21
(Garrett)
I’m not sure if it’s this restaurant or my shirt that’s making my skin itch, but something sure as shit is.
The shirt is a light blue Ariat button-down that was a Christmas present from my mom two years ago, gone unworn until now, because I never had a reason to wear it. But dinner with Cara Cavanaugh’s family at a place like this? Time to dig out the shirt. And wear it tucked in. This is Colorado, so jeans are acceptable anywhere, although I made sure to wear my least-trashed pair, along with boots that do not have dried mud in every stitch.
As for the restaurant, Apogée is uppity and French, housed in a renovated Victorian-era house at the end of a block in downtown Aspen, the kind of place where dinner will take three hours and you’ll pay through the nose for the privilege of every minute. And when you leave? Still hungry.
I left myself time to spare for the drive from Hotchkiss to Aspen and arrived almost a half hour early, then sat in my truck for a while before finally coming inside the restaurant, still wondering why I said yes to this dinner in the first place.
The short answer is Cara. The Cara who made my day when I saw her text come through, right up until I read it and realized what I was in for if I said yes. But she’s the same Cara I missed seeing for the last few days and the same Cara I can’t say no to—even if that means I end up perched on an antique bench in the lobby of a pretentious restaurant like this one.
The bench is rickety as all hell, and the unfriendly woman greeting guests shoots a death glare my way every time I move and it creaks. Her black hair is pulled back in a painful-looking knot at her neck, and she’s dressed in a bloodred dress with knee-high black boots. She’s coldly beautiful, and I find her terrifying. I’ve been holding my breath and sitting like there’s a bomb under the bench ever since she instructed me to sit here while I wait, hoping to keep the glares to a minimum.
I check my phone again, scratching my neck as I do, cursing the stiff shirt collar and my rumbling, empty stomach. Who sits down for a dinner like this at eight o’clock at night? People who don’t have to get up at five a.m. to help Kenny Euland tag calves, that’s who. Still, here I am—with my neck starting to chafe and my stomach demanding a cheeseburger in the next five minutes or it’s going to start growling loud enough to be heard back in the kitchen.
A vision of that burger fills my mind as the front door swings open and a gust of cold night air rushes in. A tall man with a full head of dark but salt-flecked hair steps inside, holding the door as a petite blonde wearing a knee-length black coat with a fur-lined collar brushes past him. She stops two feet away but doesn’t seem to notice my existence, tugging off her leather gloves and tucking them into a black purse she has clasped in the crook of one arm.
Another blonde follows—basically a younger model of the first, her blonde hair pulled back like the hostess, but on this woman it comes off as elegant instead of severe. Flanking her is a guy who looks like he’s one vote away from his first Senate term, with dark hair and a nice suit, pressing his hand to her lower back as he stares quizzically back at the doorway.
“Where did she go?”
The older blonde sighs and shakes her head, lips pursed and her jaw drawn tight enough that I can see her delicate jawbone flex.
“How did we lose her between the car and . . .” The younger blonde’s words trail off when she swings her gaze across the room, smiling when her eyes land on me. And when she does, the set of her mouth and the way her entire face turns bright in a way I’m familiar with—I know exactly who I’m looking at.
Cara’s younger sister.
Cara’s claimed more than once that she and her sister Amie look nothing alike—but she’s wrong. Sure, the hair color, eye color, and heights are different, but that’s too obvious. Underneath that, in the way they move and say everything with their expressions, they’re practically twins.
Amie’s mouth starts to form what looks like a greeting for me, but she’s cut off by the future senator. “Here she is.”
My eyes sweep to the doorway and Cara’s there, still half turned toward the outside, like she’s looking for me. Her father gently pats her shoulder. When she turns, she sees me immediately.
And maybe it’s the hunger pangs doing the talking here, but I want to clear the distance between us and kiss her without a bit of warning. Without worrying about her family or the terrifying hostess, or anything else. All this and we’ve only been apart three days. Three days and I’m already out of my mind thinking about my hands up in her hair, doing a little damage to her pin-straight look tonight, so different from the just-out-of-bed look I like and know best.
She’s wearing a dress that might require a little damage, too. Fitted, borderline tight, it hits just below her knees. It’s black and white, with a weird-looking flowery pattern on it that reminds me of a bad tablecloth. And while I’d never say so, I don’t think it’s my favorite look on her—not that she doesn’t look gorgeous, she does. She just doesn’t look like her. This dress is too Stepford Wife, too worthy of a strand of pearls and the right amount of judgment to match. She also looks like she can’t move, let alone breathe. She looks stuck—trapped inside a dress that’s wearing her, instead of the other way around.
Now, her shoes . . . those are a different story.
Cara’s long legs look even longer when she’s sporting a pair of black heels that are high enough to seem treacherous, but look damn hot. The strappy things that crisscross her feet and wrap around her ankles only ratchet up the hotness.
When I stand, the antique bench creaks in relief. Cara lets her eyes eat up my frame and each of my senses soaks up the experience: the sight of her, the orange Creamsicle scent of her, the way I want a taste. I go straight to her side, hoping her family will understand, and when my hand finds hers, it’s just the two of us. For a moment we’re in a little bubble, alone, neither of us wearing clothes that obviously make us want to scratch our skin off.
“Cara.” Her mother’s voice bursts the bubble. “Introductions, please.”
Cara and I both straighten. She sighs while keeping her eyes on mine and I give her hand a squeeze. A let’s do this look passes between us.
“Sorry. I’d like you all to meet Garrett Strickland.” Cara starts to tick off each member of the party and I get something different from each. A curt nod from her mother, a firm handshake from her father, and a goofy smile from Amie.
But the future senator says almost everything I need to know with a handshake and a grin—one that says don’t fuck with her and welcome to the jungle, all at the same time.
Amuse-bouche, my ass. My mouth does not find this bacon-wrapped roasted banana bite at all amusing. When the team of waiters set these tiny pewter plates in front of us, I almost laughed at the pretentious bullshit that came with presenting what looked like someone’s first-day kitchen fuckup. Then the head waiter stepped back and announced: “An amuse-bouche.” His eyes locked on mine. “To entertain the mouth.” After that, he said something else in French but didn’t bother to translate.
I labor through chewing the mushy banana in my mouth and search the table for something that might help clear away the taste once I finish. But there’s not even a bread basket on the table. All that’s in front of me is my water glass and a little teakwood bowl filled with pink-colored salt nuggets. I begged off ordering a beer—despite Cara’s mom asking twice already if I was sure I didn’t want one—because I have a long drive home coming later. But that was before this not-mouth-entertaining banana thing.
Cara’s hand finds my thigh under the table and gives a squeeze above my knee. Using her other hand, she moves her wineglass a few inches over in my direction. I grab the glass and take a gulp, swishing it around in my mouth as subtly as possible.
“Garrett, are you positive you don’t want a beer? I’m sure they have something . . . domestic.”
Cara fingers grips my knee and her nails dig in. “Mom, please stop asking him if he wants a beer. He’s a grown man. If he wants a beer, he will order one.”
A split-second glaring match ensues, ending only when a flicker of confusion and disappointment lights in Mrs. Cavanaugh’s eyes and she looks away. I draw Cara’s still-claw-gripped hand in mine and skate my thumb over the back until I feel her relax.
“I’m fine, Mrs. Cavanaugh. But thank you for asking. Again.” She nods and the neutral eye contact I get feels like a victory, a bonus over what I’ve gotten up to this point.
Another sweep of my thumb to Cara’s hand and I glance her way, waiting for her to see me. When she does, there are little furrows across her forehead and her mouth is turned down at the corners. I don’t think I’ve seen her this way before—even when she’s writing and the words aren’t going well. And all the techniques I employ on those nights to distract her, I can’t use here. I can’t kiss her neck or rub her shoulders, can’t tickle her until she’s out of breath from squirming. I definitely can’t make her squirm in other ways.
Amie interjects before I do something stupid like haul Cara into my lap, kiss her, and wrap my arms around her until her head is tucked to my neck.
“So, tell us more about Hotchkiss, Cara. How is your work coming along?”
The legion of servers have cleared the amuse-bouche plates and are now placing slightly bigger plates in front of us. In the center is a cracker the size of a poker chip, topped with salmon roe and a dollop of something foamy. I groan silently.
Fucking bait on a Ritz cracker.
Cara waits until the server sets her plate down, her brow loosening when she answers. “Well, my working draft is coming along and I’ve interviewed quite a few people already, but I still have more lined up. And I think I’m finally starting to fit in a little, which makes talking to people easier.”
I finish chewing my Ritz bite and grab a sip of water. “You’re totally fitting in. I mean, Kenny calls you ‘darlin’.’ ”
She snorts. “Kenny calls everyone ‘darlin’.’ That’s not exactly a sign of my seamless integration into the community.”
“But he means it with you. I’ve known him since I was five, but I see him these days and it’s all ‘Cara, Cara, Cara.’ ”
“Jealous?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Damn near as jealous as I was when that heifer got fresh with you.”
Our protective bubble sweeps over us again. Cara smiles and I lean in an inch or so, making her all mine for the moment.
“A heifer? As in a cow?” Cara’s dad has been nearly silent since we sat down, but when his too-loud question pokes a hole in our bubble, I look up, steal a look at his empty scotch glass, and understand why. He’s teetering on the edge of drunk, that’s why.
“Our Cara, the girl who was kicked out of Campfire Girls in the first week because she refused to put her book down and leave the tent? She experienced some sort of cow interlude? I want to hear this story. Do tell.”
Cara groans. “Let’s not.”
“Come on, City.” I stretch an arm out and drape it over the back of her chair, setting my hand to her shoulder. Cara gives me a wry but playful look. I turn my attention back to the table.
“Her first time out with me we went to a cattle rancher’s place. Kenny Euland’s. The same guy who cares only about Cara now, despite having known me since I was cruising around on a Big Wheel.” I lift an eyebrow in her direction. She jumps in.
“It’s calving season right now, so these guys are super busy. We’re talking twenty-four-seven. Garrett helps out when he can; they need as many hands as they can get.”
One look and she hands it back to me. “Anyway, we’re out checking pastures, looking for any problems, checking on the gals to see if any of them are close or look like they’re going to have trouble delivering.”
Cara grabs a quick sip of her wine. “Garrett parks the truck and starts tossing out these feed pellets. These things are like catnip to cows, so suddenly we’re surrounded. But I was holding my own.”
“Until . . .” I add.
Amie’s eyes dart between Cara and me. Same goes for the fiancé, both of them grinning. Cara drops her head and uses her napkin to cover her face, speaking through the cloth.
“Until . . .”
Ice rattles in her father’s scotch glass and a server materializes out of nowhere to replace it with a fresh one. A ruddy blush is across his features now, but he’s still with us. Her mom? I’m not sure. The lemon-faced but vacant-eyed look she’s sporting makes it hard to know if she’s totally checked out or entirely tuned in.
Cara drops the napkin back to her lap, giving up a dramatic sigh. I move my hand to the back of her neck, letting my thumb rub tiny circles near the slope of her collarbone.
“Until a randy heifer came up behind me and started poking me. The cow was right . . .” Cara opens her arms wide then uses one hand to wave at the space where her fine ass is. “Right there. I didn’t know what to do. I thought it was Garrett at first.”
I sputter a little. “You did? Seriously?”
She gives up a jerky nod and a booming laugh escapes me. Amie slaps her hand over her mouth to keep from howling, but her fiancé joins right in with me.
“I did.” Cara’s eyes light up when I give a sly grin that admits the idea of me groping her ass that day wasn’t too far-fetched. “But the wet snorting sound was my first clue that it wasn’t Garrett. I screamed, took off, then tripped and face-planted into a puddle of mud and cow pies. I was covered in it.”
Amie gives in and laughs, loudly and unreservedly, followed by Dad adding in a scotch-soaked chuckle of his own. And when Cara tips her head my way, her temple resting on my upper arm, it’s like we’ve done this all before, a million times over. Sat at a table and told a story together, with the sort of timing that would earn us envious looks from couples who can’t do the same.
But I know it’s just that. A feeling. Something more than what it is. An anecdote between two people who don’t have anything but a few more weeks together.
After what feels like nine hundred one-bite platefuls of weirdness, the server declares that our dessert soufflés will arrive shortly—an announcement which everyone but me makes excited noises about. I thought the thimbleful of berry sorbet we just ate was dessert.
Can’t blame a guy, really. Not after a salad course that looked like someone tossed a handful of weeds on a plate then sprinkled some beer nuts on top to garnish it, followed by a sliver of smoked trout with pickled-something on it that tasted mostly like vinegar, and then a glob of duck-flavored mousse smeared on a piece of melba toast. And the pasta course, which was one—one—ravioli on a plate, stuffed with something orange and mushy, drizzled with olive oil and a single shaving of Parmesan cheese. The entrée was enormous by comparison. A supposed elk tenderloin that tasted a lot like bison to me, surrounded by three baby red potatoes and the same number of roasted carrots.
Still, everyone else at the table has leaned back in their chairs to stretch in what I think is the rich-people version of a food coma.
Cara downs the last of her wine and turns my way, letting the other conversations carry on without us.
“Hi,” she whispers.
My mouth hitches up on one side into an easy grin. I lean forward a few inches. “Hi.”
“Are you miserable?”
“No. I’m not miserable.” I kick one eyebrow up. “I am starving, though.”
Cara stifles what I know would be a real laugh if we were alone. I tuck my hand into hers under the tablecloth, setting our intertwined hands high on my thigh.
“Before I forget, Brooke called me looking for you. She wants to give you some info on a guy with a farm in Kansas she thinks you should meet. Her dad’s second cousin by marriage or some crap like that. Make sure you call her when you get home.”
Home. That word nudged its way in there without my permission, and I’m not sure if backpedaling will make it worse, so I leave it alone, thankful that it’s nothing compared to my near-slipup a few nights ago. Although I’m sticking with the story that the Real Housewives are to blame for the I love you that almost came out of my mouth—the show is fucking ridiculous, so talking about it must have a similar effect on my common sense. And falling in love with a woman who doesn’t live here and is leaving sooner rather than later would be beyond stupid.
Cara moves our hands deeper into the space between my legs, and I realize that if she noticed how I said “home,” she doesn’t care. Plus, her hand is closer to my dick now, so thinking about much else is impossible.
“Kansas? What part, did she say? Close enough for us to day-trip when you have time off?”
“I didn’t ask. But Kansas is a haul, so—”
“What in God’s name could be in Kansas? Other than cornfields or . . . whatever it is they grow there.”
So much for thinking there were other conversations going on around us and we might become invisible to everyone but each other for a minute. Apparently, Cara’s mom’s radar was still tuned in. Not sure how moms do that, but they do.
Cara’s entire body turns taut, like she’s looking for an escape route. She pulls her hand from mine, sets it on her lap to fidget with her napkin. “A possible lead for another interview from a friend of mine in Hotchkiss. She mentioned it to Garrett.”
“Another friend in Hotchkiss? Have you been hired by the Chamber of Commerce yet?” Mrs. Cavanaugh mutters before leveling me with a look that makes it clear she doesn’t like the roots Cara’s dug in Hotchkiss.
I’m enemy number one for the moment, the guy who’s helped her daughter settle into a town that’s too far away from where she wants her and doing things she apparently doesn’t want her daughter wasting time doing. “Perhaps that will be a good stop on your drive home. After all, before you know it, it’s time for you to head back for Amie’s wedding.”
“I know,” Cara manages. Too quietly, too meekly.
Mr. Cavanaugh’s glass—his fifth, but who’s counting—hits the tabletop with an uneven landing he rights before the ice cubes topple out. “Speaking of you coming home, Cara Jane—”
Ah. My chest starts to swell and a smile hits my lips. Cara’s middle name is Jane. I love that. It sounds all musical and pretty.
“—you need to set up your quarterly appointment with Ron Dunlap. Meeting with your investment advisor is part of the agreement Granny Jane and I had when she established the trusts for you and Amie. As trustee, it’s my job to make sure you don’t neglect these things.”
“Dad. Not now, please.” Cara rolls her eyes, her tone strained.
But Dad’s officially too blitzed to notice. He’s talking way too loud, and now his eyes are watery. Being shit-faced means he doesn’t hear the plea in his daughter’s voice or see the cringing blush on her cheeks, any of the clues that might keep him from continuing to talk about what is apparently Cara’s big fat bank account.
“In a few short years, you’ll gain access to your entire trust, Cara. You need to be prepared. Money doesn’t manage itself; you have to—”
Cara lurches up from her chair, nearly knocking it backward until I shoot my arm out to keep it upright. “Excuse me for a moment.”
Cara skirts between our chairs and clears the room. Amie watches her bolting exit, then looks my way with a silent question: Are you going or am I?
I’m on my feet in a split second. “Be right back.”
I scan the entryway for Cara but don’t see her. A staircase leads up to a second floor, and I pause there, capturing the hateful hostess’s attention. Suddenly, I want to do anything I can to wipe that smug, pinched smirk off this woman’s face.
“Hey. Is the john up there?”
Her face goes slack and she looks a little confused and totally horrified. For a moment it looks like she’s about to skewer me with a rant, but then she seems to decide I’m not worth the effort. She gives a limp flick of one hand toward the stairs.
I take the stairs two at a time, and they creak loudly, which I hope irritates the hostess even more. Ducking down the hallway, I come to a stop outside the ladies’ room door and wait for the sound of water rushing in a sink to stop. The door creaks open and Cara checks her reflection in the mirror before stepping out, coming to a sharp halt when she sees me. Her eyes are tired and a touch red, but thankfully nothing indicates she’s been full-on crying in there.
“You OK?”
She lifts one shoulder and looks right through me. I try again.
“Is it the soufflés? They do seem to be taking a long-ass time. Rest assured, I’m sure when they finally come out, they’ll be the best three teeny-tiny bites of chocolate you’ve ever tasted. They’ll probably garnish them with the world’s smallest raspberry and a microscopic sprig of mint. Maybe a dollop of whipped cream the size of a miniature donkey’s teardrop. Fair warning, when I scarf all that down, you’re going to have to roll me out of here.”
Cara laughs, takes two steps forward and crashes into me, wrapping her arms tight around my waist. My hands come around her, one sweeping down over her hair, which is as silky as it looks, so I do it again. Her dress feels nice, too. The kind that means I want to know how easily it would rip open if we were alone.
A shaky exhale leaves her. I set my hands to her hips, grounding her with a firm grip. “Why are you freaking out right now?”
She exhales loudly, tips her head down to tuck herself closer to me.
“I’m sorry about all of this. Dragging you up here to endure my family and French food on little plates while my mother foists beer on you and my dad discusses our finances like everyone in the world has a trust advisor. I should have known better. But Amie wanted to meet you, and I missed you, so I convinced myself it wouldn’t be that terrible. I was wrong. It’s so terrible.”
I let out a quiet snort, pull her closer so I can kiss her cheek, then urge her back enough that we can see each other.
“Cara, sweetheart, I knew what I was getting into by driving over here. Did you honestly think I didn’t know I was going to stick out like a sore-thumb redneck tonight? Come on, you know me a little better than that.” I bump her chin gently with my thumb. “I know who I am. I know where I fit and where I don’t, so you don’t have to worry about me—I can handle myself. But I wanted to see you, so here I am.”
“But my mom with the beers. Like you’re incapable of enjoying wine or scotch or simply some water. And my dad. Jesus, he—”
“Your dad’s half in the bag. Not the first or last time I’ve spent the evening with a guy who’s shit-faced. And I think your mom’s just trying to figure us out. She’s not sure whether she needs to erect a steel fence between our chairs or figure out how to hustle you home to Chicago on a red-eye tonight. She’s feeling possessive, that’s all.”
A scoff from Cara. “My mother has never been possessive of me. Amie? Maybe. But not me.”
Tucking a stray lock of her hair behind her ear, I tilt my head and study Cara’s face to see if she believes what she just said. When her eyes suddenly won’t meet mine, I realize she does.
“You’re way off base there. She might not understand you, but she loves you. Loves you hard enough that she’s getting a little mama grizzly on us tonight. I can’t blame her—it’s impossible to know you and not want to sink your hooks in, make sure you don’t get away.”
Cara’s eyes rise to mine again, all the spark and light I like to see there shining through. Her hands slip up and over my chest, then tick down the center, stopping to toy with the top button on my shirt before pressing her body to mine. I remind my dick that we’re in the hallway of a fancy restaurant, but he doesn’t seem to hear me. Given that my cock is deaf and I think Horny Cara might be plotting her arrival on the scene, we probably need to get out of this hallway as quickly as possible.
“Better now? Are you ready to go back down there?”
She shakes her head slowly, undoes a button on my shirt, and tucks her fingertip under the stiff material. Heat radiates from that spot so intensely I can feel it in my toes.
“Tell me what you need, then.” Cara gives a jerky nod toward the entrance of the restaurant. I swallow hard. “Yeah? You sure?”
She teases the center of her upper lip with the tip of her tongue, whispers that she’s so sure. I follow up with a question that makes it clear I need to get out of this restaurant as soon as possible, because the fact that I even consider it means this place is getting to my brain.
“What about the soufflés?”
Cara undoes another button. “They take forever, trust me. No one will even notice. Where’s your truck?”
“Out back. In the lot where I’m pretty sure the kitchen staff parks. It looked like it belonged there more than it did out front between a Tesla and a Range Rover.”
“Tell me you parked in a dark corner of the lot.”
I grin at her. “The darkest.”