Snapping out of my decadently sexy moment, I said, “Go. Don’t regret being with family. See you Tuesday.”
I hung up before the conversation could go any further, and thought about goats as I settled in my car, trying to cool my hormones. Apparently, this was what happened when a young girl was repressed all her life.
* * *
Later that night, tucked in bed after a day with Hunnie and her goats, I was reading my latest romance, jotting some notes in the margins.Not those kinds of notes.I noted themes, an outfit or two for color schemes, along with a few other ideas.
A plan was coming together in my mind on how to promote a few of my favorite things together, plus make a small name for myself. I was energized in a way I’d never been. Refusing to think about my parents and what they would think of my small town idea, I dove back into the book. This one was about a rake and a woman from the wrong side of society.
I was at the good part when the hero was suckling on particular parts of the heroine’s body, her bodice slowly coming off, when my phone dinged. Grabbing it, I noted it was eleven o’clock, and the text was from Ben.
I can’t stop thinking about those boots.
Absolutely nothing could stop the broad smile from spreading over my face. I could feel my laugh lines scrunching and knew this moment would lead to a wrinkle. If my mom knew, she’d be pissed.
Before I could dream up a witty response, another text dinged.
Sorry for the sultry text, but I mean it. Looking forward to Tuesday.
Still unable to think of a comeback, I searched through my GIFs. When I found the one I wanted, I sent a small GIF of Nancy Sinatra singing “These Boots Are Made For Walking.”
Almost immediately, the little bubble with dots popped up.
That’s not helping. You’re a shameless flirt.
I’d been called a lot of things, butshameless flirthad never been one of them. So I sent back one word.
Me?
Because I didn’t even know how to do this texting and flirting thing (we didn’t learn it in our decorum class), I followed up with:
A flirt?
Yes. You. I have to behave. My nephew is asleep down the hall. Also, Nancy Sinatra? You know her?
Of course I do. My parents loved her dad.
I didn’t feel like talking about my parents anymore. They only dragged my mood down, and I’d already spent most of life living for what they wanted.
All of a sudden, a happy thought shocked me back to reality.Gosh, what would my mom think of my reading romance novels?Not much, I expected.
You know Nancy met Elvis when he came back from the Army?
Not expecting that little tidbit, I responded with:
Are we playing trivia now?
Sorry to disturb you. As you know, I’m actually a bit of a closet music aficionado. Elvis is a favorite.
Hey, I’m only reading in bed. You’re not disturbing me. I forgot to ask ... were you always into music?
Yeah. But never those boy bands you listened to at Pressman, or the grunge groups the guys liked. It wasn’t until college where I found a crew who liked decent music.
I couldn’t stop thinking about how little I knew about Ben, even though we’d been friends for four years in high school. I guessed it was because I’d kept our conversations on the surface.
I wish I knew back then. At Pressman. I wish I knew a lot back then. More about you.
Dots bounced on my screen for a long time as Ben composed his response.
