Page 53 of Riding the Curve

I’ve been using the notebooks for the past two days to compile a plan for the interior design of the cabins, as well as produce several possible recipes for the menus. Now I just have to test them. Which means I need mouths to feed and ears to listen to my ideas.

Steam curls over my coffee mug as I watch the sun paint the morning sky from the dark blue Adirondack chair outside my cabin. Deeply inhaling the fresh country air, I sip my delicious cup of caffeinated bliss. I’m about to indulge in another when the amber skin of my next-door neighbor flashes before my eyes, sending a shower of coffee shooting from my lips.

Em towers like a beacon in the back of his truck, unloading bales of hay to one of the ranch hands. Golden rays peek through the mountain range, highlighting every inch of his perfectly toned body. Black ink etches his chest in a variety of patterns that I can’t quite make out from this distance. All of them are new to my eyes. Makes me wonder what else has changed about Em over the years.

Rippled abs and muscled biceps stretch and flex with each toss of the bales. Sweat glistens over every indent. The man looks like a popsicle melting on a scalding summer day and my tongue wets my bottom lip, eager for a taste.

As if he’s not tormenting me enough, he throws the last bale to the ground and lifts his water bottle from the tailgate. But instead of being a normal human and taking a sip, he takes a page from one of my romance books. He lifts his cap and douses himself with the entire bottle.

Frozen like a doe in headlights, I watch it flow over his Adonis body. It cascades over every inch of his sinful body like a damn waterfall. I can feel myself melting into the chair. The final nail in the coffin is when he runs his fingers through his soaked hair and replaces his cap on his head. Backward.

I’m deceased.

Someone clears their throat beside me, sending my coffee flying out of my cup and onto the grass beneath. “Morning, Hen.”

Oh dear god. Emerson’s Dad has just caught me ogling his son.

Embarrassment warms my cheeks as Preston smirks down at me and my now empty mug. He lifts my empty cup out of my hands and replaces it with his. Taking it graciously, my eyes accidentally roam back to his son. He follows my line of sight, and I hear a low hum beside me.

“I swear that boy is incapable of wearing shirts, no matter how many we bought over the years. I told him he’s going to scare all the horses, flaunting himself like that all over the barn.”

I lift the cup to my mouth, attempting to hide my laughter.

“What are your plans today?”

“Going to the grocery store. The Lane men are cordially invited to a sampling dinner tonight. We shall be the first to dine in the pavilion you all created. Then I can share with you all the rest of my plans. Are you in?”

A grin spreads wide on Preston’s face as he reaches down and squeezes my shoulder. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Releasing my shoulder, I think he’s turned to walk away, but I can still feel his presence linger behind me. I look up to catch his somber face tracing his son’s actions.

“You think he’ll come?”

“I’m hoping dinner being outside will help persuade him.” I sigh, and his head bobs quietly in agreement.

“What time? And can I bring anything?”

“How about a couple of those bottles of wine from the other night? Is 5:30 okay?”

“Perfect.”

Before he leaves, he tips his cowboy hat toward me like the gentleman he is.

“Hey, Preston?” I call after him.

His boots slow in the gravel path and he turns back.

“I know you’re worried about him, but I’m going to try my best to help him through this,” I say quietly, emotion bubbling up my throat.

“I know.” The edge of his lip curves slightly. “If anyone can get through to him, it’s you. It’s always been your gift. You bring a little sunshine everywhere you go. See you later, kiddo.”

While taking a deep gulp of my replacement coffee, I try not to cringe. The plain black coffee tastes bitter on my tongue, but I’ll take some caffeine rather than none. Gathering courage, my hand slips into my pocket and pulls out my phone.

ME: I’m making dinner tonight. It’s a sampling of the menu I produced for the Ranch. I’d love to see you there.

I watch as Em waves to the farmhand as he rolls a wheelbarrow full of hay toward the horse stalls. His hand slips into his back pocket of his perfectly fitted jeans, pulling out his phone. Nerves coil inside my stomach as I watch the dots roll back and forth.

After what feels like two minutes pass, the phone vibrates in my hand.