GRACIE
I STARE AT THE CEILING. It’s not a particularly interesting view, a mass of white emulsion covered plasterboard, the light rose surrounding the lighting fixture is pretty, though, and the coving that runs around the edges of the ceiling where it joins the walls is lovely, too. All straight lines and angles.
It must be my designer’s brain that makes me notice things like this whenever I walk into a room. Colours, corners, angles, textures. They’re what I notice before I take in the furniture or the layout.
I’ve never had any formal training as a designer, I can’t sew for shit and never studied art at school. I always thought I couldn’t draw. Put a vase full of flowers, a bowl of fruit, or a human hand in front of me, and I’d come up with something that resembled a painting by a drunk and high Salvador Dali and Pablo Picasso that had been left out in the rain and then melted in the sun just a little bit.
But give me a pad and a pencil and ask me to design you an outfit, and I can seriously shit miracles. I can also do the same when it comes to designing a room. My brain just takes over, and I don’t even think about the direction the pencil goes, I just let it work its magic.
I don’t know if there are other designers who work the same way, I’d never researched it. I just go with what works for me.
When I went to bed last night, I had planned to draw for a while. I had a few ideas about what I wanted to do with Koa’s daughter's room, but I needed to see the space to know for sure that they were gonna work. I didn’t fancy going back downstairs to ask him to show me which room was hers, in case he thought I was being needy and desperate, or it was just an excuse to get him upstairs, so I curled up on my bed.
I thought I might cry, but I didn’t.
I thought I would have trouble sleeping, but I passed straight out and woke this morning after a solid seven hours with my pad and pencil by my side.
That was two hours ago. Since then, I’ve showered—again—moisturised—again—changed my outfit about four times and have done everything I can not to overthink lasts night’s turn of events.
My face flames with heat when I think about what I let him do to me, how good it felt, and how much I blatantly enjoyed it—but what’s done is done. There’s nothing I can do to change what happened, and why should I be ashamed, anyway? It was hot. One of the best orgasms of my bloody life. Still, I’m happy with my decision not to let things go any further. I don’t need a distraction like Koa Carmichael in my life right now. I still have to deal with Reggie and separating our assets when I get back to England, the last thing I need is no-strings, mind-blowing, multiple-orgasm-inducing sex from a bearded, boot-wearing, sexy-black-truck-driving, country-rock-band-playing cowboy. I mean, who needs that kind of shit in their life?
I hear the water pipes rumble as a tap is turned on and assume that Koa is awake. It’s a little after eight, and the house has been silent until now.
I get up and creep to my bedroom door. Sticking my head out, I can see that Koa’s door is now open slightly, there’s a light on, and I can hear the shower running.
I make my way downstairs and clear away all of our crap from last night. There’s not a lot, just empty bottles and dirty glasses. I then search around for a kettle, but can’t find one, so I boil some hot water in a saucepan instead.
I’m far from a snob, but there are certain things I have very high standards and opinions about, my tea is one of them. Finger and toenails should always be manicured, hair root regrowth should not exist, eyebrows should always be groomed and on point, and coffee should be freshly pressed or from a pod, not filtered and left brewing for nine days.
I have a machine at home for my coffee, the pod kind. Koa has a machine, too, but it’s entirely different from mine. The taste of what comes out of the two is also vastly different. The coffee his machine produces is something that tastes like tar. So, the first things I added to the trolley yesterday were green tea and lemons.
When the water finally boils, I drop the tea bag and a lemon slice into the mug and then pour the water over them before heading into the family room. The whole back wall is made up of a set of timber-framed glass double doors that open onto the back deck, and I realise that I’ve never actually looked out there in daylight.
The sky is cloudless and a beautiful shade of light blue. There’s no snow falling today, but beyond the covered deck area, there’s still plenty on the ground. The garden that lies beyond is vast. There are trees of all kinds dotted around and what looks like some sort of shed off in the distance.
“Mornin’.”
I almost spill my tea as I jump at the sound of Koa’s voice.
Don’t be embarrassed. Don’t be embarrassed.
Turning around, I take him in. His hair’s still damp from his shower and pushed back from his face. He’s wearing another of his long-sleeved T-shirts and jeans. He’s not put anything on his feet yet and stands before me with them bare, a pair of socks in his hand.
T-shirt, jeans, and naked feet have never looked so fucking sexy.
“You sleep okay?”
I give him the best smile I have to offer as I answer, “Yeah, really well. I think the wine and the last of my jet lag,” and the incredible orgasm, “finally caught up with me. I crashed for a full seven hours.”
He nods and strokes at his beard with the hand not holding the socks.
“That’s good. I thought maybe we could grab some breakfast once we’re out if that’s okay with you?”
“Fine by me.”
This is awkward. We need to stop being so formal and get back to how we were.
“You...uh...um. You going out dressed like that, Essex?”
I look down at my outfit and then back at him. Instantly pissed off and defensive. No wonder he’s been married twice. “Are you going out dressed like that?” is not, under any circumstances, something you ask a woman.
“Why? What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
“You’re...uh...you’re dressed in a tutu?” His comment sounds like a question. As if I’m not acutely aware of the three thousand two hundred Australian dollar Mischka Aoki masterpiece I have on. Yeah, it might have been made with a child in mind, but I’m short and pretty sure I nailed the look I was aiming for.
“And?”
“Legging things.”
I look down at my outfit again. I don’t know why. I’m not stupid, and I have a pretty good memory, so no issue recalling what I put on this morning.
“They’re tights, and I didn’t mean and what else, I meant, and what of it?”
He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and smiles as he does it. My fanny flutters return instantly, along with the galloping goose bumps that travel across my skin like a cavalry at full charge.
“I just—” His hand rakes through his hair. “I’ve never seen anyone up at Snowmass or Basalt in a tutu.”
I shrug. “Well, you will today.”
He gives a small laugh and shakes his head. “You gonna be warm enough?”
“My tights are thermal, so is the T-shirt I have on under my jumper. I have socks on over my tights beneath my boots and will be adding a hat, scarf, and jacket to my outfit if you’re really that concerned. Unlike you, I don’t tend to wander around naked in these cold conditions.”
The corner of his mouth pulls up, but he doesn’t give me a full smile.
“What conditions do you wander around naked in then, Essex?”
“None that you’re ever likely to catch me in, Cowboy.”
This is better. Sure, his flirty banter gets me all worked up inside, but I much prefer it to any awkwardness.
“You wanna go grab your coat, and we’ll head out?”
I move past him and am about to hit the bottom step when Koa speaks again.
“For what it’s worth, that’s the sexiest damn tutu I’ve ever seen in my life.”
“Thank you,” I squeak out before tripping up the next three steps and almost face planting in my rush to get away from him and his flirty, fanny-fluttering compliments.
“Don’t be fooled, Gracie,” I tell myself. “He just wants to get in your knickers.”
WE STOP FOR BREAKFAST AT a little roadside diner, the kind of place I saw in films and dreamed of visiting as a kid.
It has big pink leather bench seats inside booths, a massive bubble gum machine, and an old-fashioned jukebox. The waitresses are all wearing pink dresses with white aprons and little hats on their heads. When we walk through the door, I look around for Sandy, Danny, and the rest of the students from Rydell High.
I let Koa talk me into having pancakes instead of just eggs, and now, as we pull into the car park of a furniture store, all I want to do is slip into a carb coma. There’s a reason I like to stick to protein in the mornings, too much sugar has me heading straight back to my bed to sleep it off.
Koa appears at the door of the truck and opens it for me. I have my compression bandage on over my hand and wrist, and as long as I don’t put too much pressure on it, it doesn’t hurt, and it definitely is less swollen. I have mentioned this to Koa, sorta, but if he wants to continue helping me in and out of his truck, there’s no way I’m gonna say no to sliding my front down that big hard body of his.
It’s giving him mixed signals, I know, but this is what he does to me. I feel like I have two versions of myself, one sitting on each shoulder. OverThinking me on one side, wearing a pleated skirt and frill-necked blouse, screaming, “Don’t do it, Gracie, this man has the potential to break your heart like no other!” Then, on the other side, is WhoreyWanty me, all dressed up in her Victoria’s Secret bra, thong, and angel wings, shouting, “What are you waiting for? Get in there, love. Get in there and bang his fucking brains out!”
When I’m not in his presence, OverThinking me wins the war every time. But, one look at Koa, and WhoreyWanty me bitch slaps OverThinking to the ground, stomps on her a few times for good measure, untucks her thong from where its ridden too far up her arse, and forces all the flirty banter to spew out of my mouth.
I turn in my seat to exit the car and Koa places his hands on my hips, pulls me forward slightly, and then moves them to my waist before lifting me out.
I breathe him in. WW me wants me to wrap my legs around his hips and lick his throat, but we’re in a car park outside a furniture store on a Sunday morning, so I manage to rein her in, for the time being.
He hasn’t let go. His hands remain wrapped around my waist, holding me against him. I tilt my head and look up at his face. We’re both wearing sunglasses, so I can only assume that his eyes are on me.
The wind whips around us, blowing my hair across my face. Koa raises a hand and gently tucks it back behind my ears, under my cream-coloured beanie.
“Thank you,” I tell him quietly.
“You’re welcome.” His words are just as quiet.
My palms are spread flat across his chest, his are still spanning my waist.
“Let’s go shop, Essex.”
“Lead the way, Cowboy.”
He takes my hand, steps us away from the truck, and closes the door.
He doesn’t let go of my hand, not even when we enter the shop. I both love and hate that it feels so right, the way my hand fits so perfectly inside his, and it has me overthinking and once again making up a fictional future for us.
My heart rate accelerates as my body is consumed with an ache of both want and longing.
I’m so out of my depth here. Totally torn as to what I should do. All of my resolve from last night is slipping away, and all it took was for Koa to tuck my hair behind my ears and for him to hold my hand.
Both actions could be construed as intimate, but is that how he wants me to take them? Is this just part of his flirty nature, or is it something more? He’s told me that he wants nothing more than no strings sex, but he’s holding my hand as we walk towards a furniture store. Isn’t that the kind of thing people in relationships do?
Is holding hands and furniture shopping on a Sunday a typical event for people that are just fucking?
I’m not a game player, so I don’t have the answers.
Koa steers us to the kid’s section, and all thoughts of intimacy and something more happening between us leave my head as I take in four-year-old-girl bedroom heaven.
AFTER SEVEN STORES, I’M DONE like a kipper, but we have everything we need. I don’t know how Koa wangled it—the endless selfies with shop staff and customers and the autographs he signed may have helped his cause—but everything we need is going to be delivered over the next few weeks and well within the time frame we have to get his kids’ rooms finished.
Shopping with Koa has actually been enjoyable. I’d forgotten to look in the rooms this morning, but he’d been smart enough to bring the measurements of each with him, including the window sizes.
Koa listened to my ideas and thought process as I picked out bedding, rugs, lighting, and furniture, even coming up with a few suggestions of his own. We seemed to share a lot of the same taste in home interiors, except mine was better and a little more adventurous, but he learned fast that I knew my shit.
We even looked at furniture for other rooms in the house, including a fabulous sofa in a soft, light-tan leather that had design ideas firing off in all directions inside my brain. I couldn’t wait to get home and draw them up.
The only time we’d disagreed was when we stopped at a carpet and flooring shop, and I’d shown Koa the timber that I wanted to make a feature wall in each of the bedrooms. He thought I was winding him up and argued that timber cladding went out in the eighties. I showed him some ideas I’d found on Pinterest, and in the end, he’d relented and let me order enough for one wall in each room, which was all I needed.
Kai’s room, I designed with an adult in mind since he’s nineteen. I went for a little bit of industrial and a little bit of natural wood, but I also tried to keep with the style of the house and not buy stuff that was overly modern. I just hoped that when I pulled it all together, it worked. Also, despite not knowing the kid, I really wanted him to like it.
Malia’s room, I went totally overboard with. I let my inner pink and girly four-year-old self run riot, and not once did I attempt to rein her in.
Koa looked a little shell-shocked by the time I was done with all that I insist he buy, but, not once did he complain or argue.
I’m no interior designer, and I never claimed to be one. I’ve just used what I know—with a lot of help from Google and Pinterest—about colour, design, texture, and trends to pull a couple of rooms together, and I really hope it works.
I stare unseeing at the passing scenery as I contemplate what order I need to do things to make this next week go smoothly. I have blog updates to post, and I need to take a few more photographs to send to Rod so he can update my Instagram with an image and some witty comment. I could do it myself, but Rod knows all about algorithms, hashtags, and the right time of day to post to maximise our reach.
It’s only around four thirty, but it’s already almost dark, and I unconsciously sigh, briefly sending Koa’s attention my way.
“You wanna head into town? I said I’d try to meet up with some friends at Mo’s for a few drinks.”
“Now?” I turn and look at him. I didn’t really mean it the way it sounded. What I wanted to ask was, “What? Why? You want me to come?”
He’d flirted with me relentlessly today, laughing and cracking jokes. He’d taken the piss out of my ‘posh business voice’ when dealing with the staff in the shops and how quickly I slipped back into my Essex accent once I was done.
I am very aware that I do this. I’m not ashamed of my roots or where I come from, but, unfortunately in business, people do still judge your competence, intellect, and abilities on your accent, and mine is very working class.
I know when to turn it on, and once the deal is done, I always turn it off. Never forgetting where I come from.
“Yeah, we can go straight there. Grab something to eat and then watch the game.”
“Game?”
“Football.”
“You mean big men that are scared of getting hurt and so wear lots of padding while they run a ball?”
“Yeah.”
“And these friends of yours, are they all blokes?”
“By ‘blokes’, you mean guys?”
“Yeah.”
“Some are, some might have their wives or girlfriends with them, depends on whether they can get a sitter for the kids.”
“And you want me there, with your mates and their other halves, to eat and watch the game?”
“That’s what I’m asking, Essex, yeah.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why you inviting me?”
“You wanna go back to my place and sit on your own?”
“So, you’re inviting me out of pity?”
“Jesus Christ, woman.”
I jerk away from him as he raises his voice.
“Will you stop overthinking the goddamn question and just answer it?”
I fold my arms across my chest.
“No need to take that tone.”
“No need for you to question my motives.”
I question just about everyone’s motives, but I wasn’t gonna tell him that.
“Do I need to go home and change first?”
“Into what, a ball gown?”
“Fuck you.”
“Think we’ve already established that’s exactly what I’d like to do.”
“Does everything always come back to sex with you?”
“Yes, but only with you. I can’t help myself, Essex. I want you.”
Why did my eyelids struggle to stay open at his words? He had me all lightheaded and heavy-lidded.
“You look fine. Not seen anyone wear a tutu in Mo’s since ninety-eight, and it was Joe-Ray Conroy’s bachelor party.”
“Who wore the tutu?”
“Father of the groom. We all drew straws for who wore what outfit and Jimmy-Ray drew the short one, the man was three hundred pounds and as hairy as a Yeti.”
I shudder at the image. Chewing on the inside of my lip, I attempt to deal with the nervous excitement churning in my belly at the prospect of meeting Koa’s friends.
“So, you in, Essex? Dinner, a few drinks, and the game?”
“Will it bother you if I say no?”
I’m not gonna say no, I just wanna see his reaction.
Yeah, I annoy myself sometimes. Just give the man a straight answer, for fuck's sake.
“Yeah, it would.”
WW me starts to stir, listening in on our conversation.
“Why?”
“Because I like your company and because I’d like you to meet my friends. If you’re gonna be staying in town like you plan, you could end up seeing a fair amount of them.”
“All right then, but no getting me drunk and trying to get in my knickers later.”
“Can’t make promises there, Essex. I’ve seen your knickers, and I know exactly what’s inside them. How beautiful it smells, how delicious it tastes, how pretty it is to look at, and that’s not something a man’s ever gonna stop wanting more of.”
I stare at him as he drives. I don’t say a word, as I have no words to say. He just told me my pussy is pretty, that it tastes delicious, and that he wants more of it.
What even is the appropriate response to that?”
Apparently, fanny flutters, clit chills, and quim quivers are the answer to that mystery of the universe.