When I ordereda banana split to share with Rust, I didn’t consider the explicitly phallic shape of the dessert. But I don’t think I can blame the poor fruit for my thoughts about how sexy my ex-husband looked setting himself on fire for me.
I wanted to jump his bones. His protectiveness is an instant turn on.
And the panic in his eyes was too cute. For once, the man who has a solution for everything was in over his head. It felt great to swoop in and save him, even if all I had to do was drench him in cold water.
“The lady at the motel sure wasn’t lyin’,” Rust says from across the table, talking through a mouthful of ice cream, chocolate sauce and whipped cream. “Leave it to a middle-of-nowhere family restaurant to make the best food I’ve had in months.”
I hum my vague agreement. The burgers were juicy, the sauce tangy, the side salad fresh, and the ice-cold sweet tea hit the spot. But I have other things on my mind and they’re far from family-friendly.
Istill can’t believe Rust is so kinky. So dominant. This is definitely not the young man who used to fumble around in the dark, equally as clumsy and inexperienced as I was.
We were each other’s first everything and we had a lot to learn. Our romance was cute and tentative. Slow. It felt right then.
But the new Rust, the man who chased me with a shotgun and dp’ed me with a cob of corn—Fuck, I can’t pretend that isn’t exactly what I need.
I can’t pretendheisn’t exactly what I need.
He desires me, body and mind. I can be vulnerable with him, let myself fall cause I know he’ll catch me. No other man has made me feel like this.
We have that kind of deep-rooted trust built on childhood memories and a shared felony. How is a regular guy supposed to compete with that level of devotion?
New hook-up standard unlocked: If he won’t bury my skeletons, I don’t want him. Great. Now I’m basically cursed to stay single forever.
Frustrated, I shove a spoon of ice cream in my mouth when the lone waitress—a tall brunette in her late 40s who introduced herself as Anna—sweeps past our table, coffee carafe in hand. Caught up in my thoughts, I didn’t notice someone sat down in the booth behind me.
“Erin, hon, what’s wrong?” Anna asks over the tinkling sound of coffee filling an empty cup.
The mystery woman called Erin sighs. “The fella I hired to play music for the ‘Boot Scootin’ Seniors’ lesson just canceled on me! We start in fifteen minutes. Where the heck am I supposed to find a replacement in that time?”
The urge to turn around is strong, but I can’t seem too nosy. Rust notices my curiosity and gives me a questioning look. I put a finger to my lips.
“Can’t you just play music from your phone?” Anna suggests.
Erin makes a strangled noise. It sounds like she’s close to tears. “I could, but it’s the first anniversary of their line dance club and it was meant to be special. The ladies were looking forward to today for weeks!”
“I’ll play the guitar for your lesson,” I blurt out. Grinning, I twist around, bracing my arm on the back rest of the pleather bench seat.
Erin’s cornflower-blue eyes meet mine in a wide stare. “T-t-tal–”
“I can’t stand by and let a bunch of sweet old ladies miss out on their anniversary special,” I add.
“Talkin’ to me, you are?” Erin stutters, nervously smoothing over fly-aways sticking up from a sleek, blond bun that reminds me of a ballerina. I’d put her age somewhere in the mid-twenties range.
She picks at her cuticles. “That’s kind, but I can’t possibly pay you. The dance studio isn’t makin’ enough yet and I already paid the other guy in advance.”
I shrug. “No problem. I’ll do it for free.”
Her face lights up like a fireworks display. “Are you sure?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Oh my gosh, thank you! Are you okay to play 90s country? That’s as modern as it gets. The ladies are particular about the song choices. They won’t dance to newer artists.”
“I’ll play anything you want,” I assure her.
So far nobody’s recognized me, but knowing my audience has likely never heard of Tally Creed puts me more at ease.
Erin squeals. “Your husband can come, too!”
