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I wanted Dex. Clearly since I kept mounting him like a fucking stallion in my sleep. He wanted it and I knew it first-hand. Literally.
We kissed. Once. That had been a teaser. A cruel, sweet reminder of what I could have if I just begged.
Begged!
How could he be so calm? So unbothered? Yes, he wanted me. He said as much. I’d felt as much. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to rip his clothes off or strangle him or–
“Lindy, good, you’re here.”
I spun about at my friend’s harried voice. It was Aspen.
“Hey. What’s the matter? I don’t think there’s any issue with your bookkeeping this month.”
She was practically vibrating as if fueled by too much caffeine, although I knew she stuck to green tea since she didn’t drink stimulants. She owned the town’s only yoga studio and was dressed as if she’d just come from leading a class.
She waved a hand and gave me a look like she didn’t care about her finances.
“Do you think your boyfriend would coach Sierra’s PeeWee team this week? The regular coach is in Florida because his mother fell and broke her hip.”
I frowned, then tried to imagine Alan on skates. “Um, that date didn’t go well, and I really don’t think Alan plays hockey, let alone knows where the rink is.”
Maybe that was harsh, but from what he said the night before, a trip to the winter sports complex wasn’t on his schedule.
“Who’s Alan?” She did the arm thing again, as if swatting away a fly. Or the idea of Alan being my boyfriend. “I mean Dex James.”
At the mention of him, my heart flip flopped and my ovaries perked up.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I stated clearly.
“You’re living with him.”
“My house got taken out by a tree.”
“You’re living with him.”
That sentence proved that small town life was sometimes–a lot of the time–really annoying. The yoga class I always attended was tomorrow morning, so she hadn’t heard anything from me about the tree fiasco and my living arrangements. Bridget hated yoga, called it boring and too zen for her, so she wasn’t the source.
But in Hunter Valley, everyone was the source. Otis at the pizza place, Mr. VanMeyer, any other neighbor who’d dropped in to watch the tree removal spectacle yesterday. Anyone walking on Main Street and saw us kissing.
She studied me as if trying to read my chakras or if I was doing proper three-part breathing, then stepped into my office and shut the door. “Please tell me you’re doing all naked kinds of things with that huge piece of man candy.”
Oh, I was doing all kinds of things with him, like climbing him like a tree in my sleep. I wasn’t telling her that because how could I explain I did it while I was unconscious? Obviously she hadn’t heard about the street make out session.
“Why would he coach Sierra’s team?” I asked.
Aspen’s daughter was nine and she played ice hockey at the winter complex up by the ski resort. Besides several hockey rinks, it had indoor turf fields.
“Why wouldn’t he? Is he an asshole?” she whispered, appearing equally curious and horrified. “That would be a shame.”
I frowned and dropped into my chair feeling defeated. “No, he’s not an asshole.” The opposite, really. In every way.
“Then he might do it. Ask him.” Now hope shone in her gaze, but it made no sense.
I stared at her, completely confused. “Why?”
“Why? Why what?”
“Why ask him specifically? I know he’s here on vacation and all,” I said.
