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After she returns to the living room, she stays on her feet near the couch, eyeing me in the kitchen. “Need help?”
Those little black leggings are hard to keep my eyes off of, but I manage. “You’ve helped quite a bit today, wouldn’t you say?” I tease, casting her a wink.
“Fried steak is nothing after a creek rescue,” she jokes back, coming to boldly sit on the kitchen counter. She swings her legs, and something about her comfort in my home is arousing.
I flip the steak and turn off the skillet, throwing the dish towel over my shoulder. “Drink?” I ask, pulling open the fridge.
“Just water,” she smiles, and it’s then I realize she isn’t even old enough to drink. And while that should remind me that she’s far too young, I can’t stop looking at the gash above her eye, and the bruise on her elbow. She wasn’t too young to be a hero, and after what she did today, I’m no longer sure age matters.
Or if it ever did.
Handing her a bottle of water, I plate our food as she drinks, the slow glug of her throat making my cock stiffen.
We take a few bites, and I’m overwhelmed with the need to know Dolly better. Truth be told, I’ve had questions before, but a man my age has previously had no business sniffing around a woman her age.
Previously.
“Have you always wanted to be a painter?” I ask, sipping from my beer.
She tucks hair behind one ear, exposing a tiny diamond stud in her lobe. I bought a pair just like that for Tessa years ago, and she almost never wore them. I’ve noticed that Dolly never takes those out and I wonder who gave them to her. Irrational jealousy snakes through my core when I envision some pimple-faced teenager handing her a box of jewelry that they bought with their parents’ money.
“I like your earrings,” I tell her as she chews, unable to answer my question about painting just yet because her mouth has been full.
When she swallows, her shiny eyes come to mine, and my chest tightens. “I know.”
I arch a brow, pushing steak around my plate. She smiles. “I saw you looking at them,” she clarifies. “So I assumed.” Another bite of steak, then she adds, “And no, I didn't always want to be a painter. Some handsome guy once told me that he loved paintings, and was impressed by artists.” I feel her wink in my balls. “I always wanted to do my own thing, though.”
I nod, understanding that. I did always want to ranch, but I didn’t always want to run a farmers market, or parent alone. Sometimes we get pieces of our dreams, and the world teaches us a lesson about being grateful. I wonder if the guy who told her he likes art realized he shaped hercareer? That’s pretty fucking flattering, to have a bright, sexy woman like Dolly be so wrapped up in you that a comment guides her entire career. I’d be flattered, I think.
I clear my throat, focusing on the conversation. “What about greeting cards? Do you want to make greeting cards your forever career?” I wonder aloud, realizing that I’ve actually thought these questions time and time again, but I’ve never felt like I could or should ask.
Knowing more about her now doesn’t seem like a choice but more so, something vital.
“Forever is a long time.” She laughs softly, the gentle tone causing my nipples to harden beneath my t-shirt. Everything that Deuce tried to tell me about dating a little to get back into the swing of being comfortable comes rushing back, and part of me wonders if I was wrong to disagree. A one-night stand sounds awful, but as I peer across the dinner table at a beautiful, young, sweet Dolly, I get it.
Having a few rounds fired off, getting comfortable with all the equipment again—that probably wasn’t awful advice.
It just goes against everything I want in life, to fuck someone I don’t have an emotional connection with.
“Forever is a long time,” I agree, laughing a little, too, as I bring my beer to my lips.
“There’s one thing still up in the air right now, otherwise, I’d be able to tell you my full plan,” she says, finishing her plate of food. “But yeah, I do want to make greeting cards and stay in Bluebell.”
“Sounds like you got it pretty close to figured out,” I reply, liking that she knows she wants to stay where her family is, where her family’s land and legacies are, and thatshe wants to continue making greeting cards. “Everyone loves cards. I think it’s a really cool thing you do, Dolly. Making cards— I’ve always loved that.”
She smiles. “I love that you love it.”
That comment has my mouth opening and closing, tangling my words. Why does she care what I think of her job? I run a hand up the back of my neck as I stare down at my empty plate. I suppose if she said she hates cattle ranchers that I’d… Well, hell, I think I’d be disappointed. As foolish as that sounds.
“You know, Dolly, I know I said thank you but I also know that it’s not enough. That all the gratefulness I have in my heart for you is hardly even touched by a simple thank-you. I just… I want you to know that. That what you did today was something I will never forget.”
Right as she reaches across the table, her smaller hand sliding toward my large one, there’s a soft knock at the front.
Her gaze flicks to the door, then she digs her phone from her pocket. “No missed calls, so that’s not Ivy or Juni,” she tells me, taking her hand back from the center of the table.
“Could be Deuce. He may’ve left his shop keys here or something,” I say, moving from the table through the house, toward the door.
But when I open it, I’m surprised and disappointed to see Tiffani.
