Big Man

“Forget something?” His eyebrows rise.

“No, I just…” I shake my head and stare down at myself. “Should I change?”

“Are you kidding?” Grant snorts. “You look beautiful, Sasha. You always do.”

“I’m going to stand out though. In this.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “You were always going to stick out, Sasha. No matter what you wear. You stick out anywhere you go—I’d wager you stick out just as much back in the big city as you do here. A girl like you couldn’t help it.” His dark eyes latch onto mine, keep hold. “And I love that about you.” With that, he offers his arm, bent at the elbow. “Now, are we going to go be the talk of the town, or am I going to have to drag you back into the bedroom to peel that excuse for a dress off?” He says it with a grin though, eyes appreciative as they dip across my body again, and my belly tightens with anticipation.

I hook my arm through his. “If we go to this party, does that mean you won’t peel this dress off me later? Because I was rather looking forward to that. Not sure I can get out of it all on my own…”

He laughs softly as he leads me outside and lets the door swing shut behind us. “Don’t worry, Sasha. One way or another, I mean to have you tonight.” He leans in close to kiss the edge of my earlobe, then nips at the skin lightly, just hard enough to make me gasp, before he whispers, breath hot on my neck, “Wherever that may be.”

I shiver and lean into him, already feeling the throb of my hungry clit between my thighs. “I’ll hold you to that promise,” I warn him.

“I would expect nothing less.” He winks, and opens the passenger side door of the truck. But I shake my head this time and pull out my clutch.

“My car this time.” I grin at his wide-eyed expression. “If we’re going to be the talk of the town,” I say, “we’re going to do it in style.”

It takes my poor rental Porsche a while to ease back down the dirt driveway. But as soon as we hit pavement and Grant’s able to direct me toward the Johnsons’ farmstead, I really gun it. A smile creeps onto my face as I take the back-road country highway by storm, letting this car do what it was built to do—dominate the road.

Grant laughs over the country music blasting on the radio—because I changed the channel to his the moment I turned it on. What can I say? Something about the old nostalgic beats got me going.

“Didn’t take you for a speed demon,” he calls.

“Yeah, well, you don’t know everything about me, Grant Werther,” I toss back with a smirk.

“Not yet,” he rejoins, and just that simple promise makes me shiver all over again.

We race along the back roads, and it takes no time at all going the speed I’m doing to reach the Johnsons’. As soon as we get close, though, I can already tell where we’re heading. It’s the only place for miles around with its lights on, and a few big tents out back, all illuminated by candles and bonfires and a few stoves out on the back patio. There must be fifty cars all up and down their driveway. Small party by NYC standards, but a regular who’s-who of the whole town for these parts.

I whip into a spot at the head of the drive, and Grant hops out too fast for me to slow him down. Fast enough to swing around and open my door and offer me a hand. That man is never going to stop doing that, is he? I wonder as I accept his help and climb out beside him, purse clutched under my arm.

I loop my other arm through Grant’s and follow him up the driveway toward the distant music. It sounds a lot like what was just on the radio actually—only louder, and faster, and, if I’m not mistaken, live.

“Is that a band?” I ask as we reach the front yard. But Grant skips right past the front door and heads for the back. I’d forgotten what is was like in a small town. Just walking right inside like you own places.

“Few of the local guys get together once a month to play. In the summers, the couples and families like to come out and do a turn together while they listen. But this’ll be the last hoedown of the season, so near about everyone’s turned out for it.”

We round the corner then, and my eyes widen. He wasn’t kidding.

At least 150 people are around—kids racing underfoot, chasing one another across the grass, couples up on the dance floor in front of the 4-person string band, doing a complicated square dance that I vaguely recognize from old school dances, though Lord help me if I remember the steps. Still more people are dotted across the yard, some playing lawn darts, another group lined up by the garage playing regular darts against its closed door. Between those two groups, set up under the tents on the tail end of the driveway, are a couple of pool tables.