“Okay. You gotta close your eyes.”
“What?”
“Close your eyes, baby girl. Keep ‘em closed. It won’t be long.” Everett closes the door to his truck and through the open window, I hear the soft thump of his footsteps on packed dirt fade as he walks round to the drivers’ side, and then the thunk of the door as it opens and closes. His scent surrounds me as he slips into the cab beside me. I hear him twist the key in the ignition and the engine sputter to life before his hand brushes against my arm on its way to the gearstick and parking brake.
Most of the Americans I’ve met drive automatic vehicles, but watching the way Everett’s forearms and biceps flex as he shifts gears manually just does something to me. I can only imagine it today, withmy eyes closed, as he settles into the drive and rests his right hand on my thigh, twining his fingers loosely with mine. They leave every time he shifts gears, and return almost immediately, warm digits wrapping around mine with a comforting pressure.
Within minutes, I hear the wheels move from the dirt road to asphalt, and then to a gravel track. The wind whips through my hair, the wound-down windows creating a swirling tunnel of fresh-smelling air that mingles with Everett’s amber cologne and sits between us until he finally coasts the truck to a stop and cuts the engine.
“Eyes still closed, baby girl?”
“Yep.” Everett unclips my seatbelt, gently brushing windswept, unruly hair from my face as he leans across me.
“Good. Keep ‘em closed for me.”
He hops out, and seconds later, my door opens. He takes my hand and helps me out of the truck, holding onto me even as he slams the door closed and locks up.
“Where are you taking me?”
“You’ll see. Trust me, honey. It’s mostly a flat walk, I’ve got you.” He wraps one arm around my waist and holds my arm with the other, supporting me as I walk blindly. He steers me to the left, and then a little to the right, and then up a small step. It’s quiet out here; nothing but the wind rustling some leaves, and the sound of a couple of birds. Wherever we are, I think we’re far enough from town that I can’t even hear traffic, never mind people. The air is fresh and clean; it’s a warm enough day, but there’s a deliciously cool breeze on my face.
“Open your eyes.”
I’m immediately met with an expanse of clear water, almost entirely still but for the odd ripple warping the reflection of the near-cloudless sky. On the other side of the lake is a densely wooded area, and even the trees are still. On the edge of the water, there’s a small card table,covered in a gingham cloth and laden with what looks like deli meats, breads, cheeses, and grapes, along with a bottle of something in a bucket of what might have once been ice.
“Sorry, it melted,” Everett says with a sheepish grin as he lifts the bottle free. He shakes off the excess water before tearing the foil and untwisting the wire.
“Are we celebrating?” I’m overwhelmed already at the thoughtfulness of everything Everett has done today. I ghost a finger along the edge of the wooden food platters, spinning around to take it all in. The view is stunning. It’s even better with Everett in it.
“Of course we are,” he says smoothly, popping the cork without spilling a drop. He holds out a champagne flute to me, then pours my favourite kind of bubbles into it. “You’re here with me. I’ve got you back in my arms, baby girl. Nothing is more worthy of celebrating than that.”
After my last trip out here, I finally opened up to my best friends about the issue that’s plagued me for years. I’m no virgin, but no man has ever made me come before. Until Everett. And he barely even had to touch me to make it happen. All I had to do was get myself off riding his jean-clad thigh like some kind of desperate hussy. But with one smile, a few gentle words, I’m ready to say forget this beautiful brunch spread he’s prepared, and spread myself out for him instead.
But I won’t. Not yet, at least. Now that I’m stood right beside the table, I can smell the pungency of the cheese, the freshness of the bread. I have no idea how Everett made this happen; I can only assume he had help. But however he did it, it’s incredible. I love it. I take a large gulp of champagne to occupy my mouth, to stop it from babbling all the crazy, ridiculous, outrageous things I’ve been thinking since the first time Everett and I met.
Despite the full table, we polish off most of the food with astonishing speed and gluttony. Our feast is punctuated with Everett’s stories of growing up on the ranch, of his adventures with Brooks and Jody, and the hijinks they’d get up to on the vast expanse of land split across the Tanner and Fisher ranches. He holds out the last grape to me with a beautiful smile, and I open my mouth patiently, expectantly. He feeds me, and I bite down on the fruit, savouring the sweetness as it explodes on my tongue. It feels somehow erotic, even though it’s just fruit, and it’s not like I’ve never eaten a grape before. But the way Everett’s grey eyes are burning holes into mine, the way I want him, the way I know he wants me… the simple act of eating a grape has me on edge and ready to explode.
He reaches for a small box on the side of the table. I hadn’t even noticed it amidst all the food laid out. He begins to open it, his eyes never leaving mine.
“You’re lucky, you know.”
“I know,” I say.
“I don’t share these,” he continues. “Ever. But I’m sharing them with you.” He lifts the final flap to remove another, smaller box, and the air around us is suddenly filled with the scent of something warm and chocolatey. He lifts the lid on the new box to reveal four perfect, enormous squares, topped with a perfect cracked layer and dotted with white chocolate chunks. I’ve just eaten plenty, but my mouth is watering in anticipation.
“These are pumpkin blondies,” Everett explains. He glances down at them, lovestruck, before pinning me with the same expression. “My sister baked them and overnighted them here. They’re the fucking best.”
He wipes the cheese residue from one of the knives on the tablecloth, then uses the blade to cut into one of the blondies before holdingthe small square out to me. He feeds it to me just the way he did with the grapes, and I bite through the light crunch to the fudgy, cakey layer that makes up most of the brownie itself. A quiet moan escapes me, and Everett swallows hard, his throat working as his eyes flare.
“You weren’t kidding,” I say, running my tongue along the inside of my teeth to catch every last crumb. “That’s incredible.”
His eyes never leave me. “Yeah,” he whispers. “You’re pretty incredible, too.”
We polish off one of the blondies and box up the rest, and once we’re ready to leave, Everett loads everything into the back of his truck. It only takes him a minute or two, despite refusing my offer of help, and then we leave the lake. It’s hard to tell for a while whether we’re heading back the way we came, but when we drive under an archway of Texas flag bunting strung between a pair of matching Welcome to Skillett, Texas! signs, I realise we’re taking a detour on our way home.
“What are we doing now?” I ask. Everett glances over at me with a lazy smile on his face.
“My girl can’t be on a ranch without some real boots,” he says, maneuvering the truck into a wide, angled bay on the side of the road. “Maybe we’ll get you a hat, too.”
