When we got downstairs, we piled into the car I had rented for the day. Nothing fancy, no bells and whistles—Clarke didn't care about those—save for the moonroof. Clarke squealed in surprise when the glass panel retracted, letting in the warm desert breeze.
"Hang on to your hat, blondie."
"I didn't bring one," she said, wind whipping through her bouncy curls.
"Let's change that, shall we?"
One hour and about a dozen feathers later, we were now the proud owners of two custom hats. Our first stop of the day had been the Rancher Hat Bar. Dani had actually given me the idea when she said that Clarke had been on the hunt for a cowgirl hat during our stay in Arizona. Who would have guessed that there was an entire business built for DIY-ing your very own hat—while also enjoying a drink or two—right here in Scottsdale?
Clarke had chosen a white, rancher hat, adorning it with an orange ribbon, a mixture of bird feathers, and a vintage button. She'd even used a blow torch to darken the brim's edges. I had opted for an army green trucker hat, covering it with patches featuring vintage cartoon characters and cereal mascots.
"Do a twirl, Sinclair."
Clarke's beaming smile beat any motivational speech I had ever heard. She wanted a twirl? I could do that. I'd happily drop to my knees and eat her pussy until she came all over my trucker hat if she asked.
"I don't think I've ever been more attracted to you," she teased.
"Don't be jealous," I argued playfully. "I can't help it if I pull off hats better than you."
She gasped and clutched a hand to her chest. "Who licked the red off your candy?"
"Oh, blondie." I tapped her brim. "If you want something to lick, all you have to do is ask."
Her eyes darkened. My cock twitched when she ran her tongue over her lower lip. Sometime in the last few weeks, I had created a monster.
"Hold that thought," I told her. Not that I didn't want to fulfill every one of the naughty fantasies that were no doubt circling around her brain, but we had a schedule to keep.
We spent the next few hours checking offmylist of things to do to make Clarke Myers fall in love with me. We shopped Old Town Scottsdale, popping into small boutiques and souvenir shops, before stopping for a bite to eat at a hole-in-the-wall pizza spot built in an old train car. When we got our fill—of both pizza and knick-knacks—we got back in the car and headed for Tucson.
The next two hours were spent counting cows, sharing silly stories, and belting out showtunes. Miguel, the catcher from my last team in New Jersey, and I had shared many bus rides and hotel rooms during my two-year stint with the team. He taught me what little Spanish I knew and how to makearepas. I’d taken him to every show on Broadway since he had a thing for musicals. Thanks to him, I now knew every word to “Defying Gravity” (or “En Contra de la Gravedad”)in two different languages. Clarke held her own, though, impressing me with her rendition of "So Much Better" fromLegally Blonde.
Her brows shot up when we pulled through the gates of the ranch, then again when she spotted the long, elegant table dressed for dinner.
"Is this where we're eating?" she asked excitedly. I loved that all it took to win her over was a craft project or dinner on a dude ranch.
"Yup."
"This is so cool!"
Her excitement never subsided throughout our farm-to-table meal—all six courses of it. She asked our chef thoughtfulquestions about each dish and cocktail pairing, from the mesquite-smoked prosciutto and homemade sourdough to the miso, blackberry duck, and baby squash. I was going to be burning off today's carb fest for weeks to come, but it was worth it if it meant watching Clarke moan around her fork for a second more. Pleasure bloomed deep in my chest as I watched her savor every bite, every sip.
I knew that years from now, I wouldn't remember the meal—despite how delicious it was. I wouldn't remember the high-pitched neighs from the nearby horses or the name of the Michelin star chef that prepared our meal—and hugged the pants off Clarke at the end of it. What would forever be embossed in my memory was the image of Clarke's smile, illuminated by the setting sun and twinkle lights. I added it to the mental scrapbook I'd already begun building. The one labeled "Our beginning."
Much to her surprise, the night didn't end there. We still had one more stop to make.
When we pulled up in front of the performance venue in downtown Tucson, she turned to me, a silent question in her eyes. "Lawrence," the name of tonight's performer, was written across the marquee in big block letters. I didn't know much about them, other than the few songs Matty had played for me on Spotify. I had liked their sound immediately, and I had a feeling Clarke would, too.
"Time for another first," I told her. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. "Hey, what's with the tears? Baby, if you want to save your first concert for another time, we can just go back to the hotel."
"No, no!" she protested. "I was just . . . I was just thinking that I'm glad I get to experience so many firsts with you. I know I already said it, but you really are something else, Soren Sinclair."
Oh, blondie. What am I going to do with you?
I smiled and kissed her hand. The real question was what wasshegoing to do with me? Date me, trust me?Love me?I'd never been a betting man before, but I was starting to realize that for Clarke, I might just be willing to risk it all.
Especially because, when she called me "something else," what I really wanted to tell her was,I'm nothing without you.
Clarke
