We tumble into the orgasmic abyss at nearly the same time, Fitz grinding out my name and me being in the moment for once without worrying about where it will lead.
One perfect night. As promised, Fitz succeeds at making me stop thinking. For a few minutes.
For a few hours…
I don’t have the words to describe all the new places he touched where my senses have lain dormant, all the ways he found to make me shiver and sigh and moan.
I don’t give him my number or make false promises about the possibility of a future, and he doesn’t ask.
I don’t let him drive me home. There’s a rideshare out in front of the Hitching Post by the time we make our way downstairs and out into the cool air in front of the buildings.
With an arm draped loosely over my shoulders, he walks me to the waiting car. The driver barely looks up, and Fitz puts his hand on the door but doesn’t open it. A beat of silence passes between us.
Awareness of a connection. The calm of knowing our night together was spectacular.
Fitz puts his hand on my cheek and leans in for a soft, deliberate kiss. No words needed.
He pulls the door open. I brush my hand over his chest just for a second before letting go. After I slide into the car, Fitz closes the door carefully, lingering a moment longer, as if he doesn’t want the night to end.
Then it does. And the car ferries me away.
CHAPTER 7
Fitz
I wakeup at my ranch with a case of the Mondays, but I'm in a better mood than usual, thanks to a certain brunette who kept me up half the night on Saturday.
A brunette I’ll never see again.
It’s been years since I hooked up with someone. I pretty much know everyone in this town, which means I know better than to set tongues wagging with any hint at romance when I don’t plan to follow through.
But there’s a bigger reason. I don’t trust myself to be a good romantic partner. The role model I had for relationships was a father who made his problems everyone else’s. Apple doesn’t fall far. In the one long relationship I had, I fucked everything up. Let myself be vulnerable and show parts of myself I could never hide after that. Made me feel so exposed that I started becoming the same kind of asshole as my dad, taking everything and giving nothing because it was the only way to feel worse about myself than I already did. It was inexcusable, and the shame over it made me vow never to inflict that on another woman.
I’m better at helping other people with their burdens and keeping my side of the street clean. Giving up relationships doesn’t feel like much of a sacrifice for not hurting someone else.
The fact that I keep thinking about Tessa doesn’t mean I’m about to change my ethos. I just had a good time. I enjoyed every soft curve of her body. Every worry line in her forehead that I erased. Every sigh on her lips.
That’s all.
The insistent banging on my door jolts me back to reality. My ranch is up along the driveway from the main road, and anyone who wants to come here has to pass several Private Property signs in case there’s confusion that the long drive through a stand of trees is some kind of public parkland. The ranch house itself is a sprawling structure that’s clearly a residence, and I keep up on the painting and repairs to keep it in good condition.
Whoever came far enough to bang on my door ignored the signs or needs me at this ungodly hour. Either way, it chaps my hide. Even more than the prospect of yet another day trying to make inroads with the next-door neighbor who hasn’t returned any of my emails.
Not cool. Not neighborly.
So now I’m back with the big guns, a lawyer who will sue their asses six times over for water rights they’re hoarding for no good reason. The land over there is fallow, so they’re not watering shit, and my land produces half the income in this town because I pay a metric ton of taxes. People around here depend on my ranch meeting its production goals because my taxes impact them directly. Road repairs. Fire abatement. A public health clinic.
But there’s no such thing as a working ranch without water to keep the vegetation alive.
The threat of another drought year in California always hangs over me like the never-ending sky. As I implied toAnthony at the bar, I will prevail over the absentee neighbors if I have to offer them double what their property is worth just to get it under my control.
“Quit your nagging,” I say, stomping over to the door and flinging it open. Staring back is my younger brother, mirroring me with the same dark hair and brown eyes. Only in his case, his hair stands on end as usual, and his eyes are red-rimmed and squinty. That's his normal state of affairs. The guy doesn't sleep, and I don't think he owns a hairbrush.
He barges through the door without saying good morning or asking me if I'm busy or if this is a good time. Again, not unusual.
“Hey, Chad. What's up? Nice to see you too,” I say. He doesn't bother with pleasantries, but to his credit, he does have a cup of coffee in his hand, and he shoves it at me by way of apology. Then he starts in on a rant.
“You still don’t have cameras installed. What is wrong with you?”
