Page 50
“I’m not scared of germs,” he says. “Especially considering I’ve swapped pussy and spit with you twice now.”
My stomach jolts. He turns the truck off the highway onto a state route.
“I didn’t know we were doing that,” I say lightly.
“What?”
His jaw flexes. I like that a lot.
“You’ve been kind of distant,” I say.
He inhales, like he’s thinking hard. Finally, he says, “I don’t want you to feel pressured into anything. I know the whole thing with my work is a weird situation.”
“So you were gonna take me on a road trip but not fuck me?”
“If that’s what you wanted.”
“It’s not,” I say firmly.
My face is flushed, fingers wrapped around the Mary Janes in my lap. He smiles, gazing ahead. I get the impression he’s been thinking about this the entire day. The thought makes my stomach flutter; I want to be wanted badly, and he seems like he does. Without saying a word, he reaches across and puts his rough hand on my bare thigh.
My heart does a backflip.
Is there any way, in any universe, this doesn’t end with my heart being broken? I want to hope so. The way he’s driving with his hand on my thigh makes me brave enough to consider it. Maybe he’s not Coen Taylor, the world famous musician. Maybe he’s Coen Taylor, the cowboy from somewhere in Wyoming. Just a man, the same as any other.
We drive, the truck tires eating up the blacktop, without saying a word.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
COEN
We pull up at the campsite just as traffic starts to pick up around dinnertime. Jamie and I were out here about seven years ago. It’s a campground in a rural area, not too far from the Rocky Mountain National Park. Out here, the air is dry and hot at this time of the year. Dust rises with every movement. The air is so clean, it feels like a cool drink of water on a spring day.
I pull the truck into an unoccupied spot at the far end and park. There are no trees for shelter, just small platforms for a tent and a spigot for water.
“There’s more people than I expected,” she says.
I take my hand from her thigh, where I’ve been touching her soft skin with my thumb for the last half hour. It looks like five tents set up around the area. Someone has trail horses picketed out, grazing on a patch of grass at the far end from us. There’s a couple of vans, the doors open and people spilling out. A couple sits by a campfire. Two older men loiter on the steps of a rusted out camper.
“Is it safe?” she asks.
We get out of the truck.
“Yeah,” I say, taking the toothpick from behind my ear and biting it. “I got a Glock on my belt in case you’re worried, though.”
“Really?” Her brows shoot up.
I shrug. “I’m from fucking nowhere Wyoming. I grew up without an option.”
She’s making a strange face, like she wants to smile, but she keeps biting on her lower lip. I circle the truck and drop the tailgate to pull everything out.
“I kinda thought you’d be used to having bodyguards,” she says, crossing her arms and popping her hip.
I would give her a look, but she won’t see behind my sunglasses.
“Well, you thought wrong. Take this.”
Handing her the bucket, which is light, I gather up the tent and go to the platform. Right away, she gets distracted, wandering to the edge of the trees. I unpack the tent, not bothering with the instructions. It’s pretty straightforward, and I have it up and running in about twenty minutes. When I dust off my hands and look around, she’s gone.
