Screwdrivered (Cocktail 3)

As we hiked back down the trail, he grumbled the entire time. I grumbled back, my face red from the exertion. Clark was a tall guy, and he was heavier than he looked.

My face heated more.

At the bottom of the trail he pronounced himself capable of driving to the doctor’s on his own, and that if it was broken, I would be paying any medical bills.

I followed him to the urgent-care clinic in town. Once I’d deposited an in-pain-and-getting-crabbier-by-the-minute Clark there, I headed for my house. Now that I’d decided I was indeed staying, the logistics set in.

How to do this? Could I afford it? And when the hell could I get rid of this stupid putt-putt rental car and start driving a real one?

The first thing I needed to do was to tell my parents and see if my father was still interested in buying me out. Which he would be, so it was time to make his day.

I was glad Simon and Caroline would arrive today. I needed to know where I stood with the house and what they, and specifically Caroline, thought I would need to do to it. And of course, run everything by Clark.

Clark of the broken nose, angry eyes, and washboard abs. Who would have thunk it? Not me. And speaking of washboard abs, as I turned into the driveway of my house, I saw Hank’s big truck parked there. I looked down at myself, half naked, trail dirty, and a bit bloody, and realized that this guy had never seen me at my best. Ah, well, wasn’t going to be today either.

Pulling myself out of the car, I headed toward the barn, where I could hear the faint rustling of hay. He must be feeding Paul and Paula. Internally wincing at how terrible those names were, I poked my head around the corner carefully, not wanting to get hit with a mouthful of hay again.

I looked in, then up, and there he was. Once more, with the pitchfork and the awesome. Once more, with the no shirt and the hot. Once more, with the stunning curve of his spine as it dipped toward the small of his back, each vertebrae carefully selected and placed into position by the hand of God, or at least someone with a sense of divine proportion. Vertebrae. Mmm.

“Hey,” I called out. He didn’t even turn, which was okay. I could indulge in some more back  p**n .

“It is,” he answered in a bored voice.

“No, I meant . . . oh boy.” I walked farther in, sunbeams pouring through the space between the old barn boards, illuminating the golden strands of hay, making the entire space glow. He was glowing to be sure, his skin tanned a deep and outdoorsy bronze, slick with sweat and promise. I wondered if my skin would slip against his, or would it create just enough friction to set fire to everything in between.

I had a sudden vision of being thrown down on a cushiony pillow of hay, one strand in his mouth as he lazily drove into me, his jaw tight and clenched. Not only on the hayseed, but in order to contain his words of love and devotion, the honey-laced poems he’d undoubtedly been creating in his mind ever since I had the nerve to blow into his town, his world, and make him change his mind about anything and everything he’d ever believed in. He’d kept silent, keeping his devotion to himself, until this day, when the sight of my body overwhelmed his stoic nature, his steely constitution to resist me. Today, the ravaging would begin.

I waited expectantly. And waited. And waited some more. He literally stood there with his back to me, shoveling hay, knowing I was there. This onion was going to be harder to peel than I thought. Just as I was about to turn around and head back to the house, he finally threw down his pitchfork and turned toward me.

“What happened to the other guy?” he asked, starting for the ladder. His top half disappeared for a moment, giving me the chance to admire his equally tantalizing bottom half.

“Mmm?” I asked, my jaw falling open as my gaze caught on the deep indentation on either side of his heavenly carved abdominal muscles. He jumped the last few rungs, landing gracefully. He closed the distance between us, his eyes traveling over my smaller frame. A breeze blew in from one end of the barn, a kiss of sea air on my somewhat naked skin. T-shirt abandoned earlier for the cause of Clark, my skin now pebbled. Because of the wind? Or the proximity of the cowboy?

I shifted my weight, leaning forward as he approached. His eyes lingered on my sports bra, and he let his fingertips follow. Dragging one across my collarbone, he touched my skin, then curled underneath the strap. “I assume this is someone else’s blood. Were you brawling before breakfast?” he asked, stringing more words than he’d uttered to me in our entire lifetimes together. He had an expression on his face that I could only classify as . . . amusement?

“Brawling?” I asked, barely breathing.

“I assume you won, right?”

“I. Was. Running,” I stammered, his nearness scrambling my brain and turning me into Forrest Gump.

Confusion crossed his face, and he stepped back a bit. I stepped forward, not wanting to widen the space between us. “I accidentally punched someone. On a mountain.”

I cursed my brain and my inability to string together coherent sentences when this cowboy was near. Seriously, it was like I turned into a different person when alone with him.

“Like I said, brawling before breakfast.” He winked (he winked!) and moseyed toward the barn door. And he was supremely qualified to bust out a mosey.

“How’d you know I won?” I asked, testing out my own mosey as I followed him.

He turned, leaning against the door, one arm over his head. Beef. To the motherfucking. Cake.

“You look like you can take care of yourself. That’s why.”