Page 16

I laugh. “No, I know what you’re saying.

Both of you loving lasagna doesn’t go as far as it did back then.

” I can’t help but sigh as I get comfortable in the seat.

“It’s more like, you can hate lasagna, and she can love it, but you both have to want to make it together, and sit around the table to eat it… or push it around on the fork.”

His eyes drift to mine across the cab as he comes to another stop sign.

One amidst nowhere, a road laying flat between two pastures, each filled to the brim with cattle.

“Right. Just… being on the same page feels huge.” He winks, and my stomach leaps from the subtle gesture.

“And for the record, I do like lasagna.”

“Psh,” I make a flippant noise with my mouth, scrunching my nose. “Obviously. Who doesn’t?”

Dean laughs, and I envision serving him a slice of lasagna, his thick legs spread beneath my dinner table, a cloth napkin draped over one.

I’d lean down and put the plate on the table, right in front of him, and he’d slide his palm up the back of my bare leg, and help himself to a little palmful of my ass.

“Smells good, baby,” he’d say, before patting his leg for me to sit.

He’d feed me the first bite, only after blowing some of the heat off of it, and then he’d kiss my lips to taste it.

Inside, I am molten from the top of my brain to the ends of my toes, which curl in my shoes. The thought of being with Dean has absolutely infiltrated my system, though it has no right. I have no right! He’s Tanner’s coach, and he’s doing me a favor by driving me up here.

I face out the passenger window, watching the ending pasture pull by, cows everywhere. Outside, I’m sure it stinks like shit patties and fertilizer, but in this cab, it still smells blissfully like Dean McAllister.

“So how long have you worked at Goode’s?” he asks, surprising me. I don’t think I ever told him I work there, though. Then again, I have been around him in my uniform more than once.

I lick my lips and count backward. “Well, I started working there a month or so after Archer was born, so about five years.”

He nods, still making a valiant effort to split his focus between me and the road. “You like it? I mean, waitressing.”

I consider him. “I’m not sure my dream when I was a little girl was to grow up and be a waitress forever but…

I am grateful for the job. And I’m grateful to the Goode’s for the job.

I mean, at the beginning, it was hard. I’d bring Archie with me, and Mrs. Goode would help me with him when I was working tables.

I’d take my breaks feeding him, and my lunch breaks would be spent feeding and getting him down for a nap.

I got to have him with me, and that was a big deal.

So while I don’t wanna win the Waitress Gold Cup, I do love Goode’s, and everything they've done for me.”

“Waitress Gold Cup, eh?” he teases, but nods, adding, “I know what you mean. I mean, I didn’t plan to be a teacher… but I do like the things it brings me.”

“Summers off?” I ask, because honestly if I had the money to go back to school, a teaching degree would be just what I go for. Because a job where you’re off at 3 and home all summer? Sign me up. I’d even teach chemistry if they needed me to.

Dean laughs, and my insides go soft and pliable again, because something about his tone and timbre, the way he’s both commanding and gentle, it’s so erotic.

“Those are a perk,” he says. “I like the hours, jokes aside. I like coaching, hell, I love coaching. And I do like summers off. But really, I like being around the kids far more than I thought I would. When I started teaching straight out of college I kind of assumed that by this time, I’d have my own family, but since I don’t, I guess I really honestly look forward to seeing the kids and catching up with them more than I thought I would. ”

The GPS speaks in an Australian accent, telling us we are going to arrive at our destination in just five minutes. Five minutes is how long it’s felt like we’ve been in the truck driving, not the actual twenty-five that it’s been. I like talking to Dean, much more than I expected.

“Seems like they love you,” I tell him, savoring the part of his response that highlights his singledom, despite the fact that it’s the worst part of his story, to him.

Not to me. I know Dean McCallister is gonna marry a beautiful woman out of nowhere.

Someone will stumble upon the gold mine—a patient, sexy, devoted school teacher and coach—and they will get a ring on their finger as soon as possible.

It’ll happen. Me? I get three and half more minutes with him.

So I’m gonna cling to his singledom, and enjoy the time I have left.

“So if you didn’t want to be a waitress, what did you want to be?” he asks. I’m surprised he’s brought the topic back around to me.

“Promise no judgement and no laughing?” I ask him, a nervous flutter behind my ribs.

He shrugs. “As long as it’s not like, unicycle champion. If you say that, I will definitely laugh.”

And now I’m laughing. “It’s not unicycle champion .”

“Okay,” he says, interrupting me again to add, “and it’s not bounty hunter?”

I burst into laughter, bringing my hand to my face to capture my snort. My eyes are actually wet. From laughter, not general heartache and sadness. “No, I retired my bounty hunting dream after puberty. Five foot five makes it really hard to tackle those big bond jumpers.”

He nods as if he completely agrees. “Definitely. Okay—so what did you want to do, after ruling out bounty hunting, of course?”

My smile slips, even though I try to hold it in place as a facade.

Pleasing me has always been a simple task, but it was never something Troy was capable of doing.

We were a perfect mismatch. “I wanted to be a housewife. And a mom.” I look out the windshield, to the town approaching.

There’s a small gift shop boasting candles and sweets, and next to that, a large autobody and collision center, and next door to that, Wrench Kings.

“There it is,” I point, but he’s already slowed the truck as the turn in is quickly approaching.

“A housewife and a mom is a beautiful goal, those are two cherished roles,” he says softly.

I lift a shoulder and let it fall, feeling stripped naked with how vulnerable the admission feels.

“The idea of investing my life and all of my love into the people I cherish the most was just something that always appealed to me. Hosting sleepovers and making home cooked meals, decorating Christmas trees together and hand-sewing Halloween costumes… knowing what is going on in my kids classroom because I can volunteer in them and be part of things. Just… being the place my husband comes to at the end of a long day or week, and have him confide in me, and be his person. All of that, I just wanted to be the matriarch of a beautiful family.”

When I get the courage to look his way, I find Dean staring at me. “That’s a beautiful, selfless dream.”

“The cruel irony of my husband having the very opposite dream,” I say with a smile.

But not a sad smile. I am not sad over Troy, and I am not sad about the life I live.

And that much I want to make clear. “I am living a different life, but it’s beautiful, too.

I get to be with my boys all the time, we’re close, they trust me and I trust them.

We rely on one another and we’re devoted to each other.

You know? Like… Rawley would never be mean to Tanner and they would never exclude Archie, because we’re close, and we always have been.

I tell myself that’s the trade off to everything we lost. Being so close.

” I smile at him, meaning the words, despite the longing in my bones to do this life with someone who fills all the tiny spots left empty inside me.

The places that were chipped away and stolen from Troy’s devastation. “We’re happy.”

Dean’s smile is so effervescent that it threatens to knock the wind from my lungs, I swear.

How did I not realize that Coach Dean is this hot?

I guess all those summer drop offs to early morning practice were tainted by Archie’s endless bitching about having to wake up so early to do drop off with me.

Dean parks his truck in the parking lot in front of Wrench Kings.

Though his job is done—driving me here—my heart leaps into my throat when he meets me on my side of the truck and asks, “is it okay if I keep you company until you’re on the road?

I don’t like the idea of driving you to a different town then just driving off.

” His mustache curves with each word, and I wonder what that mustache would feel like against my bare belly and in between my naked thighs.

I smile. “Thank you, that’s nice of you. I appreciate the company.”

Inside Wrench Kings, we’re helped right away by a friendly guy working the front desk.

Dean wanders out back, and through the long, rectangular window that separates the waiting area from out back, I catch a glimpse of him talking to a man.

In place of a cowboy hat is a tangle of dark hair, tied into a messy bun.

Why do men nail messy buns better than women?

His neck is inked, and a nose ring shines from one nostril.

He laughs as he talks to Dean, the two of them close in build, with Dean having maybe another inch on the man wearing the mechanic blues.

A few minutes later and Dean’s friend appears, keys in hand.

“Ms. Colt,” he says. “Miller will help you. Car’s all fixed up.”

Dean lingers in the shop talking to his friend, who I now know is named Atticus, based on the embroidered name on his chest. While I settle up my bill with a payment plan, they talk and laugh, and Atticus slips Dean a card from his wallet.

Finally, when I’m ready to leave, Dean pulls open the door and ushers me out.

“You get to catch up with your friend?” I ask as I spin the key ring around my pointer finger, buying a few more seconds of time with him.

He smiles. “Yeah, I did and hey, you don’t mind if I follow you home, do you? Just to make sure.”

“I’m going straight to the hospital to pick up Tanner.” I look at my watch, and get excited at the prospect of my boy being out in just one short hour.

He shrugs. “All the same, I’ll just tail ya to make sure that belt doesn’t act up.”

“Don’t have confidence in your friend?” I ask about the man with the bun who looks like he could rebuild an engine in his sleep.

“I trust him implicitly.” His eyes look dark at this moment, and I think if he smiled while giving me that look, I’d combust.

“Okay, sure,” I tell him, before thanking him again, getting into my car, and starting the journey back.

I check the rearview mirror, finding him there each time I do, and when I get to the hospital and pull up out front, leaving my car in the temporary loading zone, I see his truck in the reflection of the double doors.

As soon as those same doors close behind me, I lean against the wall, and let my fingers move over the cool painted drywall.

Tightness grips my chest and desire flames between my legs, but something in my stomach is queasy, and nervous, almost sick.

I place my hand there, kneading, questioning, when a moment passes and I realize… that’s not sickness I feel.

Those are butterflies.

And I have a very serious crush.