My heart right now is begging for Branson James.
“How does six tonight sound?” Branson says I walk downstairs.
Glancing at the clock on his wall, it's just about three. I'll have plenty of time to get home, shower and change.
“That sounds perfect. Do you want me to meet you somewhere?”
“How about you just meet me here?” he asks.
“That's fine with me.” Holding my keys in my hand, I smile. “Six o'clock,” I say.
He smiles through thin lips and nods. “Six o'clock, here at my place.” Taking my chin in his hand, he kisses me softly. “I'll see you soon.”
Walking to the door, I give him one last look and smile over my shoulder. Closing the door behind me, I stand still for a moment on the front step. My stomach is in my throat and my heart is already racing.
I've got a date tonight.
Skipping down the steps, I climb into my truck, looking back up at his cabin. He's in the front window, watching me leave. Giving him a light wave, he waves back.
I can't remember the last time I was this excited.
Rushing home to the farm, I hurry upstairs and shower. Wrapped in a towel, I scurry into my room and thumb through the few dresses I own in my closet.
Nope. Pushing away the faded pink teacup dress, I pull out a soft and flowy royal blue one. Holding it against my body, I look in the floor length mirror and twist side to side.
The blue suits my hair and my eyes perfectly, making my red hair stand out and my green eyes pop. Smiling to myself, I know this is the one.
Bingo.
I rub my skin with lotion, massaging it in. Slipping the dress over my head, I grab a pair of heels, but quickly realize that they won't work with the bandage around my ankle.
Flats it is.
Applying a thin layer of blue eye shadow and a touch of pink to my cheeks, I fan my lashes with mascara and gloss my lips. Pulling my hair back, I pin it loosely with a clip and let a few soft curls fall around my face.
Taking one last look in the mirror, I let out a nervous breath. I can't believe how nervous I actually am. I've already slept with the guy twice. We got the awkward part out of the way, so why the hell do I feel like this?
Rubbing my palms up and down my hips, I can feel my tummy coil tight and my heart as it hammers like a drum. It's just a date, Mel, no reason to get all worked up.
I'm trying to convince myself that this is just another normal date, but I know it's not. This feels different. Every part of my body is telling me that this is different. Branson isn't some childish boy I went to school with, or the cousin of a friend’s boyfriend who happens to be visiting town and needs a date.
Branson is a man. A real man. He's lived a million lives over my one. He's experienced in ways I can't imagine. Just his touch is enough to tell me that he isn't afraid of a woman's body.
You'll be fine. Stop overreacting.
Letting out a long sigh, I shake my hands at my sides and snatch my keys off my dresser. Going downstairs, I take each one slow and quietly. I'm not sure where Ryder or Jenna are, and I'm not in the mood to be interrogated.
This is my choice, my decision, and I shouldn't have to explain myself to my brother of all people. Creeping down the steps, I peek around the banister and look in the kitchen. No one is there.
Sneaking with quicker steps, I'm almost at the door. It's right there, my hand is out and I'm ready to grab it and run through.
“Where are you going all dressed up?” His voice makes me cringe instantly.
My shoulders shrug up, rolling forward as I close my eyes and swear to myself. “Fuck,” I say under my breath. “Me?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder.
Now you just sound suspicious! Act normal!
“Yeah, you. Where you headed?” He pulls open the fridge and grabs the carton of milk. Taking a long sip, he watches me from over the top.
“Out,” I answer, turning all the way around to face him.
“Obviously. I'm wondering where. I mean, you're all dressed up for something.”
Looking myself over, I kick out my hip and snap, “Can't a girl just want to dress up? Why do I have to be going someplace to wear this?”
“Because you're always running around in dirty shorts and a muddy shirt unless you're going to work. This,” he says, waving his hand toward me, “is not how you usually dress.”
“Well, maybe it's how I want to dress now. Who are you tell me how I dress?”