But I’m not about to lose it for a monk who feels some kinda way about the relentless, panting, sheet-ripping horizontal tango we could be having…
…and the fact that we’re not having it right now says it all.
Pitiful, right?
Technically, it’s old news. I was desperate as a teenager, and adult me might just be famished.
Does he still see me as that little girl who’d get into trouble and make him laugh, but was always too young to steal a kiss from?
Is he that trapped in the past?
Too afraid or too stubborn to see the full-grown woman right in front of him who’s ready to roll the dice?
To take a chance on a different kind of relationship—even if it isn’t meant to last forever.
My phone is ringing when I step out of the shower, and though I have no intention of answering, I glance over where it’s lying on the counter next to the sink.
MOTHER is lit up on the screen.
My nose instinctively wrinkles. Whatever.
I’ve been expecting that call ever since Quinn told Jean-Paul his name, and where he could shove it.
Ignoring the ringing, I wrap a towel around my hair and dry off, then apply body lotion before putting on a pair of loose-fitting shorts and a t-shirt. I cut off the sleeves and widened the neck a while ago. Comfort always beats beauty when it comes to sleeping attire.
After drying my hair, I brush it and leave it hanging loose to air dry. Finally, I pick up my phone and read the texts while brushing my teeth.
Mother: I’m SO disappointed in you, Tory. Your father and I gave you everything you’ve ever needed, ever wanted, and this is how you repay us?
Mother again: By shacking up with some townie who’s totally beneath you? I’m not stupid. I know your grandmother is off on a cruise and you’re with that Faulkner boy you were always so infatuated with.
She follows that text with a sad emoji, and then delivers the knockout punch.
You’re not a child. It’s time you stop acting like one. I’ve booked you a flight home from Bismarck later this week and you’d best be on it. Look for the email with your flight info. Call me immediately.
Ah, there she is.
Gloria Redson-Riddle-Coffey at her finest.
With a level of anger approaching DEFCON One, I close out of the message, spit, and rinse out the toothbrush. Leaving the phone on the counter, I exit the room, shutting off the light and closing the door behind me.
Hell no, I won’t be on a plane tomorrow—or anytime soon.
She’s right. I’m not a child, and it’s high time I stopped acting like one. It’s also time for everyone to stop treating me like one, too. Her, Jean-Paul, and Quinn.
He’s sitting on the front porch, a beer at his side, next to Owl when I emerge.
I take a deep breath.
The worst thing that can happen is he’ll say no before I push open the screen door, but he doesn’t hear me coming.
It’s hard to buckle up for a heavy confrontation when it’s so peaceful here at night.
The frogs are croaking, crickets chirping away, and a soft breeze rustles the leaves overhead. The nights here really are perfect.
“See any lightning bugs?” I ask softly.
“Nah. Not dark enough for them yet. Come on out,” he says without ever turning around.
Stepping onto the porch, I let the screen door bang shut behind me.
He’s sitting in one of the rocking chairs. Rather than sitting in the other one, or on the swing, I walk over and lean against one of the pillars, right in front of him, suddenly feeling very underdressed.
“Dusk is the best time to see them, I hear. Must be plenty down by the pond.”
“Plenty of mosquitoes down there, too. Those little bastards will suck you dry for every inch of skin you give ’em,” he says, slowly looking me up and down.
“Probably.”
Oof. Awkward.
I suck at confrontation. I’ve also never tried to seduce a man before, so…I really don’t know how to start.
“Thanks again for letting me use the barn, and for all your hard work. I’m planning on doing a workout before I go and check on the goats tomorrow morning.”
“Okay. Just be careful. I need to put down something under those things if you’re gonna be climbing up near the ceiling.”
He’s showered, too, I notice. His hair is still wet, and I can smell the spicy soap he uses, mingled with that quintessentially Quinn essence.
A sigh builds inside me.
“Tory?” He calls my name, sensing the weight in the air. “What’s on your mind?”
“You.” It comes out harshly. “You with your hot and cold seesaw crap. You kiss me and run away. You put your hands on me…and then we never talk about it again. You always give me those looks—the same kinda look you’re giving me right now—like it’s eating you up inside that you can’t just—”