smile whenever I remember my week in paradise years from now.
So this week is about rest, rejuvenation, and revving my motor without powering up my vibrator.
We really have been driving for a long time. It’s pretty remote, but rich people like that kind of thing maybe. The endless pastures and fields are starting to make me edgy, but I pretend I’m rich and I love it, unwrapping one of those fancy hazelnut candies that I don’t really care for but make me feel like I’m living large.
We slow and make a turn, finally, onto a long, dirt road. Horses are galloping through the pasture on my right, but as we slow, I see chickens chasing each other around a tractor.
A tractor at a spa?
This can’t be right.
I tap on the glass that separates me from the car driver. “Excuse me, Mr. Nichols?” He doesn’t open the window, but pushes the intercom I had forgotten about.
“Yes, Ms. Grant?”
“I think we made a wrong turn. We’re supposed to be going to Paradise Ranch.”
“Yes, Ms. Grant.” He points to a painted sign near a ranch house. “Pair-a-Dice Ranch. We’re here.”
He stops the car and my hopes are just...decimated. Once again, the universe has turned my own dreams on me. The sign clearly says Pair-a-Dice.
I should have known. Why hadn’t I prepared to be let down? That’s what always happens to me. If I didn’t have bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.
What was I really expecting, though? Of course filling out a contest entry at a discount grocery store wasn’t going to net me a four-star vacation. Of course it was a scam. Now what? Do I want to make the best of it or should I even bother getting out of this car? I look around. It’s pretty outside with trees in the distance...and the house looks nice—but it’s clearly a dusty working ranch and not going to be what I wanted.
I’m going to call this one more of life’s hard lessons and go home. I might still be able to get put on the schedule at work. I never should have taken the time off anyway. I have vacation time on the books, but I’m allowed to work through it and take the pay. I need the pay.
I needed the time off too, but that’s just not how my life goes.
That’s when I see him.
He’s...well...huge. I suppose that it could be the angle or the perspective of the distance to the front porch he’s standing on, but he looks like a giant wearing tight blue jeans and a white tank top. And a hat and cowboy boots, of course. I live in LA, so it’s not like I don’t see a lot of men walking around shirtless with good bodies. But he is stunning.
My mouth goes dry and my skin tingles. He’s some kind of beast man. Larger than life surely. His shirt is molded to muscles earned by hard work and battling nature, not weight machines and running on a track that goes nowhere. He starts off the porch, his swagger not exaggerated, but it’s there. His beefy legs are encased in denim that must struggle to keep the seams together.
Everything about him is brutally beautiful, his face no exception. He is the opposite of the man in my fantasies, the one who wears suits and power so well. This guy, he wears the sun. He’s bronzed everywhere and when he gets close enough to the car to talk to Mr. Nichols, I see he even has creases near his eyes, probably from looking at the sky.
I can’t hear what they are saying, so I open my own door and walk around the car.
Shit, he’s even bigger than I imagined. He towers over me, but he’s got this masculine grace that makes me feel instantly safe. That’s crazy and I’ve lived in the city long enough to know that. But I feel it all the same.
“Hey, darlin’, welcome to Pair-a-Dice ranch. I’m the owner, Dusty Cassidy. Mr. Nichols here tells me you’ve been given a bit of a shock. I reckon a glass of sweet tea and some conversation is in order.”
I reckon if I drink one more thing before I use a bathroom I’ll be in bad shape. I can’t make it all the way back to the airport without a pit stop.
He reaches his big paw out to me, and I gingerly offer him my much smaller hand. He’s got cowboy hands—rough and callused. I get a tickle in my spine thinking about how the texture would feel against the skin under my clothes.
Wait, no. Stop that. He is not for you. This is not happening.
“What’s your name, darlin’?”
I blink. I’m not saying I forgot my name, but I think I forgot my name.
Mr. Nichols steps up. “This is Ruby Grant. Ms. Grant, I’m sure you’d like to freshen up. I’ll wait here at the car until you decide if you want to stay.”
Once again, I’m feeling a sense of safety that I shouldn’t. But Mr. Nichols reminds me of my own dad. It’s clear he’s not going to just drop me here unless I want to be left.
Could I stay? It’s not what I planned, but it’s still a week out of LA madness.
A woman steps out onto the porch, her silver hair pulled back from her face. “Get that girl out of the sun, Chuck.”
“Yes, dear,” Mr. Nichols answers. “That’s my wife. She’ll show you to the ladies’ room. She does the cooking here.”
I eye the porch. I’m either stepping into some sort of elaborate kidnapping plot, or these are warm, nice people. Either way, I need to use the bathroom, and I’d rather face the danger with an empty bladder.