Buy yourself something nice. Isn’t your sister coming over tonight?
We’d decided to have Chrissy over to the condo rather than going to meet her someplace. My parents’ house was out of the question, and almost any public place was out of the question. We had private matters to discuss.
I replied to Matt’s text.
Maybe I’ll buy you something nice. Yes, she’s coming over at 7. Plenty of time. Love you.
I hoped Matt had gone for a run today, or at least sat out on our crappy little balcony for a while. This evening felt too good to miss.
My cheeks heated as I considered the balcony. He deserved something nicer. I made a mental note to re-raise the house-shopping issue.
I passed a narrow hole-in-the-wall shop—HORSE TACK AND WESTERN SUPPLY—and stopped in my tracks. I backpedaled a few steps.
A tooled leather saddle stood in the storefront display. Cowboy boots lined the bottom of the case, and against the wall, wound around a peg, hung a whip.
Holy shit. The whip looked innocuous enough, until I considered Matt wielding it.
No … way. No way. He couldn’t possibly want to use that on someone, could he?
I stepped into the store, bells announcing my entrance. My eyes adjusted to the low light. The pleasant scent of leather and polish filled my nostrils.
“Can I help you?” said the woman behind the counter.
“I was”—so glad for the semidarkness hiding my blush—“interested in the … whip. The one you’ve got out front.”
“Sure, hon. We’ve got more of those back here.” She led me to a slice of wall flanked by big western belt buckles and pocketknives. “All our whips are David Morgan. Here’s the model from the front case. You whip-cracking at the fair?”
“Excuse me?”
“The Boulder County Fair. They’re doing a whip-cracking show this year. We’ve been getting a lot of customers looking at whips for that.”
“Oh, no. But…” I edged closer to the whip, touching it tentatively. I shivered. The black plaited cord felt rough and merciless. A snake coiled to strike. “My husband does. He…”
Smelling a potential purchase, the woman launched into a speech about the virtues of the whip, which, I learned, was a six-foot bullwhip—the perfect length!—handcrafted, all leather, no stuffing, with replacement fall and cracker included, a bonus pot of leather dressing, and a one-year warranty—a real steal at … seven hundred bucks!
“Whoa,” I mumbled.
By the time the woman stopped talking, she’d removed the whip from the wall and unwound and wound it several times, and finally she laid the looped leather in my hands.
I swallowed and stared at it.
Matt and I were getting to know one another. Finally. Last weekend, he opened up about his parents and his upbringing. Was this whip another piece of the puzzle? Did Matt want things he was afraid to tell me about?
“I’ll take it,” I said.
I paid for the whip with my personal debit card, not our shared account, and the saleswoman packaged it in a flat velvet-lined box. I bought black ribbon from a gift shop across the street and tied it around the box. With a bow. Then I sat in my car gazing at it.
Did I seriously just buy a whip … that might get used on me?
Is this sexy, or totally messed up?
I got back to the condo and scurried to the bedroom before Matt emerged from his office. I shoved the box in our closet. Definitely something to deal with later.
“Bird?” His voice drifted down the hallway.
“In here! Changing!” I wiggled out of my jeans and threw them on top of the box just as he appeared in the doorway.
He grinned wolfishly at me.
“Changing into what? I could recommend something…”
“Pfft. My sister will be here soon.” I tugged on sweats and a tank top. Matt admired me as I sashayed past and bumped my hip against his.
“Tempting the devil,” he mumbled, trailing me out of the closet. Whew.
He hovered in the kitchen, watching me closely. I smiled and he narrowed his eyes. Yikes, what was he thinking?
“Hungry?” I said.