Page 27 of Up in Smoke (The Bunkhouse #3)
“Point is,” I continue, “I’ve got one too many loose screws to be fucking around with that stuff. I’d never forgive myself if I failed as a husband or dad, so I removed the possibility by not putting myself in a position to be one.”
“Oh, come on. You’re so hard on yourself.
I don’t believe you’d be bad at those things, Tripp.
But if you really don’t want to do it, that’s fine, too.
Marriage and kids aren’t the winning formula for fulfillment.
And maybe it’s for the best because I’d be pissed if I didn’t get along with your wife,” she admits with a laugh.
I’m not getting a damn wife. But if I did—in some sort of parallel universe—I wouldn’t stop being friends with Mesa, even if they didn’t get along. I’d get a damn divorce.
“But still,” she adds, “who cares about having loose screws? Most people’s are.”
“Yeah,” I sigh, knowing she’s right. “I just—never had a good example to go off of. I wouldn’t know how to make a good home.”
“Good is subjective. I think you’d have a home full of laughter, which means the people in it are happy. And you’d be the cool dad who can do push-ups with three little kids sitting on your back.”
I smile. “That’s cute, actually.”
“Oh, and hear me out.” She beams. “Cheering on miniature versions of yourself during little league season and scooping them onto your shoulders after their first home run.”
“Fuck,” I groan with a hand covering my face. “Fine, I’ll pretend. For five minutes. That’d be badass.”
She nods with a sweet and enthusiastic smile. There’s a distance behind her eyes like she’s not actually looking at me, though. She’s somewhere in her head—picturing me with my nonexistent brood of children.
I reach for my phone and then scoot to the side, making her laugh when my head falls into her lap. I hold up the phone so that we’re both on the screen and then begin recording a video.
“Hi, kids,” I start, in the type of voice I think a well-adjusted old man would use, “It’s your mom and dad.”
Mesa squeals with laughter, covering her smile with a hand over her mouth. I grin as well but hold back my own chuckles enough to keep going.
“I just wanted to say congratulations after the draft last night. It’s pretty cool being the proud parents of three Major Leaguers.”
Mesa’s chest presses into the top of my head when she leans forward to get closer to the camera. “I’m so sorry you had to grow up getting bullied for having a hot mom,” she chimes in with an exaggerated frown. “And boys, please keep your rooms clean. Even if you’re on the road a lot.”
“And don’t do drugs . . .”
“Right,” Mesa agrees with a nod.
“Without me,” I add.
She scrunches her nose and slaps my arm and shoulder. I crack up while ducking my head to protect myself.
“Anyway,” I continue once Mesa’s done landing slaps. “Your mother beats me, but I’m into it. Don’t alert the authorities.”
“And call us every Sunday night.”
I watch her on the screen, bright-eyed and perfectly happy to go along with the stupid shit I pull like this. She’s still unable to make her giggles go away completely, and for a moment, I just stare.
God, she’s beautiful.
The loose strands of hair that frame her heart-shaped face. The tan line from wearing tank tops in the garden peeking out from under one side of my shirt’s stretched-out collar that she’s wearing. Me, lying in her lap. Her, totally comfortable with it.
I slightly shake my head after fixating on her goddamn lips for too long.
When she folds her hands on my head and rests her chin on top of them, our eyes meet on the screen as the video continues to record. I could have sworn a wrecking ball comes crashing through the side of the bunkhouse and crushes every bone in my body.
But it isn’t a wrecking ball. It’s a rush of feelings that could easily be mistaken for a heart attack.
It’s not my proudest quality, having been with as many beautiful women as I have. If anyone knew the real number, they’d never look at me the same. Mesa damn sure wouldn’t.
But if my days playing the field have taught me one thing—it’s that none of those women burned nearly as bright as she does.
She’s the match, the flame, and the whole damn fire—I’m already close enough for the heat to singe my skin, and at this point, I’m afraid all I can do is let her burn everything I thought I ever wanted to the ground while I watch it go up in smoke.
I’m not sure I will, but if I ever changed . . . if my life took an unexpected turn that shifted the way I think about long-term committed relationships . . . I’d go after Mesa. I wouldn’t need time to think or to patiently work through available options.
She’d crush them all. She’d be the one.
I abruptly stop the video and roll back into my spot so that we’re no longer touching. In a perfect world, I’d pull her on top of me, and she’d melt into my body for the rest of the night without emotional consequences.
But that would only ever happen in a severely warped version of our current reality. One where I’m not worried I’ll never be good enough for her, and she isn’t afraid to give relationships another shot.
I wish I could tell her how I feel without confusing her. I wish I could slap myself and shoot my shot without pulling the pin on a hand grenade and chucking it right at our little bubble of complicated friendship.
Her tired sigh draws my attention, and I look over to see her rubbing circles over her temples. “Alright, giggles. Lay down.”
I pull back the covers until we scoot our way under them. She’s flat on her back at first, but I lift her hip and gently flip her over until she’s on her stomach.
“Ugh,” she groans. “It feels so good to lay down again. You wouldn’t believe how long I’ve been at my table staring at a computer today.”
“You’re giving Heston a run for his money for the most stressed-out friend award.”
My hand finds the tightest spot on her slender back, which is right between her shoulder blades. Slowly, my thumb pushes down and massages up her spine. She moans, and my eyes slam shut, as if closing them will hinder my ability to hear the sound.
Touching her, my self-control can totally handle. Listening to her moan is another story. The sound clings to me like campfire smoke.
“There’s an award for that? I hope I win.” Her voice is muffled from pressing the side of her cheek into my sheets. “Then at least I’d have something to show for the pain and suffering.”
“I’ll put in a good word with the voters.”
Her breaths deepen the longer I rub her back, and I can feel her tension melt away, little by little.
“Pour a bucket of ice water on me when this is over, okay?”
I smile. “Why?”
“Because your hand—” She sighs as I find another tight spot on her back and dig my fingers in deep. “Feels so good on me.”
I’m pathetic because that admission makes me pull my hand away. I can handle touching her, but knowing how much she likes it is going to lead to more than a damn massage. Mesa lifts her head and turns it toward me with an adorable frown.
Moving to my back, I lift the covers and slide my other arm under Mesa’s neck until she scoots into my side. At least this way we can fall asleep, and I won’t be staring at her back while each of her little moans threaten to end me once and for all.
Her nose burrows into my skin as she wiggles beneath the comforter. I tilt my head toward the ceiling, loop my arm around her upper back, and close my eyes.
“When are we going to talk about last night?” she whispers.
“I don’t know. I was kinda thinking we could ignore it for a while until we forgot it happened.”
Mesa knees my thigh, and I fake a pained grunt. Instead of putting her leg back down beside me, she rests it on top of mine.
“I’m kidding. We should talk about it,” I say, trying to keep an even tone that doesn’t give away how panicked I’ve been over learning how she feels about it.
She yawns and flattens her hand over my ribs.
I almost laugh out loud at how fucking bizarre a relationship like this must look from an outsider’s perspective.
It’s a good thing I’ve never cared about fitting into “normal” cookie-cutter standards.
We do what we want, and she hasn’t complained yet about the cuddling, so I’m damn sure not going to, either.
“I’m tired. Maybe tomorrow after work, you can come over,” she suggests. “We can talk about it then.”
I’d love nothing more than to stew over it for another day, Mace. Excellent idea.
My hand absentmindedly rubs up and down her back. Keeping my touch light, I close my eyes and accept the idea of waiting until tomorrow to talk. It can wait as long as she stays in my arms like this while we both drift off.