Kiss My Boots (Coming Home #2)

And I’m so turned on right now I’m pretty sure all it would take is me walking the wrong way, my jeans rubbing against my slick and needy sex, and boom, I would be crying out just like that.

Maybe this isn’t a good idea, but Jesus Jones, how much longer am I supposed to deprive him of my pleasure? I laugh at my joke, the noise echoing around Ness’s cab, and I jump in my seat.

Okay, so I’m a tad nervous.

It isn’t like he’s a stranger that I’ve never slept with before and that I’m not sure wants me. I know he wants me. It isn’t even close to the quick hookups I’ve had over the years—the ones I was ashamed of when they made me feel like my mama. None of that is why I’m a nervous bundle of uncertainty—regardless of the plan being pretty awesome.

It doesn’t matter to me how long he’s been back or even how long we’ve officially been together. None of that bullshit about not feeling the same now that we’re adults is even in the realm of possibilities, and honestly, it never was.

All it took was one day with him and I felt all that time vanish. Sure, we’ll still have moments in the future where we’re faced with reminders of what we missed being apart, but that’s so tiny and inconsequential in relation to the bigger picture. We’ve got the rest of our damn lives to discover everything we missed, and at this point, I don’t want to waste a second more. Those breakthrough moments when each of us discovers something about the other person that was new in the last nine years will just be a bonus in our crazy roller-coaster romance. We’ll make new memories while uncovering the old.

Who wants perfect? Not me. I want real.

I need this. He needs this. We need this.

With every second that passes, the hole inside me comes closer to being full, so much so that if I jumped, I might slosh some of its contents over the edges. It’s as simple as that. He’s given that to me and I hope I’ve given him the same. Call it crazy, but when you hold that sort of connection with anyone, it will never matter how much time you’re apart: your subconscious is automatically ready for you to pick up the pieces and begin your journey together again. It’s as simple as that.

“You got this, Quinn,” I tell my reflection in the rearview mirror. “You so have this. You march in there and make him end this stupid bet. Then you can both enjoy the prize.”

I nod and pull my long hair from the bun I had it twisted in, thankful that it looks like purposeful waves that are meant to be there and not a crinkly mess from being up on top of my head since seven this morning.

The second my boots hit the ground, a renewed burst of nervous bubbles starts fizzing in my gut. I ignore them, shut the door, and give Ness a pat on the side panel before walking toward the front door of the old house Fisher Ford turned his office into.

Gladys is the only one in the front waiting room, her gray head sticking up over the front-desk check-in area. She flashes me a weathered smile. Given that it’s so close to business hours ending, I’m not shocked that there isn’t another person waiting to be seen.

“Howdy, Quinn!” she calls with a wave. “What brings you in, sweetheart?”

“Hey, Ms. Gladys.” I walk over to the little window cut into the wall and tell myself to stick to the plan. “I was wonderin’ if you could get me in today. I know it’s late and all, but I’m not sure I can go another night with this pain when I use the potty. It hurts mighty bad when I move around, too.”

If it wasn’t for the fact that she’s been working this same job for as long as the practice has been open, I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t have been able to catch the shock that flashes over her face as quickly as she does. There one minute, gone before you could blink. Hell, I probably would have missed it, but I’m in hyperaware mode right now.

“Uh, let me see what I can do,” she answers, looking down at the old-fashioned appointment book in front of her. “Dr. Lyons is still here and hasn’t had a patient for an hour now. I’m sure he could fit you in before he leaves.”

I’m shaking my head before she finishes and she looks up with a frown. “It has to be Tate. I mean Dr. Montgomery.”

This time she fails to hide her shock. Doesn’t even try to. “Quinn, honey,” she whispers, looking behind her when someone enters the front-desk area.

“Hey Claire,” I greet, smiling sweetly at the receptionist.

“Hey Quinn.” She’s so meek and shy that I almost don’t hear her. “Ms. Gladys, I’m gonna head home now,” she tells the older woman, still looking at me sheepishly.

“Sure, sweet girl. I hope that headache gets better.”

Claire nods, barely, and grabs her purse from a cabinet next to what I assume is her desk.

Gladys waits for Claire to leave before addressing me again. “Quinn, honey,” she says hesitantly, “I know it isn’t my business, but don’t you think Dr. Lyons would be a better option?”

I shake my head. “Nothin’ against him, Ms. Gladys, but I only want Dr. Montgomery.”

“But—” She stops and checks the area around us again, lowering her voice even further as she resumes speaking. “But Quinn, honey, you don’t really want him dealin’ with your . . . issues, do you? It’s no secret y’all are datin’. I heard about the other night at the diner when y’all were just sittin’ there neckin’ the whole time, not payin’ any mind to your dinner once. Do you want your new beau to know your intimate details?”

I bite my cheek so that I don’t burst out laughing and ruin this whole thing. No way I’m getting this far and having it all go to hell because I can’t keep a straight face.

I lean toward the older woman. “Ms. Gladys, can you keep a secret?”

This time she doesn’t look shocked. Nope, not Ms. Gladys, best friend to self-appointed town busybody Marybeth Perkins. Her face sparks with excitement and she nods instantly.

“Well, between us girls and all, I figured it should be him fixin’ me up since he’s most likely the reason it hurts so much . . . down there. That man.” I make a dramatic show of whistling and rolling my eyes in bliss. “Well, bein’ the fine doctor for ladies that he is, you would think he’d know how to entertain one without bruisin’ her . . .” I pause, lean in even closer, and whisper, “Deep inside, if you know what I mean.”

Gladys looks like she might faint, and this time I have to bite my cheek so hard I taste blood. If she had been anyone else, I would have thought of a better way at getting back there than giving her that kind of mental picture. However, Gladys is old as dirt, and the last thing she’s going to do is use a hint about Tate working with a python in his pants to try and get with him.