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“I close up in an hour,” I say.
“Perfect. I’m on my way home right now. I’ll have everything laid out on the bed. Wow, that sounds inappropriate.”
This man has made me laugh more in the last ten minutes than I’ve laughed with anyone else in Fate since I moved here. I like that in a person.
I hate to default to comparisons, but my ex used his charm to make me laugh on our first date. Then, after he hooked me in and had me move into his condo, it was less about light and laughter and more about gradually taking control. So I remind myself that no matter how cute, charming, simple and sweet this boy is, I don’t truly know him.
“That will be fine,” I say, setting aside for now the massive red flag that he’s invited me to his house. Alone. “Where do you live?”
Noah gives me his address, and I write it down on a Post-it note. “I guess I could have gotten it off the prescription for your fungal rash, but I prefer to keep professional and personal separate.”
“See you at six,” he says with a wink, then swaggers out of my pharmacy. I watch him go until the bell rings out his departure through the door.
I’m left feeling way too excited to see this man’s house—and way too into the idea of rummaging through his clothes.
It’s just one date.It’ll probably be a total disaster, and then you can focus on moving back to Nashville, just like you always planned.
ChapterThree
Noah
My closet has thrown up on my bed.
There’s no other way to describe it. Nothing here looks good enough for a date with Ursula.
But I’ve come this far, and there’s no point in hiding from her that I’m helpless when it comes to fashion.
As I stand here looking at my array of jeans, funeral jackets and trousers, chambray shirts, cowboy shirts and concert T-shirts spread over my bed, I start to lose hope. What I should have done was drive to the mall in Gold Hill and bought something nice before asking her out.
That’s what a sane man would do.
But somehow, I lose hold of my senses whenever I think about Ursula.
Especially when she makes me laugh. And when I make her laugh, I feel like I’ve won the lottery.
The fact that Ursula moved here completely on her own, all the way from the big city of Nashville and lasted this long says a lot about her. She cares about this town, and she doesn’t back down when the locals put her through her paces. I want her to know there’s one local boy who won’t drive her crazy with complaints about stiff joints from flu shots. I’m only stiff below the waist from thinking about her on sleepless nights.
It’s not just about sex. My whole being gets excited when I fantasize about what it would be like to be married to her. I imagine her coming home from a long day of work, tired and worn out, and me massaging her feet. Washing her hair in the shower. Covering her with kisses and screwing the daylights out of her. Making her feel so good she forgets about her 9-to-5. Because that’s what I want too. I want someone to come home to share a meal with, share a shower with, share a bed with. Then get up and do it all over again.
That’s all I want. It’s so much, and yet pretty simple.
On top of that, I’m completely shattered by her looks. Her thick dark hair, intelligent eyes, sense of style, not to mention her thick rump and the way it sways.
One day, I’m going to wife her up. Pure and simple. I feel it in every cell in my body.
When my boss told me I was the only one who hadn’t signed up to fill the table at the ball, I knew it was a sort of destiny.
And now that Ursula has said yes, the more I feel like my destiny has begun, as corny as that sounds.
My stomach growls, and I realize my frustration with the contents of my closet has a lot to do with the emptiness in my stomach. In another thirty minutes, she’ll be here, fresh from work. What I need to do is feed her. I may not know what to wear on my body, but I do know how to cook. I often helped my grandmother feed half a dozen ranch hands on any given night, and I’ve gotten pretty good on my own since then.
From the contents of the fridge and pantry, I gather up enough ingredients to make a quick miso marinade for some leftover skirt steak. While that’s tenderizing, I throw together some well-seasoned cauliflower rice and a leafy salad, because I know from eavesdropping at the diner that Ursula does low carb. I avoid adding garlic and onion, of course. Not that she’ll be kissing me tonight, but a man can always hope.
The doorbell rings just as I have everything plated.
My stomach lurches anxiously.
“Hi! Come on in!” I’m being loud, and I need to chill. “Hope you’re hungry!” Still too loud.
