Page 73 of Role Play (Off the Books #1)

Sora

“Sora, your hands are slipping,” Forrest shouts over the rumble of the ATV’s engine.

“I know,” I murmur, but surely he can’t hear me. Seated behind him, my arms wrapped around his body, I let my hands wander to the familiar bulge I’ve been missing during our sex drought.

“Hold on to my waist , woman,” he shouts. “I’m going to crash if you keep touching me like that.”

Giggling, I tighten my grip around his waist obediently, pressing my cheek against his broad back as we bounce along the uneven terrain.

The setting sun paints the Wyoming landscape in breathtaking hues of gold and amber, the vastness of it still overwhelming to my senses.

I’ve never seen a sky so enormous, land so wide open it seems to stretch into infinity.

“Where are we going?” I call, my voice nearly lost in the wind.

“Patience!” he answers, although the excitement in his voice is palpable even over the engine’s roar.

We’ve been driving for about fifteen minutes, leaving the main ranch property behind and winding our way through rolling hills dotted with scrubby pine trees.

I’m starting to regret my outfit choice—blue-jean shorts and a white tank top might have seemed like appropriate “cowgirl” attire when I packed in New York.

I severely underestimated November in Wyoming.

Especially riding the ATV, the cold wind bites to the bone.

We crest a small hill, and Forrest slows to a stop. Ahead of us stands a structure I hadn’t noticed on our drive in—the wooden skeleton of what looks like a half-built barn, silhouetted against the darkening sky.

“We’re here,” Forrest announces, cutting the engine.

The sudden silence is profound, broken only by the soft whisper of wind through the tall grass and the distant call of a bird I can’t identify. Forrest climbs off the ATV first, then offers me his hand.

“What is this place?” I ask, accepting his help.

“My house. Or what was supposed to be my house, anyway. It’s a barndominium.”

I follow him toward the structure, curiosity piqued. As we step in, I can see it’s much more than a barn—it’s the framework of a home, with clearly defined rooms and large windows facing the breathtaking view of the mountains.

“My senior year of high school, Dad and I started this project,” Forrest explains, his hand warm against the small of my back as he ushers me in farther.

“Said I could build my own place here if I wanted. We started that summer—laid the foundation, framed it out. We were going to work on it each summer until I graduated. Then, I’d move in. ”

“But you never finished it?” I guess, understanding dawning.

“I met Hannah. I got into law school. We got pregnant with Dakota. And a million and one other excuses as to why this didn’t make sense anymore.”

“This would’ve been amazing,” I say in awe, spinning around in place, soaking up every inch of potential.

He runs his hand along one of the support beams. “Now it’s unfinished business.”

“What was this part going to be?” I lightly stomp my foot against the floor.

“This would have been the living room,” Forrest says, guiding me through the space. “Big windows to catch the sunrise. Kitchen over there—Dad insisted it be big enough for a proper table. ‘No eating on the couch,’ he said.”

I smile, imagining a younger Boone and Forrest working side by side, planning it all out together. “It’s beautiful, Forrest. Even unfinished.”

“Down here would’ve been two bedrooms,” he continues, leading me through what would have been a hallway. “And this…” He stops in a large space at the back of the structure. “This would have been the master bedroom. Windows facing west for the sunset. Planned to build a deck off it right there.”

I stand in the center of the would-be bedroom, closing my eyes and picturing it finished.

Through the open framework, I can see the mountains in the distance, painted in deepening purples as the sun continues its descent.

Despite its incomplete state, there’s something magical about this place—a dream deferred but not forgotten.

“Promise me something,” I say, turning to face him.

“What’s that?” He tilts his head, eyes curious in the fading light.

“Promise me you’ll finish it someday. This house. If for nothing else, it deserves to be completed.”

Something shifts in his expression—surprise, then warmth that reaches his eyes. “I promise,” he says softly, and I believe him.

A gust of wind sweeps through the open structure, and I can’t suppress a shiver. My bare arms pebble with goose bumps, and I wrap my arms around myself in a futile attempt to ward off the chill.

Forrest shakes his head, mouth quirking in amusement. “Why in the world would you wear shorts and a tank top in the middle of November in Wyoming?”

Heat that has nothing to do with the temperature rushes into my cheeks. “I, um, may have underestimated the seasonal differences between New York and Wyoming. I brought what I thought was cowgirl attire…” I gesture at my outfit with a self-deprecating shrug. “Summer cowgirl, apparently.”

His laugh is warm and rich as it echoes through the home. “So you were willing to freeze your ass off to play dress-up.”

“You said I’d look good as a cowgirl. I was trying,” I protest, but I’m laughing too.

“I asked you a million times on the way over here if you were cold. You lied through your teeth every single time, hm?”

“Indubitably.”

Without hesitation, Forrest shrugs out of his plaid flannel shirt, leaving him in just a snug white tee that does nothing to hide the contours of his chest and shoulders. He wraps the flannel around me, his body heat still clinging to the fabric.

“Better?” he asks, his voice dropping to a lower register that sends a different kind of shiver through me.

“Much,” I manage, tying the shirt’s hem at my waist to keep it in place. The sleeves hang well past my fingertips, and I have to roll them up to free my hands.

Forrest removes his cowboy hat and places it carefully on my head, adjusting it with a tenderness that makes my heart flutter. “There. Now you’re a proper cowgirl.”

“How do I look?” I strike a pose, one hip cocked.

His eyes darken as they roam over me—his oversized shirt, my bare legs, the too-big hat perched on my head. “Like every fantasy I never knew I had.”

The intensity in his gaze makes my breath catch. “Forrest Hawkins, are you flirting with me?”

“Darlin’, I’m way past flirting.” He steps closer, his fingers tracing the open collar of the shirt where it meets my collarbone. “Come on. I’ve got something else to show you.”

He takes my hand, leading me back outside. The sun has nearly set now, the first stars beginning to appear in the darkening sky. It’s then that I notice what I missed upon our arrival—Forrest’s old truck parked about fifty yards from the house frame, its bed facing the open view.

As we approach, I realize the truck has been transformed.

A mattress fills the bed, covered with blankets and pillows.

String lights have been hung around the edges, casting a warm, golden glow.

Most surprisingly, a white projection screen has been attached to poles at the end of the truck bed, and a small projector sits on the roof of the cab.

“What is all this?” I ask, amazed.

Forrest’s smile is touched with shyness—an unexpected and endearing look on him. “Our official first date. Movie night under the stars.”

“When did you have time to set this up?”

“Squeezed it in between fence repairs and feed inventory,” he says with a casual shrug that doesn’t quite hide the effort this must have taken. “I do have one serious question, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Have you ever seen The Princess Bride ?”

I laugh, delighted. “Only about a thousand times. I’m pretty sure Westley was the original book boyfriend.”

His smile widens. “I’ve never seen it, but Taio told me it was the epitome of date-night movies.”

“Taio said that?” I arch one brow.

“I paraphrased. He might’ve said it was panty-dropping material. Anyway, is this corny?” he asks, suddenly looking uncertain.

I reach up, taking his face in my hands. “This is perfect. Absolutely perfect . I’m already a big fan of country-boy romance.”

Relief floods his expression. He helps me climb into the truck bed, then retrieves a small cooler from the cab. “Drinks and popcorn,” he explains, opening it to reveal bottles of soda and a container of what looks like homemade caramel corn.

“You think of everything.”

“I try.” He settles beside me on the mattress, arranging blankets around us against the growing chill. With a click of a remote, the projector hums to life, and the familiar opening scene appears on the screen.

For a while, we simply watch the movie, cuddled together under the blankets. The unique combination of comfort—the soft mattress, warm blankets, Forrest’s solid presence beside me—and the wild openness of our surroundings creates a bubble of intimacy that feels both safe and thrilling.

Above us, more stars emerge as true darkness falls.

I’ve never seen so many in my life—a glittering tapestry spanning the entire sky, unimpeded by city lights or tall buildings.

The movie plays on, but I find my attention increasingly drawn to the man beside me, to the way the string lights catch the angles of his face, to the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek.

“You’re not watching the movie,” Forrest murmurs, his voice a pleasant rumble against my ear.

“I’m distracted,” I admit.

“By what?” His hand traces lazy patterns on my shoulder through the flannel shirt.

I prop myself up on one elbow to look at him properly. “By you. By this. By how surreal it feels to be here. Best ten thousand dollars I’ve ever spent.”

“Excuse me, ma’am. I’m no longer available for hire,” he teases, before his expression turns serious, his eyes searching mine. “I’m happy, Sora. For the first time in a long time, I’m really happy.”