12
(Garrett)
She’s wearing a dress.
Not a regular dress, either. A date dress. Even I can tell the difference.
After leaving Corey’s, I dropped Cara off at the house with plans to return in a few hours to pick her up for dinner. And in that time, Cara went from jeans I’d already stumble toward my own death following her around in, to this.
A date dress that sort of looks like a button-down shirt, but all flowy and pretty, made out of a silky-looking baby-blue material that my fingers immediately itch to reach out and touch. The dress ends above the knee by a stretch, and around her tiny waist is a thin leather cord belted loosely. Add in a pair of dark brown high-heeled riding boots, and it takes a second for me to process that she’s already locked the house door behind her and is headed down the walkway toward the truck, where she’s bound to open her own door—in a date dress—if I don’t get it together.
Quickly, I set the truck into park and crank up the heater as far as it will go, because it’s twenty-two degrees out and Cara’s legs are bare from her boots up to her hemline, then bail out of the truck, making it to the passenger door just in time. Cara hoists herself into the seat and the rise of her dress when she does is almost more than I can take. Because the truth is, she’s probably too much for a guy like me—in general. At all. In any way.
And until today, knowing that made flirting and messing around with her nothing but a fun way to pass the time. Harmless, because as much as I think that the two of us hooking up while she’s here sounds like a damn good time, the odds on that happening were not in my favor. A woman like Cara is too focused for a fling and too smart to pretend otherwise.
But now she’s wearing a date dress, her hair looks a little poufier than usual, and she’s giving me that no-one-else-for-miles smile again. When I put the truck in gear, I realize how right Corey was and how screwed I really am. I might have a shot here—but the hell if I know what to do with it.
After a short drive into town, we head into True Grit BBQ and find a spot in line to place our order at the counter. Cara idly starts to chew on one of her thumbnails as she peruses the menu, and a glint of something sparkly around her eyes captures my attention. I take a better look, to be sure I’m seeing what I think I am.
That Cara is wearing make-up.
Look, I’m not a Mary Kay rep—but my mom was. I endured one too many weekend afternoons as a kid watching her slap a million things of junk on women’s faces at our kitchen table. So I can’t ignore how the goldish-bronzy shadow on Cara’s eyelids is more than what she wears on a routine day and the way it catches the light in this not-fancy barbeque restaurant where she’s about to eat dinner from a Styrofoam container using a plastic fork. I know the effect a curler and a mascara wand have on a set of eyelashes. I also know what lip-glossed lips look like. I’m fucking evolved like that.
We place our order and Cara follows me toward one of the many picnic-style tables inside, then excuses herself to the bathroom. I set our trays down and slide onto one of the benches, trying to keep the panicked loop of shitshitshitthisisadate in my head to a minimum. I’m a grown man acting like a kid, all sweaty palms and nerves because some woman put on a dress and some goddam eyeshadow. Christ.
I shrug my coat off, tossing it and my ball cap to the bench space next to me, leaving room for Cara on the other side. I set about acting like a man by taking a long slug off the beer I ordered. Once I’ve quenched that need, I feel a little better. Enough to start arranging our table properly—because real men set the damn table, just like their moms taught them how to. I flip open the lids on our Styrofoam containers of barbeque, place a set of the paper-napkin-wrapped plasticware by each, and arrange our drinks.
Cara went with the pulled pork and cheesy corn, plus an extra piece of Texas toast—a choice that I both admire and appreciate. Some guys might think the whole bone-sucking-rib-slurping sideshow act is somehow hot, but I’m not one of them. For me it’s the usual, a double portion of brisket and a side of slaw. I also don’t think a woman should have to sit across from a man who’s smacking his greasy mouth across a plate of ribs.
Just as I get everything in order on our tabletop and move to take another draw off my beer, a grumbling voice I know too well interrupts my focus.
“I planned to go home and eat with my friend Jim Beam, but seeing as you’re here, I’ll unload my shitty day on you.”
Another tray flops to the tabletop. A heavy coat lands on the bench. Followed by a set of big hands slamming aside the tray as Braden crawls over the bench to take a seat across from me. The wood bench creaks under the assault of his six-foot-five frame when he drops heavily on to it. My palms start to sweat again.
Any other day, this would be fine. I’d welcome the company, and we’d give each other some shit, talk about work, and maybe make a plan to shoot our bows somewhere later in the week. After that, we might finish up our food and round the corner to the Elks Lodge for a few more beers.
Tonight? I’d prefer if he would fuck off. And quickly.
“Why aren’t you eating?” Braden shoves a heap of brisket into his mouth and then points his fork toward my plate. I start to work out an explanation, one that includes the words “scram, buddy,” hoping I can get it all out before Cara returns.
No such luck.
“I have to say, the ‘Little Ropers’ versus ‘Little Barrel Racers’ signage on the bathrooms does nothing for someone like me when it comes to determining gender. I had to wait for someone else to go in before I knew which one to use. Apparently, I’m a little barrel racer.” Cara slides in next to me, lays a paper napkin across her lap, and notices Braden. She gives a little wave. “Hi. I’m Cara.”
Braden doesn’t respond, just lets his jaw pause midchew, an enormous mouthful of brisket now protruding from one of his cheeks. His gaze starts to volley between Cara and me, moving nothing but his bewildered eyeballs. Slowly, his jaw loosens enough for him to start chewing again. Finally, he wipes his mouth with a napkin, all politeness, none of which is for me.
The paper napkin crumples in one hand as he extends the other toward Cara. “Hi. Braden.”
Cara’s hand disappears into Braden’s enormous man paw and I start to worry about her pretty fingers getting crushed until he finally releases her.
She skirts her gaze over his uniform. “Are you a game warden?”
“Yes.” Braden offers, full-stop-style. He gives Cara a once-over and finds nothing that explains who or what she’s about, so he squints before moving on. “And you are a . . . ?”
She lifts one hand to daintily obscure her mouth as she finishes chewing a bite of Texas toast. Braden cuts a look my way as she does, using the opportunity to remind me of what’s at play here, that I haven’t even mentioned the name Cara to him, yet here she sits next to me in a date dress. In my defense, we’re not guys who talk on the phone to each other—surprise, surprise—and I haven’t seen him in person for a couple of weeks. What was I going to do? Send him a text?
Need to talk. You bring the wine, I’ve got the bonbons. #IMetAGirl
That’s happening, um, never.
“I’m a freelance writer,” Cara answers. “Out here on assignment to put together a piece about the Grand Valley ag industry. Garrett’s become my local source of sorts, and I’m buying him dinner as a thank-you for introducing me to so many people. I’d be weeks behind without all his help. Not to mention I’d be in the dark. Literally.”
Cara nudges her elbow to my upper arm, calling out the inside joke with that little gesture. Braden’s eyebrows work upward damn near into his hairline, and his face contorts into an irritating look of horror, confusion, and dumbfounded repulsion. He looks like a seasick cartoon character, the kind who can’t quite figure out what’s going on, but he knows it’s bad news.
I haven’t taken a single bite of my food yet, something I realize when Cara reaches for the array of sauces in the center of the table. Her hand lands on my bicep when she figures out it’s too far away, giving it a squeeze as she uses her free hand to waggle her fingers toward the bottles. Braden catches on before I do and moves the spinning bottle holder her way. He sets his napkin on the table, then tips the lid closed on his takeout container.
“I’m going to head out.” Braden grabs his coat and starts to put it on. “Stick to my original plan, the one where I tell my troubles to Jim.”
The grouchiness in his voice is harsh, even for Braden. Add in the way he keeps mentioning Jim Beam and I realize I’m not the only one who can’t find right-side-up tonight.
“Dude, you don’t have to leave.” I grab the edge of his tray when he goes to pick it up. “Stick around, eat with us.”
He flicks one of his hands toward the space between Cara and me. “That is happening.”
Cara follows the gesture and her forehead furrows up. “What is happening?”
“The same-side-sitting thing. If I stay, I’ll have a front-row seat to what I think is about to become a Strickland seduction scene, and that’s something I’ve never wanted to see. I suspect it’s like watching him call in a hen turkey, which is embarrassing for everyone present.”
A little snorting giggle from Cara, and I can’t decide which one of them I’m more annoyed with at the moment. Braden continues on. “And my problems will still be around tomorrow. Next month. Next season.”
My brows furrow up at his cryptic mutterings. “Well, shit, now you have to talk. At least give us the short version. We want to know, don’t we, Cara?”
“I’m all intrigue and anticipation over here,” she deadpans, following with a forkful of cheesy corn and the droll lift of one brow.
She starts to chew, then gives her plate a pointed and pleased look. “Oh my God. This corn is everything I’ve ever wanted from a side dish. It’s like a bowl of cacio e pepe had a love child with cotija-covered Mexican corn. And Velveeta.”
Cara shovels in another bite and groans. Braden and I send blank stares her way, but I have to bite back a laugh. I don’t know what the hell cacio e pepe or cotija is, but she’s so captivated by her now third mouthful it’s kind of adorable. Eyes closed as she swallows, she finally opens them and sees us both staring at her.
“Sorry,” she offers, then flicks her empty fork our direction. “Braden has problems. Edge of seat, bated breath, and such. Carry on.”
Braden’s shoulders slump as if someone’s set a sandbag there and he looks my way. “You know who Amber Regan is? From the Afield Channel?”
My eyes go wide. Do I know who Amber Regan is? Is he screwing with me? Does a bear shit in the woods? Yes.
Amber Regan is the blonde bombshell with her own hunting show on a premier cable channel dedicated to all things outdoors. We’re talking a Texas beauty queen with big blue eyes, covered in camo and taking down everything from caribou in Quebec to ibex in Kyrgyzstan. The specifics of how she’s built would be skeezy and sexist to talk about, but let’s just say that a less tactful asshole could spend days on the big-rack jokes.
Braden quickly figures out from my expression that Amber Regan requires no introduction and carries on with his story.
“Apparently, they want to spotlight Colorado on one of her episodes for next season. She and her team are coming out to scout locations. I drew the short straw to liaise with them for our units.”
Braden uses air quotes and draws out what he clearly finds to be the worst of the words he just uttered.
“There were actual straws involved. Boss man cut up a handful of plastic coffee stirrers and made us all choose one. I won. Or lost, if you have any fucking sense in your head.”
“Who’s Amber Regan?”
A shit-eating look crosses Braden’s face at Cara’s interjection. Go ahead, tell your girl here who Amber is. Choose your words carefully. I curl my lip on the side of my mouth that Braden can see.
“She has a hunting show on cable. Spends most of her time in front of the camera, talks a lot while she does it. Braden is not only averse to hunting shows, he’s prickly about humanity in general. This is like his worst nightmare.”
Braden slaps a hand to the tabletop and nearly everything atop it rattles under the impact. “Because those shows are a goddam disservice to hunting. They make us look like assholes and idiots. You. Me. All of us. And all that fucking whispering.”
He drops his voice into a stage whisper and adds a thick Southern accent. “Hey, Bobby-Joe-Billy-Bob! Looky! A whitetail. Think we should bait it with a salt lick and an open bag of corn? Roll down the window on the truck!” Braden’s voice returns to its usual growl. “Here’s an idea: You’re in the woods. It’s quiet. Now shut the fuck up.”
I let out a snort. “Maybe it won’t be as bad as you think.”
“Impossible. These people think hunting’s something that always ends in a trophy. They hunt for points and mounts, nothing else. I’ll be lucky to keep my job with what’s bound to come out of my mouth.”
“Calm down, George Clooney. You need to be ready for your close-up, and all that scowling is going to wreck your skin with wrinkles. Remember, HD is unforgiving.”
Braden tosses a scowl my way before turning to focus on Cara. “Pleasure meeting you, Cara.” He stands and starts to gather up his things. “Strickland, you are an asshole as always, but I will see you on Sunday, when I plan to kick your ass shooting some foam . . . and I don’t look like George Clooney. At all.”
I ignore the comment about his threatened ass-kicking when we shoot our bows at his place this weekend, because I’ll outscore him like I always do. Instead, I offer a thoughtful, mocking nod of my head.
“True. You’re less pleasant and professional than Clooney. Less classy. You’re more like . . .” Nothing comes to mind, even as I take inventory of Braden’s hulking stature and glowering scowl.
“Joe Manganiello,” Cara pronounces.
We both cut our eyes toward her. She shrugs. “True Blood? Magic Mike?” Neither of us responds. She sighs. “He married Sofia Vergara?”
No clue who Joe is, but as with Amber Regan, I do know who Sofia Vergara is. Braden simply blinks, because he doesn’t have cable television and relies on an antenna to pick up the one local channel he sometimes watches, so the Sofia reference doesn’t help him. I’m sure the only reason he has any idea who Amber Regan is is that she’s also always splashed across advertisements in hunting magazines, and Braden does read—a lot, in fact. Everything from hunting magazines to wildlife biology research journals to big, fat hardcover books about natural history.
Braden directs another goodbye to Cara, another insult to me, and stomps out.
Cara slowly finishes chewing a bite of pulled pork. “He’s rather intense, isn’t he? This Amber girl is in for quite a ride. How long have you guys been friends? Has he always been like this?”
I watch Braden hulk his way through the restaurant, then hold the door open for a group of middle-aged women who all give him a second look and smile, which he doesn’t return. And I’m comfortable enough with where my dick finds true north to acknowledge that Braden’s a good-looking dude. If he weren’t so dead set on living the life of a curmudgeon, he’d have no trouble finding someone to crawl under his rock with him.
“Braden’s a solid guy, you just have to look past half of what he says. I met him a few years back, right after he took over as the game warden around here. He tried to ticket me for something that was bullshit and I told him so—been friends since then. ‘Intense’ is a good word for him, though. But you can count on him. Always.”
Cara allows a smile to crawl across her face. “I just met your bestie, didn’t I?”
“Men do not have besties. We have drinking pals and hunting buddies. Braden is both. And good people, no question.”
Another smile, paired with Cara lowering her voice to a near whisper and leaning in so close, I almost forget we’re in the middle of a restaurant.
“He’s your bestie. Be careful, Garrett. We keep going this way and by the end of the night, I’m going to know everything about you.”