He blushed. Instantly. So quickly that the doctor in me wondered if he suffered from idiopathic craniofacial erythema, a condition defined by excessive or extreme facial blushing.
He swallowed and then offered a soft, “Yeah, me too,” which startled me a bit because from what I knew, unlike me, Wyatt was notoriously guarded. As soon as the words left his mouth, he shifted gears and started talking about rodeo horses and events. Explaining to me the things he thought we were going to need for the project that I had fabricated just so that I could be mucking about these stables with him.
By the time we sat back down in the golf cart, I had a pretty good picture of Wyatt’s vision for my Special Spurs Rodeo. He thought we’d bring in some professionals—people like his cousin Buck and also semipros like his brother Cody—to give some demonstrations, and then offer smaller clinics for things like roping and riding. It was a good idea. It would keep everyone safe, but still allow the kids to feel like they had a hands-on rodeo experience.
Once we were again unintentionally cuddled close on the golf cart seat and driving toward the indoor arena, Wyatt asked, “I’m curious. Why did you want this tour? I know you came here as a kid. I remember you here.”
“Maybe once or twice,” I said. “But not enough to know it well enough to plan an event here.”
“Really?” He seemed shocked.
“Yes, really. I went to the county fair once or twice. I remember a year when you won a blue ribbon. I saw that satin bow hanging by a heifer from your ranch.”
“You congratulated me,” he said.
“Yes, I remember.” It took me half the school day to work up the courage to approach him.
“You were wearing a yellow blouse and it was a nice gesture.”
I laughed. “Wow, you really do remember.”
He spoke softly. “Almost no one else did. People didn’t seem to notice my name on the paperwork. I entered her. My father picked two others. But I used my own money to enter Belle. That was the heifer’s name—Belle.” He was so big and bright most of the time that when he was quiet it felt disconcerting, like it was hurting him to tell you that he had soft spots. “I was so proud of myself, but I also wanted to be big enough to accept that it was about the ranch, not me.”
“It couldn’t be both?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. But it didn’t feel like it then.” The big smile returned again. “So that was it, huh? One trip to the fair to see my heifer.”
I smirked. “Oh, please. I didn’t come to see your heifer.” I totally did. Bev asked me to go with her to the fair every year, but her father absolutely forbade her from getting on carnival rides—something about them being death traps—so if we went, we just wandered around eating junk food, feeling like outsiders, and wishing we could go on rides. The year Wyatt won the blue ribbon we were fourteen and Bev convinced me to attend by mentioning Wyatt’s ribbon. I certainly wasn’t telling him that so instead I added, “Bev wanted to go.”
“Okay, but just the once? Really? For most of us the county fair was like a yearly highlight.” He shook his head in awe, his eyes wide. “Not for you, huh?”
“What can I say? Not really a fair kinda gal. What’s so fun about the fair anyway? Rides make me sick; fair food is unhealthy, and it’s statistically improbable that you’ll win one of those big teddy bears.”
He parked the golf cart again and then turned to me with his jaw hanging open like I'd just said something sacrilegious.
“What?” I questioned his shock. His eyes were a deep stormy gray. It was amazing I managed to form words and look at him at the same time.
Shaking his head, he said, “I'll have you know, fair food is like an exotic gourmet specialty with a long and complicated pedigree. Carousels and Ferris wheels don’t make anyone sick. In fact, they can be quite romantic if you ask me.” I went to respond, but he lifted a finger, making it clear that he wasn’t quite finished. “Also, I’ve won my fair share of giant teddy bears.”
“Romantic, huh? Are those the kinds of memories you made at the fair? Face-sucking memories.”
He laughed at me again. “What adult says sucking face or as you put it, face-sucking?”
I stood and so did he. “This one,” I said, pointing at myself with both thumbs as we moved to enter the arena.
“Well then, to that I say, when you’re a teenager the fair’s as good a place as any to suck face, Caroline. Don’tcha think?”
I shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I didn’t really get to the sucking face phase of life as a teenager.”
Again, his jaw dropped.
“I went to college at sixteen, making me total jailbait. And let’s face it—before that it wasn’t like there was a gaggle of teen boys looking to chase after me in Conway. As the sheriff’s brainy, bookish daughter, I was practically invisible.”
Holding the door open, he said, “I saw you.” And then, as if he thought better of the implied connotation in his words, he added, “They might have acted like assholes, but no one in our class was unaware of your existence.”
“Sure, because I constantly screwed up the grading curve. But I promise you, they weren’t looking to suck face with me.”
“Were we still talking about that?” he joked.
We walked into the arena and I made a beeline for the bleachers. I climbed up them until I was halfway up, and then I walked toward the center before straddling one of the planks and sitting down. I couldn’t see an easy or seamless way to seduce him, so I decided to just go for it.
“Sit,” I said.
He did as he was told and sat down across from me, our knees almost touching.
“Getting a feeling for the space?” he asked, but there was an airy quality to the words like maybe he was nervous. Did I make Wyatt Morgan nervous?
“Something like that.” I sighed. I inched closer so that my knees tapped his. I had a flash of fear, a little voice in my head that screamed, he doesn’t want you. You already know he’s not interested. What are you doing? He’s like one of only five or so people on the planet that finds you charming rather than bizarre. I pushed past it. I wanted him. I’d always wanted him, and I was not a little girl anymore. I was a grown woman, a vixen, a sexpot, right? I could put the moves on a man. Maybe if I was lucky, we’d suck face like teenagers.
7
Wyatt
Caroline was so close to me. My heart was racing so fast I could feel it in my throat. We were knee to knee, and she was looking at me like she had a plan—a dirty, dirty plan. The forwardness of her actions had me off-kilter. I was used to being the one with a plan, the guy you came to when you needed something meddled and muddled until it went your way. She leaned forward and rested her hand on my thigh. Then she went for it and kissed me, like it was the most normal thing in the world, like we kissed all the time, like my lips were hers to take whenever she wanted.
And they were.
For a minute, I was a man under her spell. I forgot all the reasons I’d avoided kissing Caroline in the past and I let go. She was all around me, like a fog, only a pretty one that smelled like fresh laundry drying on the line in the spring air. At first her kiss was gentle, a whisper, quietly asking, ‘are we doing this right now?’ And then when I responded in kind, she grew bolder, teasing her tongue against the seam of my lips, requesting entry. My consciousness was not completely obliterated. I knew I should have stopped what was happening. But years of wondering what she would feel like in my arms superseded. I welcomed her, the sweet taste of her mouth, promising myself it would be the first and last time.