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“Whatever you want.”
“No.” Her smile’s mischievous as she takes her wine and slips off the stool. She crouches, exposing blue silk panties that make my dick throb, then pulls a record from the console. “I want to hear what you listen to.”
I cock a brow. “How old are you exactly?”
Her back to me, she says, “I’m twenty-four.”
A chuckle rumbles in my chest. Jesus.
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-eight.”
Record in hand, she stands, settling it on the turntable. One hand propped on her trim hip, she turns toward me. “Why? Do you think I’m too young for you?”
I feel the need pulsing from her to me. She wants me. In a way that fucks with my heartbeat. But I stand firm. A relationship, sex, with this girl is only asking for trouble.
“Well?” Gaze pinned to me like a dare, Delilah drops the needle, then returns my way.
“I’m an old man, darlin’.”
“Not to me.” She leans over the counter and bats her eyes. “I like your eye crinkles.”
Jesus Christ, this girl.
I open my mouth to refute her claim, only I’m sucker punched.
“To Live Is to Fly” by Townes Van Zandt trickles through the speakers.
The melancholy song freezes me.
It was Jack’s favorite. He was the sunniest guy, but he liked the most depressing fucking music.
I would always find myself putting those records on when I wanted to think about him. Like I could conjure him back. Like he was right there beside me, listening too.
All we can do is fly, Cole Jack once told me before a ride. Fly, and hope to hell you land where you should.
“Cole?”
When I look up, her eyes are on me, like she can see inside that dark part of me. I swallow, ask, “The song… Have you heard it before?”
“No. It just looked like something I’d like.” She tilts her blond head, curiosity etched on her pretty face. “Do you like it?”
I push out the words through the brick in my throat. “Yeah, I do.”
Delilah sways her hips and drinks her wine. As I cook, I can’t help but watch her dance. Can’t stop picturing her onstage, on a pole, on some guy’s lap. And just like that, I’m jealous.
When the steaks are finished, we take our plates and head to the covered back porch. The faint strains of the record player drift through the screen door. The rain comes down in sheets, drenching the entire ranch. Fog curls its way around the perimeter of the long grass.
“Must be the storm of the century,” Delilah breathes, staring out over the ranch.
“Nah, darlin’. Just summer in Montana.”
“It’s so beautiful here. It makes me feel happy. At peace. Safe.”
I shake my head. That’s definitely not Tempest. But I’m glad Delilah’s found a safe space.
We eat, making small talk about the ranch, the distillery.
