Page 73 of CowSex

“I just—” His hand rakes through his hair. “I’ve never seen anyone up at Snowmass or Basalt in a tutu.”

I shrug. “Well, you will today.”

He gives a small laugh and shakes his head. “You gonna be warm enough?”

“My tights are thermal, so is the T-shirt I have on under my jumper. I have socks on over my tights beneath my boots and will be adding a hat, scarf, and jacket to my outfit if you’re really that concerned. Unlike you, I don’t tend to wander around naked in these cold conditions.”

The corner of his mouth pulls up, but he doesn’t give me a full smile.

“What conditionsdoyou wander around naked in then, Essex?”

“None that you’re ever likely to catch me in, Cowboy.”

This is better. Sure, his flirty banter gets me all worked up inside, but I much prefer it to any awkwardness.

“You wanna go grab your coat, and we’ll head out?”

I move past him and am about to hit the bottom step when Koa speaks again.

“For what it’s worth, that’s the sexiest damn tutu I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“Thank you,” I squeak out before tripping up the next three steps and almost face planting in my rush to get away from him and his flirty, fanny-fluttering compliments.

“Don’t be fooled, Gracie,” I tell myself. “He just wants to get in your knickers.”

WE STOP FOR BREAKFAST ATa little roadside diner, the kind of place I saw in films and dreamed of visiting as a kid.

It has big pink leather bench seats inside booths, a massive bubble gum machine, and an old-fashioned jukebox. The waitresses are all wearing pink dresses with white aprons and little hats on their heads. When we walk through the door, I look around for Sandy, Danny, and the rest of the students from Rydell High.

I let Koa talk me into having pancakes instead of just eggs, and now, as we pull into the car park of a furniture store, all I want to do is slip into a carb coma. There’s a reason I like to stick to protein in the mornings, too much sugar has me heading straight back to my bed to sleep it off.

Koa appears at the door of the truck and opens it for me. I have my compression bandage on over my hand and wrist, and as long as I don’t put too much pressure on it, it doesn’t hurt, and it definitely is less swollen. I have mentioned this to Koa, sorta, but if he wants to continue helping me in and out of his truck, there’s no way I’m gonna say no to sliding my front down that big hard body of his.

It’s giving him mixed signals, I know, but this is what he does to me. I feel like I have two versions of myself, one sitting on each shoulder. OverThinking me on one side, wearing a pleated skirt and frill-necked blouse, screaming, “Don’t do it, Gracie, this man has the potential to break your heart like no other!” Then, on the other side, is WhoreyWanty me, all dressed up in her Victoria’s Secret bra, thong, and angel wings, shouting, “What are you waiting for? Get in there, love. Get in there and bang his fucking brains out!”

When I’m not in his presence, OverThinking me wins the war every time. But, one look at Koa, and WhoreyWanty me bitch slaps OverThinking to the ground, stomps on her a few times for good measure, untucks her thong from where its ridden too far up her arse, and forces all the flirty banter to spew out of my mouth.

I turn in my seat to exit the car and Koa places his hands on my hips, pulls me forward slightly, and then moves them to my waist before lifting me out.

I breathe him in. WW me wants me to wrap my legs around his hips and lick his throat, but we’re in a car park outside a furniture store on a Sunday morning, so I manage to rein her in, for the time being.

He hasn’t let go. His hands remain wrapped around my waist, holding me against him. I tilt my head and look up at his face. We’re both wearing sunglasses, so I can only assume that his eyes are on me.

The wind whips around us, blowing my hair across my face. Koa raises a hand and gently tucks it back behind my ears, under my cream-coloured beanie.

“Thank you,” I tell him quietly.

“You’re welcome.” His words are just as quiet.

My palms are spread flat across his chest, his are still spanning my waist.

“Let’s go shop, Essex.”

“Lead the way, Cowboy.”

He takes my hand, steps us away from the truck, and closes the door.

He doesn’t let go of my hand, not even when we enter the shop. I both love and hate that it feels so right, the way my hand fits so perfectly inside his, and it has me overthinking and once again making up a fictional future for us.