Page 25 of Omega’s Fold

“Thanks.”

I climb in. The cab smells of him. Of course it does. It is his truck. He’s spent hours in it. The seat, the steering wheel, the worn fabric of the headrest, every inch of it has his scent soaked into it, and now I am shutting the door and sealing myself inside a warm metal box full of nothing else.

He gets in on the driver’s side. The cab is small. His shoulder is maybe eight inches from mine. His thigh is closer than that to my thigh. The gearshift is between us and his hand settles on top of it, loose, and I can see the pale skin at the inside of his wrist where the flannel cuff has ridden back.

He turns the key. The engine coughs and catches.

I reach for the window crank and I roll it down. All the way. Cold air comes in over my face. It is a relief for maybe two seconds. Then the wind swings around and pulls his scent off him and straight across the cab and into my lungs, warm and close, and I understand, with a clarity I did not have thirty seconds ago, that the window was a mistake.

Too late now. We’re stuck in here until we reach town.

7. Wyatt

He opened the window.

That’s the first thing, and it tells me what I already know. I must still smell sweaty even though I showered. I scrubbed the back of my neck and behind my ears the way my mother used to make me, and I put on a clean shirt, and I still don’t smell right to him.

Or maybe he just thinks that I won’t. I see the way he looks at me, like I’m some country hick who can barely string a sentence together.

Okay, maybe he has me on the latter part of that. But I’m not stupid. I just struggle a bit verbally. It’s never been that important up to now.

I keep my eyes on the road.

He is sitting very still with his hands on his knees. He is looking out the window with his face turned away from me. The wind is coming in off his side and it is pushing his scent around the cab so that every time I breathe I get a little more of it.

It’s fine. The drive is only twenty minutes.

The road out of the ridge is empty at this hour. The light is going thin and golden over the west pastures and the shadows of the fence posts are long on the grass. Donna’s truck is two hundred yards ahead of us, tail lights steady.

I shift in my seat.

That’s my first mistake.

Because the second I move, I feel it: a low pulling in my belly. A heat that isn’t from the cab heater.

No.

No, not yet. It’s too early. I have another two weeks. I had planned for it. Donna has the boys penciled in on her calendar for the time I have circled in red in my kitchen. It’s not due yet.

I keep my hands loose on the wheel. I make my breathing slow.

Beside me Julian shifts in his seat. He does not look at me.

He smells so good. He might be a snob, but he’s a gorgeous snob who smells like he has come right out of every horny wet dream I’ve ever had.

My mouth has gone dry.

He is so close. If I moved my right hand off the gear shift and let it fall, it would land on his thigh.

I can see his hand, resting flat on top of it. His fingers are long. I can’t help but wonder what they would feel like on my skin.

What they would feel like inside me.

I press my thighs together.

That is the worst thing I could have done. The friction of my jeans against the inside of my thighs sends a pulse through me that makes my vision gray at the edges, and I feel, with absolute clarity, a small wet give on the seat of the truck.

Oh, God.