As soon as I’m halfway down the stairs, the smell of freshly baked muffins makes my stomach growl. I haven’t had a home cooked breakfast in years. Cold cereal or a bagel from the corner coffee shop is how I usually start my mornings. Lunch is cafeteria food or, if I’m feeling brave, the corner bodega when I shouldn’t be leaving campus. Dinner is also a solo affair. We’d have random maids who made sure something frozen was available, but the sit down dinners we had after church when we lived here ceased to exist once we moved to New York.
“Mornin’, Savvy,” Aunt Sue calls out with her back facing me. I stand in the doorway and watch her for a moment. She’s still as short as I remember. I used to ask Uncle Bobby how she could reach the top of the cupboards and he used to tease, saying that she was magic. It’s the same magic that fixed me when I had the flu or my teddy bear had a rip that needed to be sewn. Part of me still wants to believe she’s full of magic and can fix anything. Except for me. According to my mom, I can’t be fixed. I’m on the path to self-destruction and the only cure is going to come from hard manual labor.
The kitchen isn’t like I remember. It seemed smaller when I was a kid, but now it’s a large open space with a lot of natural light coming in. The counter tops that used to be robin’s egg blue are now wood and shiny. The cabinets are white, but don’t reach the ceiling. Resting on top of the cabinets are knickknacks and old mason jugs. A huge bay window affords whoever is standing at the sink an opportunity to look out back. I used to have a swing set out there when I was little but I’m sure that’s long gone. I can barely see the top of the white picket fence that divides the yard from the pasture from where I stand. I have a feeling I’ll be out there by lunchtime doing who knows what and complaining about it. Maybe if I’m lucky, schoolwork will be the only chore I have to do.
“Good morning.” She turns and smiles, until her eyes take in what I’m wearing. I cross my arms over my mid-section and look away. Everyone is always judging.
Aunt Sue shakes her head. “You don’t want to be dressing like that around here, missy.”
“Why’s that?” I ask, defiantly. No one has cared about the way I dress for as long as I can remember. Why should they start now? Even my very expensive private school mandated that we wear skirts and the ones that were issued were short. They dressed us like every pervert’s fantasy. This is common attire for girls my age, a cami and boxers. Heck most of my friends wear less to bed.
“Them boys outside are girl crazy and you’re ripe for the pickin’.”
“I’m sure they’re far too old for me, Aunt Sue.”
“Mhm,” she mumbles and turns back to the counter. “Uncle Bobby ain’t gonna be too thrilled to see you waltzing around here with no britches on.”
“These are my pajamas. What am I supposed to do, come down dressed to the nines every morning?”
She turns around and wipes her hands on her apron. Every memory I have of her is in this kitchen. Aunt Sue cooks for everyone and for every occasion. “Now, no one says you have to be gussied up for breakfast, just covered is all.”
I try not to roll my eyes, but I can’t help it. Everyone has something to say about me, whether it’s my grades, the way I dress or what I do in my free time. I pick up the carton of orange juice and pour myself a glass before walking to the window and looking out. It looks gorgeous outside and I can see myself lying out in the sun today, catching some rays.
My glass stalls at my lips as Tyler walks past. He doesn’t look my way, but stops by the window and yells at someone. I set down my juice and watch him. He takes off his hat and wipes his sweat with his forearm. I don’t know if Tyler is the guy my mom slipped up about or not but he’s definitely giving me pause. Not that I’d let him in on that little fact. I lean forward as he pulls the neck of his shirt over his head. The muscles in his back move in fluid motion and all I c
an think is that guys do not look like this in the City. Of course, guys in the city play soccer in their free time but guys out here lift hay bales for fun and race tractors. I sigh as he tucks his shirt into the back of his jeans and walks out of sight.
“Tyler…” his name escapes from my lips before I realize what I’m saying.
“Savannah,” I turn at the sound of my name to find a shirtless cowboy in the form of Tyler standing in my Aunt’s kitchen. She snickers and scurries away. I swallow hard and try not to stare but I can’t help it. He grew up nicely.
“What are you doing here?” I already know the answer to my own question, but I need confirmation.
“I’m the ranch hand here.”
My mouth drops open even though I had a feeling that was going to be his answer. He chuckles and shakes his head. This has to be whom my mom was so quietly talking about on the phone.
Chapter 5 – Tyler
My hand runs over my chest wiping away my sweat. I’m used to Aunt Sue seeing me like this – shirtless, sweaty and covered in dirt from working the ranch – but not women in barely-there clothing with their arms stationed at their sides and their lips pursed. Savannah swallows hard, making me wonder what’s going through her pretty little head. Is she sorry that she had to move or is she plotting my demise for not recognizing her yesterday? I bet she’s plotting my death. She sucks in her cheek in an effort to what – keep from smiling? Yeah that’s exactly what she’s doing. Savannah looks at me and rolls her eyes. If I weren’t still embarrassed about yesterday, I’d think it’s cute, her attempt to be prissy. Hell, she is cute, but I can’t be thinking about her like that. It’s not right.
By most standards, not enough time has passed for either of us to forget each other. I know that people change over time and maybe her more than me, but her transformation from the waifish, mousy girl she was is unbelievable, and her toes… what is it with her toes that keep me staring? I’ve never been one to think feet are cute, but damn if her toes aren’t painted pink against the tanned skin of her luscious, long legs, which are begging to be wrapped around my waist.
I chide myself for thinking of Savannah like that. I don’t care if our mommas had dreams that we’d be hitched; it’s never gonna happen. Women like Savannah don’t marry ranchers unless they’re looking to get away from some crazy ass life in the city, and I know from Uncle Bob that’s not the case here. Miss McGuire went and got herself into some trouble and has been sent back to God’s country to repent, because around these parts we don’t get in trouble. By looking at her she probably broke a nail and needed rescuing by the local fire department.
I’m not hiding the fact that I’m checking her out and neither is she. I see her pink tongue dart out and wet her lips while I stand in front of her. Everything in me says to look away, to go on about my business and leave her be, but I’m a man and she’s standing in front of me barely dressed, something her aunt and uncle aren’t going to be too appreciative of. Hell, I’m appreciative, but I don’t want to see her like this. I want her body to be left to my imagination.
“Put this on before your Uncle walks in here and drops dead of a heart attack.” Aunt Sue throws a pile of clothes at Savannah causing her to jump. The clothes land on her head and slide down to the floor and I stifle a laugh.
“It’s not funny,” she seethes as she steps into a pair of Aunt Sue’s sweatpants. They’re about ten sizes too big and do nothing to curb the thoughts running through my mind about her long legs. She glares at me before sliding the sweatshirt over her head and yanking the hem down roughly. Even with the oversized clothes on, she’s still gorgeous.
“Oh, I think it is.” I have to turn away because I don’t want her to see me smile. She’s cute when she’s angry and I don’t need her seeing that she has a positive effect on me. I busy myself by grabbing a plate from the cabinet and pulling out all the fixin’s to make my lunch. Aunt Sue provides the food. I provide the appetite.
“What are you doing?”
I turn my head over my shoulder and say, “I’m making my lunch. What does it look like?” Her expression is one of confusion. I don’t get this chick at all. She allows my name to murmur off her lips and has no problems with staring at me, but when I’m standing in front of her, she looks like I’m a foreign object to her. Of course, I’m no better. I finally have her standing in front of me and I say nothing. I just stand there and let her stare. Most men would be okay with that but I’m not. The past twenty-four hours have not gone the way I thought they would.
“It’s breakfast time, isn’t it?”