First, our riding instructor, Carson, matched riders with horses at our level of riding experience. My partner was a gentle paint named Cinnamon. Then, Carson encouraged us to get to know our horses before getting in the saddle, so we each fed our horses snacks. Cinnamon took the apples right away, and even nuzzled my hand for more. The calming effect on me was instantaneous.
An hour and a half wasn’t nearly enough. The first part of the trail left the stables to cut through open fields drowning in bluebonnets. Stalks of blue lined the fields as far as the eye could see. The breeze carried the faint sweetness of something else blooming I can’t name, but the effect was like breathing for the first time in months.
As much as I resisted coming on this trip, it’s what I needed. The natural quiet is hard to avoid out here, which is inconvenient because I had a whole attitude prepared. I don’t have a lot of time to be alone in my head between teaching and the boys. I hadn’t really thought about what that was doing to me. It turns out silence is cheaper than therapy. Kate wins this round.
Throughout the ride, Cinnamon would nicker contentedly, the horse’s body swaying gently beneath mine. Knowing my boys were having fun with my mom, I let my mind drift. Why did Cam’s muscled physique and soft brown eyes keep filling my thoughts? And the way my body responded to him? It’s like my pheromones had already partied with his and were just waiting for me to catch up.
During the rest of the ride, I tried to shove all images of Cam out of my mind. He’s nobody to me. Just someone I spoke twelve words to, eleven of which were about a light bulb.
This is not a thing.
But every time we passed a fence or saw other parts of the ranch, I found myself scanning the landscape in search of him. Not once did he pop into view. Not even when we returned to the stables.
I also didn’t see him at dinner or last night’s campfire. Logically, I know it’s for the best. I just need my libido to get on board with that. And truthfully? Being disappointed catches me off guard. I mean, I haven’t dated in a while. There aren’t too many men in their mid-twenties who want to date someone with twins under the age of two, and I understand that. But my boys deserve a man who’s at least interested in the idea of them.
That’s why I have to shut down my lust-filled thoughts. I’m not interested in a fling or dating for the sake of dating. Kate and my mom both tell me that’s the wrong attitude. Dating for the sake of dating is the point. “That’s how you get to know people,” theysay. And while they may have a point, I don’t have to agree with it.
Besides, Cam wouldn’t be interested in anything more than a one-and-done or a week-long fling at the most. We don’t even live in the same place. But is a fling completely out of the question? Kate says I deserve some fun, but taking a good nap is my idea of fun.
The pond finally comes into view under the dark sky. As I approach the picnic tables, guitar notes drift toward me. A musician sits at the water’s edge, lost in his music. Someone else can’t sleep, either.
The gravel on the path to the tables is uneven in places, and I pick my footing carefully out of old habit, my hip already registering the change in terrain the way it always does somewhere new. I find a picnic table and sit on its tabletop.
Tapping on my drawing app, I fully intend on continuing my sketch of Cinnamon. My fingers have a mind of their own, though, swiping to a clean page. The distant music enthralls me, the chords hauntingly beautiful. I am not a country music fan. I prefer Lana Del Rey or even Vahvuus, but even I can appreciate the complexity of the music this man is playing.
What’s interesting is that he arranges notes in real time, starting and stopping, then remixing, almost as if he’s writing the song out here. Impressed, I begin sketching his silhouette, which is illuminated only by the moonlight. My fingers move with precision, capturing the outline of his head and the curve of his shoulders. I’m so lost in my art that I don’t notice the music has stopped.
“Mallory?“ My pulse quickens at the familiar voice.
“Hi, Cam.“ I had no idea I’ve been sketching him, and my tummy flutters with a mix of excitement and unease. Of course Idrew the ranch hand. Of course I did. I came out here for peace and quiet, and my hand decided to rebel and do its own thing.
He ambles over to my table with a distinct, carefree swagger that all hot guys have. Stopping several feet away, he asks, “May I join you?“
He’s close enough now that I catch something warm and cedar-y, like he showered before coming out here at 3 a.m., his vibe is gentle and eager. If I could see his aura, I bet it’d be golden. The glasses should make him less attractive. They do not.
“Sure.”
He heads to the nearby circle of the Adirondacks and drags it over, hanging his guitar on the back of his chair. He must have a good mother because he respected my personal space. That’s how I’m raising my boys, to be aware of women. Impressive.
“Nice sneakers.” He nods at Kate’s shoes. “Different vibe than what you had at dinner.”
I look down at the sneakers. “I grabbed the closest ones. They’re my sister’s.” I glance back up, my skin tingling. “You noticed my shoes at dinner?”
He lifts a shoulder, the corner of his mouth turning up. “You’re hard to miss.”
I’ve heard that before. Kate and I both have heart-shaped faces and a subtle widow’s peak, with full lips and blue eyes. Men have often pointed out that we resemble Marilyn Monroe pre-glam. I don’t like the attention, but for some reason, Cam’s compliment seeps through the cracks of my thick armor and settles in a way that is, frankly, inconvenient.
Ignoring the subtle shift in our dynamic, he settles into the Adirondack and stretches his legs out, his jeans hugging his thighs in dangerous ways. “What are you reading?“
I very deliberately look back at my iPad. “I was sketching, actually.”
The cicadas chirp all around us, the earthy smell grassy and fresh as it mixes with his clean scent.
“Anything interesting?“
I don’t know why I don’t tell him the truth immediately. I’m not embarrassed that I was drawing him, and it’s not like me to lie.
I must wait a bit longer than reasonable because he says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.
