*image deleted*
Oh-kay, then. Point taken.
I’m sorry for making you feel uncomfortable. I guess I took it too far.
Like I always do.
I’ll leave you alone now. Have a good night, Rowan. Thanks for checking on me.
Rowan
No, wait, I’m sorry.
I don’t know how else to say this without being crude, but your selfie definitely made me uncomfortable. So much so that I had to take a cold shower, because I shouldn’t be thinking those kinds of thoughts about you.
Better yet, I shouldn’t be lusting after any woman like that.
I respect you, Claire, and I care about you. I also think you are a beautiful woman, and I find all of your parts to be very, very sexy. That’s why I don’t deserve to see you in such an intimate way, because I can’t control where my mind goes.
Please don’t think this is your fault. I started it when I made that first comment, and then when I sent you that pic, but I should have known better. I don’t mean to come off so hot and cold all the time. It’s just that I’m always getting in over my head with you.
Can you forgive me?
Claire
A cold shower, you say?
Rowan
You can take the amount of time it took for me to reply to you as an indication of how long I spent in a stream of frigid water before I could think of anything else.
Claire
Pics or it didn’t happen …
Rowan
*photo of frozen package labeled “Rowan’s Deer Sausage”*
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
rowan
“Hi,”Claire says when she opens the door, and I swallow hard when I take in the sight of her. The tank top she’s wearing under her overalls showcases her tattoos and outlines her curves.
“Hi,” I return in a breathy voice, adding an awkward wave and a hoarse throat clearing, because why not make my nerves and my unrequited feelings more obvious.
Frankie and Oscar scurry over for some attention, and Claire gestures for me to follow her inside after a minute. “I’m not quite ready, but the coffee is,” she says, gathering her long hair over one shoulder.
I watch as she parts her locks into three sections and weaves them into a braid. It’s not the neat French braid that she wears on weekdays, the one that begins at the crown of her head and integrates every strand of hair into a tight plait, but a more relaxed version that starts at the back of her neck and highlights the natural texture of her hair. Another wavy tendril falls free as she moves to secure the end with a hair tie, and I have to shove my fists into my pockets to keep myself from reaching out to capture it.
“Thanks,” I reply, grounding myself with the rosary ring in my pocket. I amble into the kitchen and sift through the cabinet for the 4-H mug, the one with the lamb on it, since it feels more appropriate today.
“Oh, um … Should I cover my arms?” she asks after a while, and the very idea that she wants to impress my parents stirs up the butterflies in my stomach.
I shake my head. “Absolutely not. My mom would be upset if she couldn’t admire your tattoos.”
And so would I.
