“Most of them made my ears bleed.”
I point my glass in his direction. “When I get back, I’ll make you a CD of songs that are guaranteed not to cause bleeding of any kind.”
“You’re too kind.”
“Sarcastic ass.”
River’s second glass is already empty and so is our first bottle of wine. I don’t hesitate before uncorking the second, and I stick the beer in the fridge to chill in the meantime.
I pour us more and play a different song on my phone, one a little less romantic and a little more along the lines of something a wedding DJ would play to get the party started.
“I’m going to make a total ass of myself, and I fully expect you to do the same,” I say, pulling him back to the center of the kitchen. It’s been far too long since I’ve been able to kick back, let loose, and dance like no one’s watching. River makes me feel like I can be myself around him, a position I never really found myself in with Grant.
Taking his hand in mine, I twirl beneath him as he stands perfectly still, like a stubborn bump on an immoveable log.
River’s head is cocked to the side as he studies me, and I can’t tell if I’m annoying him or if he’s trying his hardest not to crack a smile, but I don’t let it deter me. I keep dancing and twirling and singing completely off-pitch.
By the time the song ends, I’m dizzy and warm. I peel my shirt off, revealing a plain white camisole underneath, and I toss it to the side. Hair sticks to my forehead, but I brush it off, smiling as the song changes and I return to his side. Bumping my hip against his, I dance circles around him like the crazy drunk cousin at everybody’s wedding.
“You’re seriously just going to stand there while I do all the work?” I balk at him, my jaw hanging.
Threading my hand in his, I lift his arm over my head and duck beneath it, belting out the words to “I Will Survive,” which seems strangely fitting for both of our situations.
My god am I feeling this wine.
But my god, I haven’t a care in the world.
When that number ends, I take a moment to catch my breath and finish my drink, but when The Rolling Stones’ Beast of Burden begins to play, I hop up, instantly revitalized.
“This is my all-time favorite song.” I wear the dopiest, alcohol-induced grin as I run my hands through my hair, messing it up without a care in the world. With my back toward him, I lower myself, hips swaying, and then return to a standing position as I sing along.
“You’re completely insane,” he says, brows lifted. He speaks slower now, like the wine is finally doing its thing.
There’s something different in the way he’s looking at me though. I see it, even through the wine-colored lenses obscuring my view.
“And you’re completely uptight,” I say. “I’ve never met anyone as buttoned-up as you. It’s like you’re allergic to having fun.”
“It’s not a crime.”
“You’re right.” I press my finger against his chest. “But it wouldn’t hurt you to smile once in a while. Or let yourself laugh at something. Or do one thing that makes you feel really, really good and not act like it’s going to kill you.”
I close my eyes as Mick Jagger sings about “making sweet love” to him, and I brush the hair from my face one more time, readying myself to sing along, only my vocal stylings are interrupted by a warm sensation on my lips.
River’s hands wrap around my hips, pulling me against him, and his mouth works mine. His kiss is hungry, desperate, impatient. My body becomes limp and malleable in his arms, my hands moving to his face.
Hoisting me up, he carries me to the kitchen table, pulling his lips from mine. Our eyes catch, our bodies breathless. Every part of me is on fire, confusion mixing with desire, curiosity mixing with a craving I never expected to have.
His shoulders rise and fall as he moves in close, his hands cupping my face as his mouth crushes mine again. His tongue parts my lips. I can’t breathe, but I can’t stop kissing this beautiful, broken man.
And then he stops.
River takes a step back, looking at me as if I’m some crime he’s committed.
“River,” I say, breathless and reaching for him.
“I can’t.” He turns from me, and I slide off the table.
When I move to him, I can barely feel my feet on the floor. The room spins. I reach for him and he pulls away.
“Why’d you stop?” I ask. “We were just having fun …”
He faces me, his breathing heavy and his eyes flashing dark. “I shouldn’t have kissed you.”
“And I shouldn’t have let you, but I did,” I say, stepping closer. I place my hand on his heart, feeling how it’s racing at my touch. “And I enjoyed it … while it lasted, anyway. I don’t think—”
He doesn’t let me finish my thought, kissing me again. Harder this time. Needier. His hands slide all over my body, helping himself to every curve, every forbidden peak and valley. Yet there’s something tender in the way he touches me, like I’m breakable and precious.
River’s lips burn against mine, sending an insatiable ache between my thighs that’s impossible to ignore.
I didn’t come here to meet anyone.
I didn’t come here to hook up with anyone.
I came here so I could feel something again, something I hadn’t felt in ages. I thought that feeling was “home” … I never thought it would come in the form of a rugged, brooding cowboy. I’ve known him all of one week, but it feels like much longer than that.
Pulling himself off of me once more, he exhales. Our eyes hold, the world stops, and my fingertips brush my swollen lips.
“I’m sorry…” His hands lift to his temples and he glances down. “It was a mistake. A huge fucking mistake.”
“River.”
With that, he heads outside, letting the screen door slam. I follow but stay inside, watching from the doorway until he disappears into the obscure cover of a South Dakota country night.
I stand by the front door until I can’t see him any longer, and the moment I turn to climb the stairs, my phone begins to ring in the next room. A second later, I’m staring at Grant’s name flashing across my screen.
I don’t answer, letting it go to voicemail for the millionth time. When the alert plays I see the message is almost two minutes long. I don’t have to listen to it to know what it says. I’m sure it started out sweet, turned nasty, then warped into some desperate, whiny apology. All of Grant’s voicemails are exactly the same.
He can present one hell of a case in a courtroom, but I’m one battle he won’t be winning.
Adrenaline has worked its way through my system, and I know if I go upstairs now, I’ll just be tossing and turning, so I consider waiting on the front porch for River to come back, hesitating with my hand on the door knob.
But he left for a reason.
He needed space.
I’m guessing I’m the first woman he’s kissed—the first woman he’s felt an ounce of emotion toward—since Allison.