11
(Garrett)
Archery hunting isn’t an easy proposition. Unlike using a rifle or a muzzle-loader, hunting with a bow requires a closer range, a stealthier approach, and a far better understanding of the animal you’re after. Mule deer are especially adaptable and crafty, with a knack for eluding predators that exceeds most other big game. They’re smart, use all their senses, and rarely let their guard down—with one notable exception.
A buck in the rut? Brainless.
During the rut—those early fall months when mule bucks are focused exclusively on finding the ladies—these same wily creatures are driven to distraction, and more than one of them has ended up on my dinner table because of it—an outcome that makes sense to me now. Because it’s possible I’d follow Cara Cavanaugh’s jeans-clad ass straight into the path of a rifle shot or a broadhead without pause or enough good judgment to avoid certain death. I’d bumble my way forward like a moron, with her as my only objective.
Which means I’m a shit conversationalist at the moment. But Corey Winsor hasn’t noticed yet, so I must be holding up my end of the conversation well enough to keep from outing myself as a ridiculously rut-minded creature who can’t focus on much else other than how Cara’s soft, yielding lips felt on mine. Or the press of her thighs when I picked her up against that siding. Or the feel of her fingers grasping the hair at my neckline with a groan. Or the way . . .
Christ. I’m fucking doomed.
The dry, tan-colored wilts of last year’s corn surround us, with a light dusting of snow covering the field ground between. A few straggler geese have landed in the distance, picking at whatever leftover grain they can find. Corey plucks at a particularly large cut stalk, then crumples the withered husk in his hand.
“. . . These guys have an efficiency bonus of almost a hundred pounds of nitrogen per acre. I’m sold on the idea, except we’ll be in for a long-haul investment before we see any benefit. Brooke isn’t convinced yet.”
Corey and his wife, Brooke, own Sunlight Farms just outside of Delta, where they grow corn and wheat on the modest acreage they purchased five years ago. While Brooke’s roots are deep in farming, Corey is an adult-onset farmer, come to it out of his own curiosity after a few years as a mechanical engineer. He met Brooke after going back to school to study soil management and ended up with an internship on her dad’s farm in Iowa. After that, cue the cute and wedding bells, because the farmer’s daughter fell hard for the half-lumberjack bearded intellectual who likes busting his ass in the dirt.
A fist suddenly lands squarely against my shoulder, not hard enough to hurt, merely enough to get my attention. I turn to meet Corey’s amused expression.
“Sorry. I was listening.” I scrub a hand down my face. “No-till can be a transition, for sure. But nitrogen isn’t getting any cheaper. You let the soil do its thing and as all those microbes build up and reach full efficiency, the MRTN is a no-brainer. Not to mention the soil erosion benefits and water savings. From what I hear and the articles I’ve read, if you can tough it out, it’s worth it.”
Corey grins. “If I provide the beer, will you come to dinner next week and lay all that on Brooke? Maybe an objective third-party voice would help win her over.”
“Depends on the beer. If you’re pouring that shitty, overpriced craft shit, I’m out.”
I cut my gaze back over to where Cara is standing. She’s apparently decided it’s important she get a close-up look at the corn header on the combine that Brooke’s showing her. This means she has to bend over at the waist and then wiggle her ass around to shimmy forward without tipping over headfirst into the huge piece of equipment. Her jeans are snug-fitting without looking painted on or uncomfortable, in faded denim I suspect came with a hefty price tag to make it look that way. Up top she’s wearing a button-down plaid flannel shirt with a thermal layered underneath and a cute scarf around her neck that somehow shows off her neck while also covering it up. How women manage to make things like scarves tempting and sexy, I will never understand. If I put a scarf on? I look like an idiot. She puts one on? I want to tug her closer with it, then lick and bite the soft skin under there until the goddam sun goes down.
Not that the darkness of sunset would do a thing to keep my head in check, anyway. This morning, in the unlit cab of my truck, she smelled like orange something and I sat there trying not to think about the Creamsicle Popsicles I loved as a kid, even though that was the best comparison I had for the scent surrounding me. If I let that thought take off, Cara suddenly became my very own personal frosty confection. Maybe I’ll start calling her Creamsicle, instead of City. Might be fun until she asks me why I’m calling her that. And there is no way to explain that without sounding like an asshole. Inside, I groan. Because I’m screwed. Totally and completely screwed.
Or maybe the groan doesn’t stay inside, because Corey laughs. Chortles, more like. He sounds like a tipsy but youthful Santa Claus.
“Blink, Garrett. Otherwise you’re going to get a migraine.” Another chortle, this time quieter. “Also, staring at her doesn’t actually accomplish anything, no matter how hard you do it. Trust me, I wasted months boring a hole through Brooke’s clothes before I made a move.”
I sigh. “It’s fucking pathetic, I know that. If she weren’t so . . .”
My words trail off and he smirks. “So what?”
“I don’t know. Smart. Tall. Out of my league.”
Also, if she didn’t taste so good. Maybe if she wasn’t prone to letting out the sweetest little needy sounds when you tease your tongue against hers—that might help. I probably shouldn’t have kissed her. Or let her kiss me, then kissed her back and shoved her up against the side of the house so roughly I had to be sure my arm was behind her to keep from doing it again. Harder.
But I did, and now I know too much. I know how easy it is for my mouth to find hers. How I barely have to tip my head, proving true every suspicion I’ve had about how awesome it is to be with a woman whose body is evenly matched with mine. How good her narrow waist and trim hips feel in my hands.
And how my cock naturally settles right where it belongs.
Knowing that means I can imagine how easily we could have gone at it right there, Cara pressed up against the wall of the house, her leg pulled up to set in the crook of my arm and my dick sliding home with one push forward. No bending my knees, no adjustments, no getting her boosted up to take what I want to give her.
Yep. The kissing was a terrible idea.
Not that Cara or I have brought it up either way. Not when she texted me to see if the offer to come out here today was still on the table, or when I left her a return voicemail to say it was, or when she called me back so we could finalize a plan. And even this morning there wasn’t a word between us about the fact that the last time I saw her, she was skedaddling into the house with her lips a little swollen and a satisfied smile on her face. Nope. We just sat there in the slightly awkward quiet, passing her travel coffee mug between us while I worked on tamping down images of what I would do with my very own Cara Creamsicle.
Corey crosses his arms over his chest, juts his chin toward Cara. “OK. So if she were stupid and short, and in your supposed ‘league,’ then you wouldn’t find the pockets on her jeans so fascinating?”
“It would help,” I mutter, watching as Cara and Brooke step back from the combine, then embrace in a new-acquaintance girl hug, swift and friendly.
Cara turns my way and waves, then points toward my truck with a questioning lift of her brows. When I give her a thumbs-up, she smiles. Right at me. Like we’re the only two people around, like it wouldn’t matter even if we weren’t because no one else matters. I can practically feel the double-lung hit of an arrow as I stand here, stuck and stupid over a woman smiling at me. With a quick wave in Corey’s direction, Cara heads toward the truck. Corey returns her wave and gives up an amused huff for my benefit.
“Good luck, kid. I’ve been married ten years, but I still remember what it was like to get that look for the first time.”
I force my gaze his way. His is trained on Brooke, where she sits on the porch steps to their house, gathering up their seven-year-old daughter on her lap with a laugh and a hug. Eventually, he drags his eyes away and takes in the confused look on my face. He smirks and crooks one eyebrow.
“The one that means you’ve got a shot.”
Back at the truck, I find Cara sitting on the passenger side with the door open and her legs dangling out, the heels of her boots thumping against the sill plate as she scribbles notes onto a messy-looking legal pad. Of course, instead of skirting around and putting my dumb ass in the driver’s seat, my dick draws me in her direction. I stop in front of her and set one hand on the top of the opened truck door, the other to the roof. Cara tosses her notepad atop the dashboard and grins.
“We’re best friends.”
“You and me?” I ask.
“No.” Cara shakes her head, continues to grin. “Brooke and me. Or at least, I want to be her best friend. She’s the coolest. I learned so much.”
Thank fuck. For a second I thought this was the speech where we finally acknowledge the big-ass kissing elephant in the room and she says it was a mistake then declares we should just be friends—not sure I could’ve handled that.
Cara swings her boot heel forward a few more times before slowing it to tap gently against my leg. I drop my eyes to that spot and watch as her foot curls around my calf.
“Let me buy you dinner, Garrett. As a thank-you for today.”
A gentle pull of her foot to my calf follows, like her body is urging forward the answer she wants. Raising my eyes to hers, I keep my face carefully blank as she grabs a fistful of my T-shirt, even when I’m all but one second away from diving on top of her, right here in front of one of Corey’s grain bins, where we’re hidden enough to go unnoticed. When she gives a playful downward tug on the cotton but doesn’t keep going, I shake off the idea of laying her out across the truck seat long enough to reply.
“Hell, City, you don’t need to do that. My freezer’s full of Hot Pockets. And I’m sure Hotchkiss’s dining options don’t offer the cuisine you’re used to.”
A hint of hurt crosses her eyes, but she blinks and it’s gone, replaced by the fire I like seeing in her expression.
“You’d take a Hot Pocket over dinner with me? With that cheese that’s never anything in between molten hot or blobby cold? And the creepy meat-ish fillings? Really?” A smile starts to crack across my face. “Come on, you name the place.”
Her hand is still gripping a fistful of my T-shirt. She presses her hand forward to bump against my chest and keeps it there, my entire body soaking up that touch, no matter how small it is. I scan her face, trying to read exactly what’s happening in this moment, then give her a searching look.
“You like barbeque?”
Cara doesn’t answer. Her mouth curves up, one side at a time, sly and slow, confirming what Corey just told me wasn’t a bunch of bullshit.
That I’ve got a shot.