14
(Cara)
I, Cara Cavanaugh, was not meant for amazing sex.
That’s the only plausible conclusion to be drawn from the last thirty-six hours, in which I’ve done nearly nothing but dwell on and daydream about what happened two nights ago. I’m better suited for the perfectly adequate, just-fine sex I’ve always known. The sort that happens in a bed, missionary position, and sometimes results in an orgasm. That is the sex life I was intended for. Because this other thing? It’s too much. No matter how hard I try, the dazed pleasure centers in my brain return to a darkened truck cab, a darkened house, and Garrett.
I’ve tried everything, including meditation. Sitting quietly in half lotus atop a couch cushion thrown on the floor, going all Zen when my mind goes off track.
Recognize the errant thought. Don’t judge. Return to the breath.
Works for about three breaths. Then it’s nothing but a lewd recall of Garrett, all of him. My body’s reaction to his hand between my legs, fingers deep and full. His reaction to my hands on him, stroking as he fumbled with the condom. My leg held tight to his body as he slipped inside, then . . .
So much for meditation.
Then I decided to try my old standby: a pros-and-cons list, this one designed to determine if I could handle more Garrett in my life. If I could, what would that look like? If I couldn’t, how was I going to avoid him in a town the size of Hotchkiss?
PRO: More Garrett means more of the Best Sex Ever.
CON: More Best Sex Ever will ruin me for other men of reasonable prowess and average endowment, who don’t smell like clean-scented dirt and lust and sex. They wouldn’t stand a chance. I’ll die a lonely spinster because of it.
PRO: More Garrett would mean the chance to see him naked. I saw nearly nothing this go-round, and the idea I could leave without knowing what a naked Garrett looks like? Boo.
PRO: More Garrett would be fun, pure and simple. I like him.
PRO: More Garrett would mean I might get him to tell me his story. How he ended up letting go of his dreams and why someone like him, with so much potential, gave up on having more.
CON: If I get all of that? More of the Best Sex Ever, a naked Garrett, fun, and a glimpse into the real man beneath the easygoing grins? There is a strong chance I’ll end up falling for him.
And that one con is enough. Because aside from my apparent inability to deal with the effects of amazing sex, I’ve also deduced that I’m not meant for casual sex, which is exactly what Garrett and I would be—the only thing we can be. Off-the-cuff and temporary, fun while it lasts, and entirely without the strings that come with considering more. And maybe if I didn’t like him the way I do, or spend far too much time thinking about what makes him tick, then casual might be a possibility.
But, given the way my mind and my heart work, I’m not up for that sort of fun. Just one night with Garrett and I feel oddly like I have a hangover, a side effect I’m convinced has something to do with trying to play it cool when he went distant for a flickering moment just after he came, then trying to play it super cool when I assured him it was fine for him to go. And when I plastered the fakest all-good-here smile on my face after he kissed me then shuffled his way out the door, he looked confused and I felt wrecked. Add in the fact that I didn’t come here to find a guy, but rather a story, and my decision is easy.
Find Garrett, tell him thank you for the Best Sex Ever, but let him know there won’t be any more to come.
Time for a trip into town.
The Hotchkiss Co-op is housed in a building that was once a depot station, now a nondescript storefront with aged wood siding and uninspired signage. The parking lot nearly outsizes the actual building, so I easily find a spot out front, a few spaces over from a lone Dodge truck. Garrett’s truck is parked out back, and when I spy it on my way up to the front door, my body reacts, skin prickling in awareness and recollection.
Hell. That’s going to be a problem. A heap of metal—just sitting there innocently—should not have this sort of power over me.
When I step inside, the space is well organized and far less messy than I expected for a co-op. The shelves and displays are neatly arranged, quite obviously kept after, and I can suddenly see that Garrett’s hand is everywhere. Things might look humble at first, but if you look closely enough, there’s care and attention paid to everything.
“You sure coddling moths are the problem? Bunch of guys are having trouble with mites this season. If it’s mites, you’ll need to spray. Organic, of course, but we have some new formulations in this year.”
Garrett’s voice emerges from a back room just before he steps out and drops a pile of small boxes on the front counter. He looks up to see me, his expression surprised at first, then pleased—and everything inside me ignites.
Stupid body. It doesn’t understand our objective here. Abstain from the Best Sex Ever.
A customer ducks out from behind a set of shelves at the far end of the store, tossing a pair of work gloves on the counter next to the boxes.
“Whitney says this is what she wants. I mentioned the mites, but she claims I’m still an apprentice. And I decided to not push my luck by speaking again, because I love her, but pregnancy hormones—Christ. It’s like trying to navigate a minefield on a high wire, and I’m not as nimble as I once was. If this is what her being twelve weeks along is like, I might have to start training again just to keep up.”
When he turns to grab a gallon bottle of something off an endcap display, I get a good look at him and notice he happens to look a lot like former pro wide receiver Cooper Lowry. Almost his freaking doppelgänger. Same build, same shaggy blond hair, same hopelessly pretty face that made watching football games with my dad and the Cahill boys mildly more entertaining.
While their true fanaticisms are for college ball—roll tide, y’all—pro football is popular enough with our circle that I have more than a passing knowledge of the game. One too many of my Sundays have been spent watching the Bears in our families’ shared executive suite at Soldier Field, or in the Cahills’ lavish basement media room, surrounded by too much hollering and not enough commercials. But all those hours of my life lost means I know a fake Cooper Lowry when I see one.
“Good luck.” Garrett chuckles. “Girl might be a little hippie sweetheart, but I’m sure she’s a handful when she puts her mind to it.”
Fake Cooper lets out a grunt as an answer, handing Garrett his credit card at the same time. Garrett runs the card and tears off the slip, taking the opportunity to look my way when Fake Cooper signs it. A lopsided smile, all for me, then he says my name by way of a greeting.
“Cara.”
Dammit. The quiet familiarity in his saying my name that way—a low rumble laced with satisfaction—is not helping. I manage a blundering, awkward wave that probably looks more like a tic I can’t control and pair it with a croaking hello. Fake Cooper hands back the receipt while squinting in my direction. Back to Garrett, then to me again. All while Garrett and I essentially strip each other’s clothes off with our eyes.
Fake Cooper’s phone buzzes, cutting the invisible tie between Garrett and me, both of us watching as he scans his phone face. A chuckle and a shake of his head, then his mouth breaks into a grin.
“OK. I’m out of here. The gorgeous, stubborn woman who’s carrying my kid—but still refuses to marry me—wants barbeque. Right now, it seems.”
When the store door jingles shut behind Fake Cooper, Garrett slips out from behind the counter to head my way. His approach, slow but casual, is still like a predatory prowl and I latch one hand on to an adjacent shelf to keep from launching forward to meet him halfway.
“Has anybody ever told that guy he looks exactly like Cooper Lowry, who used to play for Denver?” I muse.
Garrett closes the distance between us and puts one hand to my hip. “Doubt it.”
“Really? Because it’s uncanny.”
His other hand finds my other hip, lowering both so he can tuck the tips of his fingers into the back pockets on my jeans.
“If they did say that, they’d probably feel pretty stupid.”
“Why?”
Garrett leans close and kisses me. “Because that is Cooper Lowry.”
My brow furrows up even as my eyes are still closed from the kiss. I work through the details of the last few minutes and flick my eyelids open.
“Wait a second. Is the Cooper of the Whitney and Cooper you know, actually Cooper Lowry? And did he say that this Whitney woman refuses to marry him? And she’s having his baby?”
Garrett’s face brightens in amusement and he gives me a nod.
“Is she in possession of all her mental faculties? Because Cooper Lowry looked like he thought it was the cutest thing ever that she was demanding barbeque. Pretty good sign that he’s pussy-whipped. She has to be nuts to not marry him.”
Garrett lets out a sharp laugh. “I can’t believe the phrase ‘pussy-whipped’ just came out of your mouth.” His hands slip fully into my back pockets. “But, yes, to everything you just rattled off. He is Cooper Lowry, Whitney does refuse to marry him, she’s knocked up, and her brain is in working order. She’s just not much for convention, claims marriage is a pointless institution.”
“But he’s Cooper Lowry.”
Another kiss, harder this time, far less sweet than the first one. My hands land on his chest, intent on giving him a gentle push away. But when the heat of his skin beneath the worn T-shirt warms my palms, my fingers curl into the feel and all my other plans evaporate.
Finally, he pulls back with a muttered curse. Garrett casts his voice back over one shoulder.
“Bart! I’ll be back in ten, OK?”
Behind him, a portly man lumbers out from a back office, his body taking up the entire doorway and then some. He brushes a wave in our direction without looking up from the clipboard he’s scribbling on. “Take lunch if you want.”
Mischief lights Garrett’s face. “You hungry?”
He draws a lock of my hair to tuck behind my ear, just as I would have done on my own if my hands weren’t still magnetized to his chest. I don’t have an opportunity to answer before my hand is in his and we’re headed out the door, quickstepping around the side of the building and over to his truck. Garrett yanks open the truck door.
“Crawl in, but don’t go too far. I want you where you were two nights ago. Those pretty legs spread wide over mine.”
I haul myself into the truck in a rush, somehow justifying the decision to do so by thinking that we’ll be able to talk in here. In private. Alone. With my legs spread over his. As one does when they need to have a serious no-more-sex conversation with someone.
Garrett slamming the truck door shocks my senses. Big hands circle my waist and then I’m on his lap. A slow inspection of my body leads to his hands atop my thighs, tightening when he moves high enough to land where my legs meet my hips, his gaze lingering there.
“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you, Cara.” He chuckles, almost darkly, raises his eyes to mine. “The whole night is on a damn loop in my brain. Do you know how inconvenient a hard-on is when you’re trying to work?”
Yes, I do. Well, not a hard-on exactly—but I do know how inconvenient a loop of lewd thoughts can be when you need to work. That’s why I’m here, I remind myself.
But Garrett doesn’t wait for an answer, just presses his mouth to mine. We’re alone and together, which means we’re wild after one taste, my tongue teasing his and Garrett groaning to encourage me. But when his hands start to move up to niggle the buttons on my shirt, slipping one, then two, open, I know I have to stop this. If I don’t, my shirt will be off before I know it—in broad daylight—and then doing what I came here to do will be impossible. I latch my hands to his wrists and Garrett goes stiff.
“Sorry,” Garrett whispers, leaning back but allowing his hands to linger on the open placket of my shirt. He uses the tip of one index finger to skim there, then eases the material back until the lace edge of my black bra comes into view. I watch the bob of his Adam’s apple as he works over a labored swallow.
“I barely had the chance to touch you here. I didn’t get to see you, not all of you. I’ve been thinking about that . . . how we cheated each other out of the full show.” His eyes come to meet mine. “We should fix that.”
“Garrett, I can’t . . .”
He rebuttons my top. “I could come over tonight. Or, you can come to my place, if you want. Fair warning, it’s a straight-up redneck bachelor pad. But I’ll change my sheets and light one of those candles that’s supposed to smell like a waterfall or something, to air out the scent of my manliness. I can grill something for dinner and we’ll hang out.”
A pause as he sets his hands to the back of my neck, rubbing gently with his fingers, and I allow myself the indulgence of enjoying it.
“We can’t do this.”
Garrett’s fingers stop moving. “Huh?”
Reaching up, I remove his hands and set them to rest on the seat. “We can’t do this. Date. Kiss. Have sex.”
His eyes narrow and he takes inventory of my expression, obviously confused. “Why?”
“What?”
He repeats the word, slower this time, with an edge to it. “Why? Did I do something? Not do something?”
I start to shake my head, then jerk my hands up to cover my face so I can think, which is easier if I’m not looking at him. Garrett pulls my hands away, using one of his to trace a thumb over my lower lip.
“Unless I’m crazy, I thought it was good for you. I felt you, Cara. Around my fingers, against my palm, tight to my cock. And I loved every fucking second of it. So I can’t think of a single reason why we’d stop. You’ll have to explain to me why you think we should give this up.”
I kiss the tip of his thumb, almost without thinking. “That’s the problem. It was good for me. Too good.”
Garrett’s shoulders visibly relax and a smirk starts to tease across his mouth.
“But . . .” I tilt my head and wait a beat, ensuring I have his focus. “I’m not here for that. I’m here to work. This freelance thing is new for me, and I can’t get derailed. Tell me you can understand that, how sometimes you have to give up the good stuff because there are more important things you need to do. That you have bigger things to accomplish.”
His smirk fades almost immediately, replaced by his mouth leveling into a harsh, very un-Garrett-like line, shuttering his features into something empty but guarded.
“Important things. Bigger things.” He blinks, lets his voice go flat. “I wouldn’t want to get in the way of that.”
“Garrett—”
He cuts me off. “Scoot off so I can grab my phone. I’ll give you Whitney’s number and you can set something up with her. She’ll love your little hybrid car. You don’t need me.”
I awkwardly move off of his lap and watch as he scrolls through his contacts. When he finds what he’s looking for, he doesn’t turn my way.
“OK, City. Hand over your phone and I’ll add this for you.”
City. My jaw clamps tight. Guess we’re back to that, then.
Meeting Whitney Reed in person only makes the whole Cooper Lowry thing even more confounding. Not that she isn’t lovely and beautiful—she is. She’s also a crunchy tree hugger with a nose ring who is dressed in a pair of worn-out leggings, a heavy zip-up hoodie, a trapper hat, and muck boots when I arrive at the orchard she and Cooper own—a look that I don’t think it’s too judgmental of me to say is not what one might imagine when typecasting a former NFL star’s girlfriend.
Whitney ditches the coat, hat, and boots after we finish a tour of the orchard and head inside the decrepit farmhouse she and Cooper live in, tossing it all in a pile near the front door. She notes it when my gaze inadvertently lingers on her already hard-to-miss baby bump, giving an eye roll.
“Twins. Boys, I’m sure. And I’m working with Lowry genetics here, so stubborn and strapping are a given.”
“Don’t forget surly. And superior.” Another eye roll from Whitney at Cooper’s interjection from the kitchen, where he’s perched at the stove, carefully extracting glass pint jars from a large stainless steel pot of hot water.
Whitney clears the small living room and sidles up next to Cooper, inspecting his work as he uses a dish towel to blot water off the top of each jar. He gives her a gently chiding side glance then kisses her forehead before craning over one shoulder my way.
“How’d it go out there? You get what you need, Cara?”
I take his question as an invitation to make my way into the kitchen, taking a seat at the vintage Formica table where Whitney has flopped wearily into a chair and gestured for me to do the same.
“Absolutely. Whitney’s a great tour guide.”
Cooper’s eyes light and he cuts what I’m positive is a private, secret look at Whitney. “I’m aware.”
He grabs four pint jars from the far side of the countertop, amidst what currently looks like the end of a production line in a small-scale canning factory. “Here, these are new recipes for an artisanal line of preserved goods I want to develop. This isn’t our fruit; we’re just playing around with recipes for now. There’s a peach jam with lemon verbena and a quince ginger chutney.”
Well, obviously. Because creating lemon verbena and quince concoctions are what record-crushing wide receivers are known for. These two must make sport out of defying conventions.
Cooper continues as he pushes the jars my way. “Make sure Garrett gives them a try. He’s my best guinea pig; the kid will eat anything.”
I’d already started to reach forward to draw Cooper’s creations closer, but my hand freezes in midair at the mention of Garrett. Just like the thirty-six hours after we had sex, the thirty-six hours after I told him we couldn’t be together have been no less challenging. Except this time it’s regret that sends my mind wandering, which is far less pleasant of a distraction than daydreaming and replaying the naughty particulars of the Best Sex Ever. And when I wasn’t dwelling on the regret that comes with hating the way Garrett wouldn’t look at me in the truck, I was plotting ways to fix what I’d done—scheming a hundred different ways to earn a do-over with him and rationalizing away all the reasons I’d used to decide we should part ways in the first place.
Cooper and Whitney both fix on the way my slightly trembling hand hovers above the jars. I yank my hand back.
“I’m not sure when I’ll see him. Garrett. We don’t have plans, so . . .”
They exchange a glance, curiosity and concern, then Cooper gives a wave of his hand in the air. “No worries. I’ll see him at some point.”
He makes a move to gather up two of the jars, and suddenly I see them as pint-sized opportunities. I may not be desperate enough just yet to use them, but if it comes to that, I will. If at some point I give in and decide that more Garrett is worth all that might come with, I can use these innocent jars of jam as an excuse to invite him over.
My hand shoots forward to block Cooper’s. I clear my throat to be sure I don’t sound as crazy out loud as I do in my head.
“I’ll take them,” I blurt out.
Cooper’s eyebrows rise up warily. My not-crazy voice must still need some work. I try again, leveling my voice another notch. “I’ll take them. Small town and he’s the local golden boy. I’m bound to see him, right?”