“I don’t know if I agree with any of what you just said,” Ben said, his sexy voice rumbling over the line.
I can’t lie—a shot of something surged through my body, making my cheeks burn. I told myself it was the Vermont sun, but deep down I knew it wasn’t.
“Well, you’ll have to live without them. Can you imagine my parents’ reaction if they saw them?”
As Ben laughed, I could hear someone call his name in the background.
“Branson is hanging with me this weekend. We’re watching golf on TV. I don’t even know who I am, but he seems to like it. Anyway, wanted to see if you wanted to go walk around the Montpelier farmers’ market on Tuesday? They’re open. We could bring some dessert back here if you want.”
“Oh yeah. I actually work Tuesday morning at the Bean, and I could spy on some other honey vendors while there.”
“Great. Can I pick you up around five or a little after?”
“Sure. You want to drive back and forth to Colebury? I can meet you.”
“I want to. I’ll stop for a coffee. Make sure you tell them to make me a good one.”
“I’ll see . . .”
“And, Murph?”
“Yes?”
“Wear those boots.”
“With knee socks?” I asked, lowering my voice to a husky purr.
I don’t know what came over me—I was wanton in a way I’d never imagined. Like a heroine in a historical romance yearning for a man, taking what she wanted or needed. I was no longer the woman I was raised to be, and it felt good.
Ben blew out a frustrated sigh. “Murphy, you’re really making me regret having my nephew here.”
Snapping out of my decadently sexy moment, I said, “Go. Don’t regret being with family. See you Tuesday.”
I hung up before the conversation could go any further, and thought about goats as I settled in my car, trying to cool my hormones. Apparently, this was what happened when a young girl was repressed all her life.
Later that night, tucked in bed after a day with Hunnie and her goats, I was reading my latest romance, jotting some notes in the margins. Not those kinds of notes. I noted themes, an outfit or two for color schemes, along with a few other ideas.
A plan was coming together in my mind on how to promote a few of my favorite things together, plus make a small name for myself. I was energized in a way I’d never been. Refusing to think about my parents and what they would think of my small town idea, I dove back into the book. This one was about a rake and a woman from the wrong side of society.
I was at the good part when the hero was suckling on particular parts of the heroine’s body, her bodice slowly coming off, when my phone dinged. Grabbing it, I noted it was eleven o’clock, and the text was from Ben.
I can’t stop thinking about those boots.
Absolutely nothing could stop the broad smile from spreading over my face. I could feel my laugh lines scrunching and knew this moment would lead to a wrinkle. If my mom knew, she’d be pissed.
Before I could dream up a witty response, another text dinged.
Sorry for the sultry text, but I mean it. Looking forward to Tuesday.
Still unable to think of a comeback, I searched through my GIFs. When I found the one I wanted, I sent a small GIF of Nancy Sinatra singing “These Boots Are Made For Walking.”
Almost immediately, the little bubble with dots popped up.
That’s not helping. You’re a shameless flirt.
I’d been called a lot of things, but shameless flirt had never been one of them. So I sent back one word.
Me?
Because I didn’t even know how to do this texting and flirting thing (we didn’t learn it in our decorum class), I followed up with:
A flirt?
Yes. You. I have to behave. My nephew is asleep down the hall. Also, Nancy Sinatra? You know her?
Of course I do. My parents loved her dad.
I didn’t feel like talking about my parents anymore. They only dragged my mood down, and I’d already spent most of life living for what they wanted.
All of a sudden, a happy thought shocked me back to reality. Gosh, what would my mom think of my reading romance novels? Not much, I expected.
You know Nancy met Elvis when he came back from the Army?
Not expecting that little tidbit, I responded with:
Are we playing trivia now?
Sorry to disturb you. As you know, I’m actually a bit of a closet music aficionado. Elvis is a favorite.
Hey, I’m only reading in bed. You’re not disturbing me. I forgot to ask . . . were you always into music?
Yeah. But never those boy bands you listened to at Pressman, or the grunge groups the guys liked. It wasn’t until college where I found a crew who liked decent music.
I couldn’t stop thinking about how little I knew about Ben, even though we’d been friends for four years in high school. I guessed it was because I’d kept our conversations on the surface.
I wish I knew back then. At Pressman. I wish I knew a lot back then. More about you.
Dots bounced on my screen for a long time as Ben composed his response.
You’re going to know now . . . better late than never. Go read, Murph. I have to operate this Monday, filling in for my partner. See you Tuesday.
That’s it? That was where he was going to leave it?
Like I said, I didn’t get this texting and flirting thing. Maybe this was some kind of hard-to-get deal?
Setting my phone down, I tried to get back into my book, but it was useless. My mind was way beyond the sexy rake.
19
Ben
Blowing out a long exhale as I knocked on Murphy’s door on Tuesday, I hoped I hadn’t been too assertive when it came to my pressing her against it the other night and having my way with her body. Or when texting her.
I’d been feeling fucking
