GRACIE
“ YEE-HAW! I HAVE A COWBOY in my bedroom, Bullseye.” I don’t say the words aloud, but in my head, I shout them, and I sound just like Jessie from Toy Story when I do it.
I watch as he lifts my suitcases up onto the bed, shifting the clothes I’ve already pulled out to one side.
I hadn’t noticed until after my shower, but the double doors I thought led to a cupboard, actually open to an entire dressing room. There’s a whole twenty-foot wall of hanging space, lots of drawers, a full-length mirror, and a really cute dressing table that has all these glass and ceramic type perfume bottles on it, the type that has the old-fashioned puffer thing that you squeeze. Most look art deco in design, but some could be older.
They kicked started my designer’s brain this morning, which was actually this afternoon, and I even sketched a few things awkwardly with my bad hand.
It’s the dressing room I watch Carmichael the Cowboy head off to now, and I take in his big body as he moves.
He’s built, but more like an athlete than somebody who works out at the gym. He has wide shoulders, a narrow waist and hips, and legs that look toned and muscular under his jeans. But it’s his forearms and his arse that I can’t keep my eyes from.
Forearms aren’t everyone’s thing, but they’re definitely mine. His are covered in a fine layer of dark hair; I know this because today, like last night, he’s wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
Today’s colour is grey, charcoal really, and he’s wearing it untucked. He’s tall, I’d guess around six feet one or two and it only just comes past his waist. If he was to stretch up for something—which I hope he does, and I hope I’m around to witness it—I’ll be able to see his happy trail, and as I stare at his retreating back, thick legs, and fine arse while thinking this, I feel my toes curl inside my UGG boots.
He returns in a matter of seconds with a pile of pink, silk-covered padded coat hangers, which he dumps unceremoniously on the bed.
One of the cases is already undone, he flips it open, and my heart literally stops in my chest. Before I even see it, I know exactly what is sitting right on top of everything that’s in that suitcase.
I could react. Slam the case shut. Blush. Stammer as I make excuses. Instead, I choose to own the situation.
“Whoa there, Cowboy. You might not wanna spend too much time looking at Vance. You could end up with an inferiority complex if you do.”
He steps back from my case.
“What in the ever-loving fuck—what is that thing?”
I lean forward and pick up the item that appears to have my host so offended.
“Cowboy, meet Vance.”
His eyebrows draw down tight and low over his eyes as he turns his head towards me, “Vance? What the fuck is a Vance?”
“Vance is my limited edition, black leopard print, Swarovski crystal Womanizer. He’s my life partner.”
“Limited edition, Ovski what?”
“It’s a Womanizer, voted best sex toy in 2015.”
His hands go to his hips, and his mouth opens, closes, and then opens again.
“It’s a vibrator?”
“Yep. Well, kinda.”
“And you named it Vance?”
“Yep.”
“Any particular reason why?”
“Because he brings me joy.”
He stares at me blankly, something he seems to do a lot when I’m talking.
“Vance Joy,” I offer.
“Give me a minute here, Duchess. I’m trying to work out what that might rhyme with.”
“It don’t rhyme with anything, Cowboy. Vance Joy is a singer.”
“Vance Joy’s a singer?”
“Yeah, Aussie I think. ‘Riptide’ ‘Georgia’?” Again, I get a somewhat blank look, or maybe it’s a dazed and confused stare.
I reach for my phone and search for Vance Joy in Spotify, find him, and press play. Riptide starts playing through my UE Boom portable speaker that I also never travel without.
When I look back towards him for a reaction to the song, I find him studying Vance.
“What does it do exactly?”
“It’s a stimulator, so not actually a vibrator.”
His head tilts back, his eyes on the ceiling for a few seconds.
“Feelin’ I’m gonna regret this, but what the fuck’s a stimulator, Duchess?”
He turns his gaze back to me and chews on the corner of that plump bottom lip of his.
“Well, you don’t—” I clear my throat while trying to think about how to describe my sex toy to him. “It’s not like a dildo; you don’t put it inside. It’s more to stimulate your clit. It sorta feels like suction, or lots and lots of little fingers all tapping on it at once.”
“And you like that shit?”
I give him a big cheesy smile.
“Love it, Cowboy.”
“It works?”
“Zero to an explosion in about thirty seconds when I’m in the mood.”
He’s now got a faraway look in his eyes, and he even has a sorta smile on his lips as his gaze roams my face.
“Well fuck, Duchess.”
We stare at each other in silence for a few long moments. It’s not uncomfortable, but I can’t say that I’m exactly chilling, either. There’s a crackle of something that passes between us, and for the first time in his company, it doesn’t feel like tension.
“Material Girl” by Madonna starts to play.
“I’m from Essex, Cowboy. And about as far from a duchess as you’re ever likely to meet,” I tell him.
“Essex? You have an Essex in England?”
“We do, and I think you’ll find ours was around way before yours.”
“At least they talk a language that resembles English in our Essex.”
“That’s debatable.”
He tosses my Womanizer onto the bed.
“Pass me what you want hanging, and I’ll hang it for you.”
Without another word, we set to work.
IT TAKES ABOUT A HALF hour to unpack all my stuff. Aside from asking about how many pairs of shoes I bought and for clarification on why I needed silver, pink, and gold Doc Martins, he didn’t say much. Though, he had also made a crack about a tutu he found in the second suitcase he opened. Apparently, he couldn’t figure out exactly why I would think I would need it. Men. They have no imagination.
He hung my dresses, jeans, and blouses before folding all of my hoodies, jumpers, and T-shirts for me.
I left my knickers and bras in my suitcase, not wanting to shock him anymore after his reaction to Vance, and one-handedly carried my shoes into the dressing room and lined them up.
I’m putting my toiletries in the bathroom cupboard when he appears in the mirror behind me.
“Connie Francis?” he questions.
I nod. “‘Lipstick on Your Collar’ is the first song I put on my first ever iPod.” I’ve never told anyone that.
“Grandad’s influence?”
I nod again.
He moves to sit on the closed toilet lid and watches me unpack. “He had great taste in music.”
“He was my hero.”
“Your dad not around?”
I look down at the drawer I’m putting my face wipes and moisturisers in and concentrate on what I’m doing for a few seconds.
“No, he took off not long after I was born.”
“He stay in touch at all?”
I shake my head. “Nah, my mum says he came back a few times, but I don’t remember him.”
We have another one of those moments of silence while our eyes remain locked in the mirror.
I pass him a pack of wipes. “Put them over there next to the toilet somewhere.” He turns the packet from side to side.
“What are they?”
“Wipes. Don’t worry, they’re flushable.”
“Wipes?”
“Yeah, ya know. When bog roll’s not enough, and you wanna feel fresh and clean. And bog roll’s toilet roll before you ask.”
“I wasn’t going to, but thanks for clarifying.”
“You’re welcome.”
He examines the packet for a few seconds longer before placing it in the basket that the spare toilet rolls are in.
“If you’re done, I’d like to get that arm in a sling.”
He gestures towards my swollen right wrist, which I’m holding protectively against my ribs. It still aches badly, even the painkillers I took earlier barely took the edge off.
As painful as it is, I keep forgetting I’m injured and have continuously been picking things up with it. My middle two fingers are so swollen that they feel tingly and almost numb.
“Sit here,” he orders. Standing and gesturing towards where he was just sitting.
“Fuck, this is swollen.” He’s looking at my hand. “It giving you much pain?”
I nod.
“I’m gonna put it in a sling. If it the swelling doesn’t go down, I’ll call Doc Morrison’s office and see if I can get him or one of the other doctors to come out and take a look at it.”
A ball of warmth forms in my belly at his concern, growing as he gently takes my hand and turns it from side to side, inspecting first the front and then the back as he kneels in front of me.
He has a roll of bandage with him, which he wraps tightly around my hand and wrist, he then starts to tear up an old sheet in what seems like a random, haphazard way. Although the tears apparently make sense to him. Once he’s done, he slides one end of the fabric under my arm and then ties the two ends together behind my neck. My wrist is raised as high as my left shoulder, the sling keeping my arm and elbow securely tucked close to my body.
I study his face as he does all of this, not just his face but his hair and his beard also. They’re both dark. His beard is a proper beard, probably grown to about an inch and a half from his bottom lip. It’s neat, tidy, and well-groomed, just like his hair. Both of which have a little grey running through them. His hair is shaved around the sides and speckled with grey, the top long, in comparison to the sides. It has no definite style to it. Despite him pushing it back and smoothing it repeatedly, it remains looking like he’s just woke up, but on him, it works.
Reggie grew a beard for a while. It looked good, but then he grew his hair and started wearing bow ties and braces. When he attempted to put his too short hair in a bun, I had to stage an intervention. For one, he was about two years too late for that trend, and two, no, just…......no. Plus, he’s a city financier and looks much better in sharp suits and with short hair.
My mind gets to comparing the two, Reggie works out at the gym almost daily, and his build is bulky because of it. He’s not naturally slim, and I’m pretty sure that if he stopped hitting the treadmill as often as he does, he’d quickly gain weight. He likes his food, doesn’t eat particularly well, and drinks probably more than he should. That’s something that he does seem to have in common with Carmichael. This is the first time since I arrived that I’ve seen him without a beer or bourbon to hand.
“That feel okay?”
“Hmm?” Carmichael’s golden-brown eyes are on me from where he’s crouched directly in front, his elbows resting on his knees.
“The sling, does it feel okay? Is the knot digging into the back of your neck, is it too tight?”
“It’s good.”
He gives me a quick nod and stands.
“There’s some ibuprofen downstairs. Next time you eat, you need to take a couple.”
I remain siting on the toilet lid.
“Carmichael?”
He pauses for a moment before turning his head, his eyes meeting mine.
“It’s Koa.”
“What is?”
“My name.”
“Your name’s Koa?” But I heard the sheriff call him Carmichael. “But the sheriff—”
“Last name’s Carmichael, first is Koa.”
He leaves me still sitting on the toilet lid.