The guy I was trying like hell to forgive.
She’d probably run in the other direction.
“And then…” She tilted her head. “…you go and give me this pained expression as if being yourself isn’t enough.”
I sighed. “Sometimes, I’m afraid it’s not. Not when being myself means carrying at least two tons of baggage I can’t seem to get rid of.”
“Hmm, seems like you need to just stop long enough to toss it to the ground, realize it’s slowing you down, and move on.”
“That—” I suddenly wanted to change the subject, but something about her made me want to confess. “—that’s the hard part, Bronte. People talk about baggage all the time, how heavy it is, how hard it is. It’s not the heaviness that gets me. It’s not even the annoying fact that those things are all still there because those are what made me the man I am today. The hard part is stopping. The hard part is knowing you don’t deserve to toss the bags to the ground. No, your punishment is that the minute you toss them to the ground, you realize the reason you picked them up in the first place wasn’t out of pain but from so much guilt that the heaviness is deserved. Why the fuck should I have a reward for my own shittiness?”
Her eyes locked on mine, and she didn’t even blink. “Do you truly believe that you deserve to be punished?”
“Yeah,” I croaked, “I do.” I stood and pulled out my wallet, tossing a few bills on the table. “And if you knew me, you would too.”
“Don’t insult me,” she snapped. “What if that’s my thing?”
“What?”
“Like singing’s your thing. What if that’s mine.”
“What?” I asked again. “What do you mean?”
“What if my thing is that I’m really good at helping unpack.” She stood with me and reached for my hand.
The guilt made me want to pull away.
But her understanding smile made me cling to her in a way that was almost embarrassingly needy.
And then I was tugging her against my chest and kissing her again, gently, thoroughly.
“What was that for?” she whispered against my lips.
“That was for you… being you.”
I felt her smile across my lips.
“All right, I was about to tell you my plans before all the kissing. Anyway, your favorite childhood memory, you remember it?”
“Hmm, one of your concerts, Mr. Arrogant?”
“Aw…” I pressed a palm to my chest. “…I’m touched, but no, you said horseback riding, so guess what we’re doing.” I clapped my hands together a few times while her eyes widened with excitement. “That expression right there is what I was going for. Let’s do this!”
“We’re going riding?” She released a shrill whoop.
I looped my arm in hers. “Yes, you can give me a thank-you kiss when we’re on the horse. And for the record, I’m terrified of one animal beyond all reason.”
She winced. “Birds?”
“No, that’s Demetri, the guy from AD2. Honest to God, saw him crawl into a trashcan one time to avoid one flying at least twenty feet away from him.”
She scrunched up her nose. “He really shouldn’t live in Seaside.”
“My favorite is when his wife leaves the windows open and puts bread crumbs on the windowsills. Last Christmas, I think he cried. He said his eyes were burning from cutting onions, but… there were tears.”
Her burst of laughter made her stagger sideways for a couple of steps. Then she righted herself and captured me in a happy stare. “Okay, I give up. What are you afraid of?”
“Take this to your grave, Bronte Connors, but…” I lowered my voice. “Horses, I’m petrified of horses.”
She stopped walking. “We don’t have to do this.”
“Oh, but we do, because they’re about to come around the corner in three, two, one…” I pointed just as a horse and its rider came around the corner. The owner gave us a cheerful wave.
It took every masculine bone in my body to keep my feet rooted to the ground. I stiffened as the animal got closer.
And then Bronte stood up on her tiptoes and whispered in my ear, “Conquer your fears, and I may just let you conquer me…”
I groaned out a curse. “One horse, one rider.”
“One horse, two riders…” She patted me on the shoulder. “You can do it. Just think of what you might get from me.”
I narrowed my eyes down at her. “I’m gonna need specifics before I scream like a middle school girl at an Adrenaline concert because it’s getting closer, isn’t it? I can smell it. Shit, I can smell the horse. Do horses smell fear? DOES IT KNOW?”
“Kissing…” She gave a gentle laugh. “Touching…”
I relaxed a bit.
“And…” Her cheeks pinked. “…remember that song from your last album that people compared to John Mayer’s Wonderland?”
“It’s better and yes,” I said, and then my body swayed toward her. “You mean, I get to lick between those gorgeous thighs of yours?”
“That wasn’t in the song,” she pointed out, but her breathing quickened ever so slightly, and her cheeks pinked.
“Made a new verse in my head, artists do that. It’s a thing, promise. I also added a blow job, seven sexual positions of my choosing, ten minutes where I get to just stare at you naked, and seventeen orgasms throughout a twenty-four-hour period.”
She gaped. “You’re insane!”
“Scared. I’m scared. I babble when I’m scared.”
She sighed. “Maybe. Just get on the damn horse.”
“And then I can get on you?”
“Do you always take the romance out of sex?”
“Um… I’ve been celibate for three years. Don’t judge me.”
Her eyes went wide.
I sighed. “Did I forget to mention I blurt things out when I’m scared? No? Well, just feel free to put in some earplugs before I start confessing things like how I stroked myself in the shower thinking about your lips and—”
“Drew Amhurst?” Dave, the guy I rented the horse from, got off it like he’d been born to play a cowboy.
He stared at Bronte longer than I liked and seemed unfazed by my death glare in his direction.
