19
(Cara)
My phone chimes with an email as I head down the driveway to Garrett’s place—the modular, not trailer, as I first called it. In my defense, how was I supposed to know that his place sits on a foundation and that makes all the difference? Not exactly knowledge I’ve ever required before now.
After slowing to a stop in front of the rickety porch that extends from the front door of the modular, I glance toward the cup holder where my phone sits. My mother. Subject line: Aspen - Little Nell / Apogée.
I don’t even have to open it to know the details. My parents are coming to Aspen, I’d guess. While there, they’ll be staying at their favorite boutique luxury hotel and dining at their favorite French restaurant. All likely under the guise of my upcoming birthday on the thirteenth, but more likely because my mother wants to shop and my father wants to wear jeans with a sport coat and drink until he doesn’t care about anything.
Instead of clicking on the mail icon and confirming how right I am, I’m distracted when a booming laugh from across the way catches my attention. Parked over near a shed, Garrett, Braden, and Cooper are gathered around Garrett’s truck, tailgate down with Garrett perched on it and the other two each leaning on a bedside. All three are dressed in hunting gear—brush pants with lace-up boots, and base layer shirts under camo coats. Dead things—turkeys, I’m assuming—line the truck bed behind Garrett. An opened cooler rests on the end of the tailgate, the likely source for the beers they’re drinking. I check the clock on my dash. Not quite lunch, and nowhere near what my parents would consider an appropriate cocktail hour. Apparently, hunting means it’s five thirty somewhere.
Camo, dead things, and beer swigging at eleven a.m.—on a Sunday. And contrary to everything that defined my life before coming to Hotchkiss, I’m surprisingly charmed by the whole display.
Sundays have become a date day of sorts for Garrett and me, given that it’s one of his days off, and I quickly discovered that for most rural farming or ranching folks, it’s also the day that church and family take priority. Cell phones are turned off and only those tasks that can’t be ignored are dealt with, and if a writer like me tried to move in on that time, it would be the fast track to a freeze-out. So I spend my mornings doing a long reformer workout and catching up on emails, maybe a little drafting if I’m behind on my word count. Garrett usually hunts or shoots his bow, then we meet up midday.
Another raucous laugh from the redneck congregation that I shouldn’t find attractive, but do. It’s a big ol’ mess of cliché masculinity over there, and all my primal lady urges respond. So evolution must be to blame when I ignore my phone, step out of the car, and sex-sleepwalk my way over there. Garrett’s eyes are on me the entire time, with a grin that fades into something more promising with each step I take.
Cooper and Braden are making an attempt at idle chitchat, but from the bit I’m able to comprehend—beyond the buzz inspired by Garrett’s prowling gaze—their conversation isn’t exactly lively. Mostly it’s a volley of one-word comments and grunts.
Garrett sets his beer aside, widens the spread of his thighs in invitation. “Hi.”
The urge to crawl into his lap and draw my legs astride him—because I know what comes with the spread of his legs like that—is immediate and wild. A needy pulse that reminds me what it’s like when he drives up into me, the way it can wipe out sound judgment and all reason on the first jerk of his hips.
“Hi,” I manage.
“I have something for you.”
I bet you do.
My eyes widen, skirt to Cooper and Braden, who are both staring into their beer bottles. Garrett gives up an almost impossible-to-hear snort, and then clears his throat.
“It’s in the house. On the counter. For tonight.”
I consider what it could be. Nothing but lewd images come to mind. I give Garrett another look, adding a twitch of brows to either side as a reminder that we have an audience. He does nothing but press his lips together and fight the urge to laugh.
A beer bottle hits the truck bed, courtesy of Braden, where it clangs loudly. He reaches for the dead turkey that’s closest to him and grabs it by the foot, above a rather menacing-looking spur. Cooper does the same with the bird closest to him. He adjusts his ball cap and reaches for his coat where it’s draped over the truck bed next to him.
“Looks like it’s time for Braden and me to be somewhere other than here.”
Garrett grins, all for me, and doesn’t respond to Cooper’s obvious suggestion that the two of us are throwing off such ridiculous sex vibes that we would clear out a church service. Braden tips his chin my way and slaps Garrett’s shoulder hard enough to throw him a bit. And then they both simply walk off. Men. If women part ways like that, then you can be sure someone is mad at someone.
Two trucks start and then it’s just the two of us. I groan. “You can’t look at me like that when there are other people around.”
“Like what? Like I want them to leave so I can take you in the house for a nice, long round?”
“Yes. Like that.”
“Why? I got what I wanted; they left. Now we can go in the house and you can tell me what you were thinking when you walked over here—that way I know exactly how to give it to you. Everybody wins. Explain to me what the problem is here, why I can’t look at you like that.”
My head drops into my palms. “Because . . .”
I try to think of a good reason. Nothing happens. Probably because Garrett’s arms have wound around and slid down to my backside.
“I don’t know. Just because.”
Garrett stands and our bodies meet, he rocks his hips to mine. “Well, OK, then. Just because. Got it.”
An hour later, Garrett tugs on his jeans but leaves them unbuttoned, a detail I’m able to note even from where I’m sprawled out naked on his bed—and a touch dizzy, despite being entirely prone.
“You stay there and rest. Take a nap. I’ve got to clean my bird and then I’m going to start prepping for the dinner I’m going to make you. Need to run into town and hit the grocery store. You want anything?”
I flop my head about on his pillow because words are too much work. The bed dips under the weight of him and one of his hands slips up the inside of one of my calves, then traces slowly upward, between my legs and over my belly, a quick stop at my breasts, before cupping the back of my neck.
“Did you see your stuff on the kitchen counter?”
My eyes fall closed. “No. My eyeballs were on your butt when we came into the house. That’s what happens when a redneck throws you over his shoulder.”
Garrett chuckles, his face pressed in my hair so when he does, his breath tickles my scalp.
“Ah, yes. I forgot.” A kiss to my forehead. “Take a look while I’m skinning my bird. If it isn’t what you want, I can get other stuff while I’m out.”
Another kiss and he’s gone. I urge myself out of bed with a huff, slipping on my shirt and grabbing my phone off the floor. My mom’s email lights up the lock screen again, and I figure I can’t put it off any longer. Two clicks and it opens.
Cara,
I hope this email finds you well and accomplishing what you had hoped. After speaking with Amie, we’ve decided to come to Aspen for your birthday. We have three suites at The Little Nell, plus reservations at Apogée for dinner on the 12th. I assume you can drive from Davis’s? If not, please advise and we’ll arrange for the charter to bring you in.
Mom
Ah, classic Nan Cavanaugh. No surprises here, nothing particularly motherly or enthusiastic—what she’s sent me is essentially a jazzed-up itinerary. And, as usual, it feels like I’m about as crucial as the hotel concierge to her plans. Perhaps I’ve been in Hotchkiss long enough for it to have rewired some fundamental part of my makeup, because driving over to Aspen sounds about as fun as a root canal. The one upside I can think of is a few hours with Amie at our favorite spa there, where the facials include caviar and the hot rock massages use stones imported from Norway—it’s as decadent as it sounds and Hotchkiss hasn’t changed me so much that I’d turn my back on that.
After pecking out a short reply to my mother that matches hers in the emotional detachment department (Sounds lovely. The drive is easily manageable. I’ll arrive on the eleventh. Cara), I drop the phone to the bed and pad out to the kitchen.
While Garrett’s place is definitely rough around the edges, it’s also clean and comfortable. The furniture is spare but no more so than what I’ve already grown used to at the farmhouse. A couch and coffee table sit in front of the requisite large-screen television, and the only other furniture in the living room is a rack of dumbbells and a weight bench in the corner. On mornings when he hasn’t left early to help the Eulands or go turkey hunting, Garrett grunts his way through an hour of lifting. Sometimes, I watch. Sometimes, I lie in bed and listen.
On the kitchen counter, I find what he’s been so determined about making sure I inspect.
Three boxes of microwave popcorn. One plain, one movie-theater butter, and one kettle corn. Three bottles of red wine. A cab, a merlot, and a pinot noir. And a sticky note with a heart on it, stuck to the top box of popcorn. It’s the simplest of offerings, but entirely perfect. I trace the heart with one fingertip as my own flutters away.
The front door kicks open and Garrett strides in holding two near-failing paper plates full of raw, slightly bloodied, meat.
So much for all my feel good heart fluttering and manly appreciation, because this hunting thing just got real—and it’s gross.
Garrett sets the plates near the sink and starts to rinse off the meat. “Did I get it right?”
With a smile, I stare down at the sweet little gift set he’s curated for me. “It’s perfect.”
“I’m glad.” A returning smile is in his voice. He continues cleaning the meat, dropping each piece into a large metal bowl, where I can smell a heap of garlic and herbs. “I had no clue on the wine, but this is Colorado wine country, so it wasn’t hard to find a vino geek at the liquor store in Paonia to guide me.”
I let my finger trace the heart again. “Now if you only had Real Housewives. Then this night would be complete.”
Garrett sets the bowl in the fridge and moves to wash his hands. He tears off a paper towel, wipes his hands dry, tosses it in the trash, and leans back on the counter. “On the DVR. Should be the last three episodes you haven’t seen.”
My finger freezes in place over the heart. I cut my eyes his way to see if he’s joking. He’s not. Because he’s giving me his soft eyes, the ones that emerge when he’s either postorgasmic or sleepy. He’s giving me Real Housewives, wine, popcorn, and soft eyes. Everything inside me goes all . . . verklempt.
My face shows it, too. And Garrett doesn’t know what to make of it, because he shoves his hands in his pockets and looks down at the linoleum floor.
“Unless you watched some episodes while I wasn’t there, you should be on the one where they go to Dubai. Looks like, as fucking usual, the two Lisas are about to go at it and Kyle’s pretending she wants to stay out of it. And Erika’s taking those gay dudes along.”
Oh God. He’s trying to sound put out by the whole thing, but his attention to the details—the Lisas, Kyle, Erika’s glam squad—betrays whatever sardonic take he was trying for. This day just keeps getting better and better.
I give my head a slow shake. “Could you take your shirt off when you say that?”
Garrett’s eyes shoot up to meet mine. “Take my shirt off?”
Drawing a hand up to my forehead and pretend to dab away some very feminine perspiration—the glistening kind that would accompany a woman being simply overcome.
“Yes. Because the only thing that could make this better is if you were shirtless while you provide this detailed synopsis of my next Real Housewives episode.”
He offers an eye roll but a grin is tugging at his mouth. I pad my way over to him and press my hands to his chest.
“Are you sure this is all about me? Or are you harboring a secret love for Real Housewives and this is a way to cover it up? Am I your reality-show-obsessed beard?”
Garrett cocks a brow. “No. I do not love them. I think they’re all terrible. But you love this shit and I love—”
His jaw snaps shut. Panic flickers in his eyes as my heart starts to beat overtime, my mind tracing an imaginary heart with our names etched inside.
Carefully, he starts in again. “I love making you happy. Even if it pains my eyeballs and tortures my hearing to watch those women do what they do.”
“Sure,” I crow, my tone a little too jovial to cover up what I think just almost happened, and the potential implications of it. But I decide to let it go—for now. “Keep telling yourself that.”
Garrett doesn’t have a dining table—no surprise there. This means our Sunday dinner is served in the living room, with us on the floor around the coffee table. I take a seat atop a couch cushion because it adds a Moroccan flair to what might otherwise feel college-dorm-like. Garrett tries it but claims he feels like a toddler in a wobbly booster seat and tosses it aside.
Tonight, unlike the other nights we’ve eaten dinner together here, there are candles on the coffee table and Garrett’s done all the cooking. Normally, it’s a joint effort—he does the grilled cheese while I heat the soup, he scrambles the eggs while I manage the toast and coffee. But given that the menu centerpiece is wild turkey, I didn’t know how to help with anything beyond opening the wine. Other than that, I stayed out of his way by drafting a few pages based on my visit yesterday with a local vineyard owner and sending out three email proposals to small magazines to hopefully line up my next freelance assignment.
Garrett sets a square plastic platter in the middle of the coffee table, piled high with skewers of herb-marinated turkey breast cutlets, each one wrapped around an asparagus spear and then covered with a bacon slice. A bowl of roasted potatoes sits next to a plate of those refrigerated croissant rolls, and two small dishes of some sort of sauce. Not only does everything look good, the smell of applewood smoking chips filling the air for an hour as he worked outside at the grill had already piqued my taste buds’ interest. Although it hasn’t overridden my hesitation about eating something I saw with its feathers on just a few hours ago.
“You ready for this?”
I take a deep breath. “I think so.”
Garrett starts to dish everything out for me, setting a skewer, a spoonful of potatoes, and one roll on my plate before handing it my way, spying my apprehensive expression when he does.
“Come on. You probably pay twenty bucks a pound for meat at Whole Foods that isn’t as free-range, fresh, and organic as this stuff.”
He plates for himself, then raises his glass of beer to me, and I grab my wine.
“To Cara Cavanaugh. For coming to Hotchkiss, meeting a guy like me, and getting a taste of this life.”
Our glasses clink. We each take a sip and I push my gaze to the plate in front of me, hesitating. After a deep breath, I take up my fork and start simple, with a potato wedge. Garrett slices into his turkey, stabs a forkful, and dips it in the sauce. A good-sounding grunt leaves his mouth.
Now or never, I guess.
I start with a small bite, ensuring there’s plenty of bacon covering the sliver of turkey. I dunk it in the sauce and stare at the fork for a moment, then close my eyes and eat up.
I wait for the inevitable gamey flavor people always talk about to hit my tongue, but it doesn’t. In fact, it’s good. Maybe better than good. The meat is more flavorful than any Thanksgiving turkey or turkey burger I’ve eaten—not quite as tender, but not tough, either. My eyes flip open and I give my fork a surprised look.
“You look shocked.” Garrett’s voice sounds both pleased and mock-insulted.
I take another bite, bigger this time, and chew slowly, ensuring I truly taste it. Another bite, more sauce.
“I am. I figured it would be, I don’t know, gamey or something? People are always saying that. I don’t even know what it means exactly, but it doesn’t sound complimentary. But this is so good. It tastes . . . clean.”
“That’s because it is. No antibiotics, no growth hormones. Plus, I think shooting them with a bow helps, too. And what you do after is important, cleaning and getting the meat cooled down quickly. I don’t kill anything unless I’m going to eat it, so I don’t screw around with that part.”
I point at the dishes between us, take my latest bite and dip it. “And this sauce is amazing. What’s in it?”
Garrett slows his chewing and swallows. He finishes and points his fork toward the bowl.
“That?”
“Yes, the sauce. What is it?”
He smirks. “That is something very special. Something I only serve my finest guests.” He gives a tilt of his head. I widen my eyes to prompt him.
“Ranch dressing.”
My face falls. “Ranch salad dressing?”
He lets out a huge laugh. “Yes. Ranch salad dressing. The kind from a valley that’s apparently hidden. But not from a bottle. Not anything so ordinary for you, Cara. This is the stuff from a packet. I mean, I put some effort into this. I had to add the milk and the mayonnaise, then mix it all up, and let it sit in the fridge for an hour.”
I slap him in the chest with the back of my hand and he snorts. Garrett continues to chuckle between bites, then sets his fork down and kisses my temple. Given that I just did my out-of-touch-rich-girl thing, it seems like the perfect time to mention my trip to Aspen.
“So . . .”
Garrett parrots back, “So . . .”
“I wanted to let you know that I’m leaving on Friday.”
Garrett freezes, his glass poised under his bottom lip. Our eyes lock and his mouth parts a little. His arm drops, stops short of the table, then he sets his glass down deliberately and his eyes drop to his lap.
“I thought you were staying until the end of the month. Until April.”
My face crinkles up. Oh, hell. I set that up wrong.
“Jeez. No, not leaving, leaving. I mean, just for a few days. My family is coming to Aspen for a long weekend, so I’m going to meet up with them. I’ll leave Friday and be back on Wednesday.”
Garrett releases a gusting breath. I do the same. We look at each other, relieved, then wary—because we see exactly how relieved we both are.
And that’s not good. Because if leaving each other for good unnerves us both, then we’re in trouble.