Screwdrivered (Cocktail 3)

Yeah, that must be why I’m not feeling anything here . . .

He licked his lips.

Here it comes!

I licked mine.

The romance of the century, ladies and gentlemen!

And then he kissed me.

Correction.

Cowboy. Ate. My f**king face.

His mouth opened wide enough to swallow me whole. His tongue slapped and slobbered. His lips, wet and mushy. His breath? Stale beer and horror show.

My eyes? Wiiiiiiide open. Like my legs, which quickly began to shut.

Pressing against his chest, so sweat-slicked that I couldn’t gain traction, I finally pulled his mouth from my neck, where it had begun to suck.

His eyes were filled with lust, and now confusion. “Where’d you go, baby?” he asked, licking my cheek. Like a motherfucking cat. Shudder.

“Slow your roll there, cowboy,” I said, climbing down and tugging my T-shirt over my bottom.

“What the f**k, dude?”

“Bad idea. Bad, bad, bad idea.”

I sighed, feeling the weight of everything I had pinned on this crashing down on me. What a f**king idiot I was.

“Cocksucker,” I swore.

“Sounds good to me,” Hank said.

I stared him down. Rising to my full height of five feet, two inches, I asked, “Why now? I’ve been throwing myself at you for weeks.” Shit, the things I’d done to get this guy to notice me.

He ran his hands down his chest, then adjusted his dick. “Your tits look great in that shirt. I figured, eh. What the hell.”

And there it was.

Hank was not a pirate, not a rogue prince, not even a cowboy. He was not the hero, nor was he the villain.

There were no layers to peel here. He was just a phenomenally good-looking guy who would always be attractive, even when he got a bit of a gut and that gorgeous hair started to thin. And there was nothing in the world wrong with being a hot, dumb guy. He just wasn’t ever going to get to see how fantastic my tits really were.

So he should stick to his big, dumb, blond girls. Tiny tattooed brunettes were too much for him.

I left him confused and alone in the barn, and headed back toward the house. The dark clouds had gathered, and my mood now mirrored the weather. As I crossed the yard the wind blew my shirt up over my torso, and I didn’t even care. I made it to the back porch just as the first fat drops of rain started falling.

I climbed the stairs, each step feeling heavier and heavier. Was it possible to have sad feet? They felt sloppy and slow, drudgy and draggy. I let the door bang shut behind me and went to the kitchen sink to rinse the spittle from my face. And neck. How had I played this so very wrong?

I heard the first sprinkle of raindrops on the roof, and by the time I made it into the living room, the windows were a sheet of rain. I flipped on the light but the bulb just buzzed and flickered out.

I focused on the fireplace, on the wonderful heat emanating from the blaze, my toes curling toward the flames. They were temporarily happy, but the rest of my whole body was sad.

It was so fired up for this manic coupling to go down, in perfect symmetry with the landscape, that now I internalized the rain, the damp, the chill. I looked left and saw the turntable I’d brought down from the attic. I looked right and saw Mathis, waiting for me. Why not embrace my inner sad sack: put on some old music, pour myself a Scotch, and let myself go full-on crash. But just one Scotch—no repeat of last night.

Shit, if I wanted to go full-on crash I could really think about last night. Was I ready for that?

I shuffled to the records and made my selection. The grand passionate romance that had bloomed in my imagination for months was imaginary. I was three thousand miles away from my family, who loved and cared for me whatever I did and whatever mistakes I’d made. And here I was, perched on the edge of a cliff in the rain. Alone. And all the adrenaline that had built up, making ready to celebrate with the cowboy, had crashed into bone-crushing loneliness. What had Clark said? Everyone gets lonely sometimes?

I winced. Shit, I wasn’t ready to think about Clark yet.

I slid the vinyl from its sleeve, set it on the turntable, and dropped the needle.

As soon as I heard the first notes of the piano, I realized that Aunt Maude was right. You kept Johnny Mathis close by at all times. I walked over to the liquor cabinet, poured a highball rather high, and went to stand before the fire. Humming the familiar tune of “Chances Are,” I clutched my Scotch to my chest and laid my head on the mantel, feeling the cool marble kiss my skin.

I was pathetic.

I was pitiful.

I was . . .

Footsteps

. . . no longer alone?

The footsteps behind me were slow and strong on the wooden floor. But I wasn’t scared, because I knew exactly who it was.

The librarian.

Chapter sixteen

I took a deep breath and slowly turned. And I mean slowly. Because as I turned, something happened. Something magical and intense, and not at all what I was expecting.

The lighting that seconds ago was dreary became enchanting. The chill in the air went from damp to bracing. The firelight turned to dancing flames of gold and bronze, painting sensual shadows across the walls. The music was no longer sad, it was timeless, full and swelling as it spoke of love and tenderness. And the rain was cozy and romantic, a perfect backdrop for the breathtaking image before me.

Clark. Brown chinos. White button-down. Tweed jacket. Elbow patches. Dusty glasses.

He was beautiful.

I was floored.

It doesn’t always have to be so hard. Sometimes falling in love just means turning around and seeing what’s right in front of you.