First Step Forward

by Liora Blake

  Shame rises up, because beyond the problem of my loan, money remains an ever-present monkey on my back. Every month, I gather my bills and stare out at my little apple saplings, then sit down with a piece of scratch paper and a pencil trying to get the numbers to add up the way I wish they would. It’s a precarious balancing act, sometimes stretching the propane bill to next month while catching up the car insurance this month, all in an effort to find a few extra dollars. If only I had fancy handbags or a nice car to show for it; instead I have rusted farm implements, fertilizers, and pruning shears.

  At the front desk, a pert little woman with a platinum-blonde pixie cut takes mercy on me, running my card four more times in successively lesser amounts until it finally clears. I dig into my wallet and fish out a fifty I keep tucked away—my “for emergencies” stash—then hand it over to settle up what my credit card wouldn’t cover. I try not to whimper when she gives me only jingling change in return.

  The valet disappears to retrieve my truck from the hotel’s secured underground parking and under the canopy of the entrance, I sit down on the top of my rolling suitcase and watch the city traffic as it passes by.

  It’s chilly out, so the crisp air easily seeps through my zip-up hoodie and leggings. My real jacket is in the truck, tucked behind the seat along with a box of bone meal and various well-used pairs of work gloves. Perhaps if I manifest a vision that I’m a traveler in a faraway land of tropical temperatures, I might stave off the cold in my mind.

  Closing my eyes, I summon up the sight of it all: white sand burning the soles of my feet, a broad-brimmed hat that does nothing to quell the relentless sunshine, and a companion of the male variety with sweat beading up in all the right places.

  The delusion works for a few minutes, until a blaring car horn ruins it all. Across the street, standing on the edge of the sidewalk, a guy in loose track shorts and a hoodie pauses to adjust his iPod earbuds. After a quick scan of his frame, I decide he might be the ideal specimen to share all that relentless sunshine I just imagined with. His hood is up, covering an already knit hat–clad head, and when his gaze darts across the street to gauge traffic, he catches my stare.

  The expression on his face, sullen and irritated, is unexpectedly familiar. If it isn’t surly salt guy from last night, it’s his evil twin. Or maybe his good twin. Because the guy in the drugstore was just as moody, dour, and brooding, with a dash of miserably ill thrown into the mix.

  If he hadn’t been built like a modern-day Roman god, with short but shaggy dark blond hair, I wouldn’t have remembered him in such acute detail. Plus, when he fixed his blue eyes on me, full of glowering and focused attention, I nearly offered to take him home and put him in the salt bath myself. He looked so pained, so desperate for something tender and comforting, I wanted to bake him a cake and rub his shoulders until that seemingly permanent furrow in his brow finally lessened.

  Before I can look away, my truck appears and blocks the view, announcing its arrival with rough-sounding exhaust and a motor that sputters so loudly it’s vaguely embarrassing. Sighing, I slip around to the back and twist open the rear glass on the truck topper to drop my suitcase into the bed, amidst the short ladder and various bushel bins that crowd the space. The decision to buy this truck, reliable but small, for cash was a good one, simply because it has a shell. I might end up sleeping in it soon.

  “Hey.”

  Gah. He might sound slightly less tortured this morning, but surly salt guy’s voice is every bit as husky as it was last night. If I said it didn’t resonate down to my gold toe rings, I would be lying. I let the back glass thwack shut and twist the handles on both sides, securing it for the drive. Turning, I place my hand to the crystal pendant again and give a slight tilt of my head.

  “Hey there, salt guy.”

  His eyes are clearer this morning, and with the exception of the dark circles underneath, he looks like his night hadn’t ended up all bad. Probably had a house full of cake-baking, shoulder-rubbing women at his disposal.

  “You look better this morning.”

  He nods, sharp eyes flickering to where my hand lies on my chest. I drop it in reaction and watch his gaze soften.

  “And you look a lot less like an elderly gentleman escaped from a retirement home. Not that those pj’s and wool socks weren’t all kinds of bizarrely sexy last night, but that might have been my impending migraine talking. Apologies if I was a complete asshole.”

  I take note of the word sexy immediately and despite knowing that what I should do is call him out on it, demand his offer of an apology, instead my heart proceeds to flutter. Freaking flutter.

  After Campbell, I should have had enough of men and their pointed comments and roving eyeballs. My chest should be tightening, and my hands should be clenching up into little annoyed fists. Unfortunately, surly salt guy and his unreasonably pretty eyes only inspire a full-body sensation of feminine triumph—while also prompting my pulse to thud harder in my neck.

  “Not a complete asshole. The first word I heard you say was motherfucker. Then after that, motherfucking. But you bought my bottled water, so my karmic scorecard remains clean on that transaction. Even-steven.”

  I slip around him and make my way to the driver door, where the valet kid waits with my keys in his hand. The exchange would dictate a tip, a problem compounded by the sudden awareness that I’ll need to fuel up at some point on the way home and I’m most definitely broke. Might have to stop by a pawnshop on the way out of town; surely a short ladder might get me enough cash to make it home. I lean into the truck and flip down my sun visor to unearth a five-dollar bill stuffed underneath a stack of business cards tucked there. As I hand it to the kid, he relinquishes my keys. Salt guy follows and comes to a stop next to my car door.

  “What’s your name?”

  Before I can stammer out something evasive or glib, I blurt out my name. My whole name. First, middle, and last.

  “Whitney Willow Reed.”

  He raises his eyebrows before thrusting his hand forward, prompting for a handshake. And I, Whitney Willow Reed, do nothing but look down at his hand with confusion. From behind us, a loud bellow comes from across the sidewalk, in a manly kind of catcall.

  “COOOOOP! YOU KICKED ASS LAST NIGHT!”

  Still holding his hand out to me, he lifts his other arm up and casually gives a two-finger wave in the direction of the bellower.

  “I’m Cooper Lowry. Cooper Marcus Lowry, if that matters.”

  I take his hand, finally, and shake it flimsily. Salt guy, Cooper Marcus Lowry, has some seriously strong hands. No soft Campbell-esque cold fish here. I grip stronger in reaction. Then I realize I’m now shaking too aggressively, up and down in a wide path, and for far longer than appropriate.

  Dropping our hands awkwardly, Cooper steps back and takes a glance at my truck.

  “Headed home?” I nod and turn to slip my keys into the ignition. “Where’s home, Whitney?”

  “Hotchkiss. On the Western Slope.”

  Cooper studies me for a moment, eyes narrowing as he does. He was adding me up, trying to fit the pieces together. If he only knew. I’m like a puzzle composed of mostly corners, missing all those critical links that belong in between.

  “Long drive. What does a girl like you do in a town like Hotchkiss?”

  There is a momentary desire to wail and shout nothing. I do nothing, I am nothing, and I’m going home to nothing. No prospects, a sad end of harvest, and a cold, empty house. Instead, I turn and lean into the truck, rummaging around on the passenger side to pull out a half-pint mason jar.

  “This.” I hand him a jar of my apple butter and he twists it side to side to read the label, then hands it back. I toss it on my driver’s seat without turning away.

  “Delaney Creek Orchards? You work there?”

  “I own it.”

  “You own an orchard? Impressive.”

  His compliment actually brings about the sensation of needing a good, long, slobbering cry about losing
the only significant thing I’ve ever done to the front of my mind. But impressive? Hardly.

  “Don’t be impressed. It’s only ten acres, with a bunch of struggling apple trees, a handful of pear trees that yielded a grand total of twenty pears this year, and a house so drafty I have to layer a wool cardigan over those pj’s just to stay warm enough at night. And double up on the socks sometimes.”

  He nods thoughtfully, and I immediately want to bake him another cake. But up close, in the daylight, it doesn’t appear that much cake crosses Cooper’s lips. Those lips, the ones he now proceeds to purse the smallest bit, couldn’t have seen much but clean living and lean protein for the last few years because if I couldn’t surmise accurately about the contours of his body last night, I absolutely can now.

  Under that hoodie is likely nothing but ridges and abs for days. And the legs, gracious … the legs. Quads and calves, hamstrings and whatever those muscles are that are adjacent to your shins—they’re all there, plus a few others I definitely couldn’t name, in every inch of their bulky, toned, well-worked glory.

  My gaze settles on his legs and fixes there long enough for him notice, because he proceeds to flex his calves with only a minuscule lift of his heels. Too much power there, too much strength, too much masculinity for any one body to manage. Especially for my out-of-practice body to handle. The sight reminds me of the obvious: that I need to cease this silly semi-flirtation with a stranger, get in my truck, and go home. I have far, far bigger problems. The kind I need to focus on with a clear head.

  Before I can make my goodbyes and wish him well as he skips off to run a marathon or whatever that body of his is primed to do, Cooper’s face contorts and he squeezes his eyes shut. Then he pinches the bridge of his nose and groans.

  “You OK?”

  “Throbbing headache. Comes and goes. Mostly if I’m doing something crazy—like, you know, trying to stand upright.”

  He drops his hand and takes a deep breath, then opens his eyes again. When he does, those eyes are unbearably gentle, every bit of his broody charisma giving way to something infinitely simpler. In a move that contradicts my recent internal reprimand to get in my truck and screech away, I reach out and take his left hand in both of mine. He doesn’t seem shocked—likely because Cooper is probably unnervingly accustomed to strange women touching him—but he narrows his eyes and lets them drift between our interlocked hands and my face.

  “Relax your fingers.”

  He unclenches his fingers and lets the tips graze against my open palms. I take two fingers and begin to press firmly against the meaty part of his hand, between his index finger and thumb. When he flinches, I press harder. Then his face goes slack and he closes his eyes.

  “I have no idea what in the fuck you’re doing right now, but if you could just stay permanently attached to me like this for the foreseeable future, that would be awesome.” Cooper lets out a long sigh, and his chest seems to slowly deflate as he does. “What the hell is that?”

  “It’s just acupressure. This one works for me if I have sinus pain, but you can also just do the tips of your fingers for headaches. Just press like this when you have pain.”

  Cooper’s eyes stay closed. “I’m guessing it won’t feel as good if I’m doing it and not you.”

  I let out a small chuckle, moving my hands to press on the end of each of his fingers. When I start to reach for his other hand, I remember that we’re blocking the hotel drive. But the area remains nearly empty, save for a little boy standing about ten feet away, who is staring at us, shyly, with his hands clasped behind his back. Just behind him, I spy a couple, gently prompting the boy to move closer.

  Cooper realizes I’m now only holding his hand limply, because he opens his eyes and then tracks my stare over his shoulder. When he does, he drops my hands and turns toward the boy, dropping down to a crouch.

  “Hey, buddy.”

  The kid immediately turns into a pile of mush, gush, and grins, outpaced only by those of his parents, his mom even doing a strange silent clapping thing while she bounces on the balls of her feet. The little boy pulls his hands out from behind him and thrusts forward a black marker. Cooper waves him closer and takes the pen.

  “Alright, buddy, what’s your name?”

  “Sean.”

  “What do you want me to sign, Sean?”

  Every bit of surliness is gone from Cooper—not a trace in his voice, his body language, or his words. The little boy looks to his parents for an answer and they mock whisper to him, “Your shirt, honey. Have him sign the back.”

  He turns and stands stock-still while Cooper signs the back, just over the boy’s tiny shoulder, before recapping the marker and handing it back to the boy’s mother. After an awkwardly enthusiastic round of handshakes, they scuttle off and Cooper returns to my side.

  I raise an eyebrow and cock my head.

  “Pray tell, Cooper Marcus Lowry, what is it you do for a living? I’m guessing whatever it is, it’s way more impressive than owning a ramshackle excuse for an orchard in southwestern Colorado.”

  Cooper shrugs. “I play football.”

  “For a real job? As in professionally? Not like, my buddies and I have a rec league and we roll around on some grass and act like we’re in a beer commercial? When in fact what you really do is manage an office supply store?”

  A sharp snort tears from Cooper’s mouth and he scrubs his hand over his face.

  “No, it’s totally legit. I mean, I’ve been in a beer commercial or two, but I get paid to play ball for real.”

  Wacky. That’s what this is, straight-up, bad-trip weird. I just spent a handful of minutes slobbering over and hand-rubbing a guy who plays for … I don’t even know. The name of our football team escapes me, if I ever knew it at all. Only occasionally does the topic of football come up in Hotchkiss, and only when I’m at the co-op. Even then, I’m not a part of the conversation; it only takes place in my orbit, between the men buying chicken feed and bovine antibiotics. Evidently, I should have been paying more attention.

  “Sorry, I’m sure I should have known that and properly addressed you by shouting your uniform number while waving a foam finger or whatever. I don’t even own a TV, so I’m not exactly caught up on the local sports scene.”

  Cooper locks his eyes on mine and steps closer until he can put one hand on the top of my opened truck door and the other against the roof, effectively trapping me in a two-foot space where his body is crowding mine in an unexpectedly pleasant way. He tips his gaze to look at me.

  “I’m glad. Not about you not owning a TV; that’s just weird. But I like that you didn’t know who I am. Explains a lot.”

  He smells like sweat and possibly—lemons? Then I remember the lemongrass oil. My mind immediately takes a very direct and unruly path to Cooper soaking in a tub. Naked, obviously. And grumpy. There is also the possibility that my fleeting fantasy includes him groaning and grunting a bit, huskily and unsatisfied.

  Perhaps my pupils flare or I actually drool, because he steps back and makes as if he’s leaving.

  “One more thing, Whitney. It’s a favor, I guess. A personal request.”

  I draw my hand up to set it on the armrest of my door panel and try not to dig my fingernails into it too hard.

  “Sure. Shoot.”

  He points into my truck. “Can I have that apple butter? That’s a serious throwback for me. I haven’t had decent apple butter since my grandma died.”

  My shoulders release on a laugh and I crane into the truck to retrieve the mason jar. When I turn back, I catch the last moments of his eyes tracing my form. It never matters, does it? Here stood an apparently well-known guy who probably had his pick of women, but he still couldn’t help checking out my goods. It must be genetics or some evolutionary instinct. Even if I wanted to chalk it up to more, it surely wasn’t.

  Cooper saunters off across the hotel drive with an athlete’s gait, purposeful and flawless, while holding the mason jar in the air.

 
; “I’m an apple butter snob, so this shit better be good. Otherwise, I’ll bring my complaints directly to your door, Whitney Willow Reed!”

  My truck door is halfway shut, my hand on the keys to fire the engine. All I can do is laugh. And, perhaps, pray that my apple butter absolutely sucked.

   3

  (Cooper)

  The blonde ending up in my bed last night was Whitney’s fault. Really, it was. There wasn’t a single other reasonable explanation as to why I let a girl who would not shut up come home with me.

  This rationale will make sense to only forty-nine percent of the population. Because a woman, no matter how hot she is for one specific man she can’t have, will not take another replacement home with her just to take the edge off. Women don’t think like that. But with men, our decision-making skills are often driven by irrational dick-based instincts. It’s stupid. We know it, you know it, but there’s the truth of it.

  When I left Whitney standing under the covered entrance of the hotel, I walked straight back to my loft, set the apple butter on the kitchen counter, and considered how to deal with the inconvenient semi she’d inspired. Because as I suspected from my momentary glimpse of her cleavage, it seems that under those awful pj’s, Whitney was hiding an amazing body.

  Firm everything, but with curves exactly where they belong. A combo that can be elusive around these parts. In Colorado, where everyone is climbing fourteeners and knocking out ultramarathons, it’s surprisingly hard to find a girl whose body is tight while still holding on to a few curves. Because the seriously active types around here can lose the good stuff when they train so hard.

  I don’t want a woman with a six-pack. I want her belly toned but soft, I want her ass firm but full, with plenty up top to keep me occupied, and I want some hips to hold on to. Ones that don’t include hip bones threatening to cut me open if I have her under me. In short, I want her to look and feel and move like a woman. And Whitney is nothing but perfectly toned, perfectly rounded, and all woman.