The discussion of reconciliation has been an on-again off-again topic for decades. As we’ve all aged and matured, Clint and Trinity both think I should try to speak to Stone. Maybe explain how I was young and foolish and made a grave mistake.
But that ship has sailed.
Stone and I won’t ever be friends again, although I’ve greatly missed his friendship, especially in the early years when I was drafted and married with a newborn baby. However, those three things in combination are also a reminder of all Stone lost; all the things I’d stolen from him. Of the three, the only one I regret is my marriage.
I can never ask Stone to forgive me for stealing his girl.
I can never forgive myself either.
25
[Vale]
From our first official date, two weeks pass before Cort and I can coordinate schedules and meet at his house again.
I’m barely inside his front door before he has it closed and pins me against it. Cort’s lips cover mine in an eager greeting and I melt into a gooey sensation I’ve missed since the last time we kissed.
I like kissing Cortland Haven.
In the two weeks since our first date, we’ve shared both flirty texts and filthy phone calls, one in which I brought myself to completion while Cort spoke the dirtiest things, and I used one of my toys to get off. The man has a mouth, and I love it. His words in my ears. His lips against mine. I’d love to explore the possibility of that mouth in other places on me.
Too soon, Cort is pulling back and glancing down the length of my body, taking in my vibrant sundress, cowboy bootsand his straw cowboy hat which has been knocked back on my head.
“You look pretty.” While being called beautiful is always nice, there is something about the word pretty that makes me blush. As a flirty word, it makes me feel all bubbly inside, especially when accompanied by the hunger in Cort’s eyes.
I tug the sides of the skirt outward and gaze down at myself. “Told Stone I was going dancing.” I tap my right foot side to side to emphasize my boots.
When I glance back up at Cort, his brows are pinched. “I don’t like that you had to lie.”
I’d told Stone I was giving my first date a second chance, but I still wasn’t ready to share more about my mystery man. Stone gave me a questioning look, making me feel like a teenager under pressure to offer more information to a concerned father. Sensing I owed him some explanation, I told him I was going dancing at the country bar in Rogue River. Shenanigans hosts theme nights, which include line dancing on occasion, and it wouldn’t be an uncommon place for a second date.
I don’t like the worry lines near Cort’s eyes, and I press my thumb to the corners, loving how he doesn’t flinch from unexpected caresses from me.
“Well, Iamin Rogue River, and Icoulddance.” I hitch a brow teasing him with the possibility. I’m not opposed to a lap dance or any other dance that involves us rhythmically moving together. However, I press pause on my libido when Cort chuckles.
The rumbly sound causes me to smile. “You have a nice laugh.”
The compliment leads to me being pressed up against the front door again. His hands on my jaw. His mouth on my lips. The gooey sensation of kissing him starts to simmer again as I clutch at his snazzy shirt. Cort dressed up for me again in ashort-sleeved, denim shirt with pearl snaps. We look like we might go out dancing but going out isn’t a possibility.
And there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than tucked into his arms inside his home.
Eventually, Cort pulls back again. “Let me feed you.” There is nothing sensual in his offer and yet I’m hungry for him as well.
He catches my hand in his and walks backward toward his kitchen. “I cheated tonight. Picked up Italian.”
Rogue River has an amazing Italian bistro-style restaurant and my mouth instantly waters.
“Chicken parmesan?” I question when Cort pulls the prepared meal in a tin pan from his fridge. Nonna’s freshly packs ready-to-bake meals to be heated at home. “My favorite.”
Cort smiles, pleased with his selection. Setting the meal in the oven to heat, he then pours me a glass of wine and opens a beer for himself.
“Want to sit on the deck a while?” He tilts his head toward the long deck that runs the length of the back of the house.
“Sure.” Cort and I each take a seat in Adirondack chairs, where the river softly rolls between the gap in the hills below the deck.
“I want to thank you again for being so patient with Hudson.” In the past two weeks, I’ve seen Cort during his therapy sessions and Hudson’s baseball games, but we’ve kept our distance, especially at those public events. I might catch him looking at me or offer him a soft smile, but then I second guess myself, worried someone else might notice the private exchange between us.
Regarding Hudson, Cort seems to be taking an extra interest in coaching him on how to be a better pitcher. Hudson can’t stop talking about Cort. How great he is as a coach. Hownicehe is. If my son catches the soft grunts or questionablequietness of his uncle whenever he raves about Cort, Hudson hasn’t mentioned it to me.
