by Liora Blake
Cooper juts his hips up, one sharp push of his body to mine, a reminder that I may have him groaning and nearly panting underneath me, but he remains just as powerful as ever.
“Nothing that cheesy. I did want to take you to the Botanic Gardens, because it’s supposed to be romantic. But mostly my plan was pretty much what we’re doing right now. Waking up next to you, loving up on you, just like we did this morning.”
I pause my movements and focus on his face, remembering exactly how it was when we woke up.
“Would you have your leg and arm draped over me? The way you sometimes do?”
He tilts his head. “Do you like that?”
I nod, and it becomes my turn to croak out a whispered response. “It’s my favorite way to wake up.”
Cooper’s hands draw down my back. Fingertips tracing either side of my spine, affection embedded in every inch that he covers. A sweet, sexy, entirely contented half-grin plays across his mouth.
“If it’s your favorite, then that’s how it would be. We’d wake up, my body covering yours, keeping you tucked in and safe, right next to me. We’d both know how right this is. How good we are together.”
My eyes track over his expression, looking for anything that might convey he’s reading from an invisible script of things he thinks he should say, giving me words that are less about his real feelings and more about reassuring mine.
He slips one hand up into my hair, then draws it down to rest at my neck, giving a little tug there just as he presses his hips up to meet my core. The pointed contact, flush and firm and spot-on perfect, drives a moan from my throat.
“So good together,” Cooper whispers, “that you’d let me inside you without anything between us. We’d both know that no matter what happens, it’s safe. That this is real.”
Our eyes meet and in his gaze there’s nothing but unguarded honesty. And because he’s just painted the picture of a future between us I can imagine so readily it’s disarming, I kiss him.
The kiss turns fevered with one nip of my teeth to his bottom lip, his hands gripping my hips so hard I can feel the dig of his nails into my skin. We keep going, until my body is grinding atop his, and we’re both so ready it’s painful. A grunt from him combines with his hands forcing my hips to stay put. His right arm extends toward the nightstand.
I know what would come next. And whether it’s because I’m feeling too wild to think rationally or because I’m too caught up in imagining the future, either way, I drop my hand over his forearm to stop him.
“What you just said … about this being real? Was that true?”
Cooper moves so he can clasp his hand in mine, threading our fingers together, then does the same with our other hands. He takes a labored swallow.
“Absolutely.” He releases our intertwined fingers and brings his hands to either side of my neck, pausing briefly before sliding them down the front of my body, engrossed by the path his hands take, wetting his lips as he does. His hands come to rest atop my belly. “Are you on the pill?”
“No.”
The word emerges so softly, it’s almost inaudible. Maybe I don’t want him to hear. Maybe I hate the possibility that one of us will actually regain some sense here.
“You still want to do this? Because I do. But I don’t want to pull out, either.”
No hesitation, not even a slight falter in his voice. Cooper shifts my body back, leaving enough room to take himself in hand while I consider his question, weigh the risks, and do my best to think reasonably. He works the head for a bit, his big hand slipping over the crown in a steady rhythm, and somehow, he’s an unexpected picture of patience. Waiting, waiting, waiting.
“If you aren’t sure, Whit, that’s OK. Grab a condom and I’ll slide it on.”
Then Cooper squeezes the head of his cock, and suddenly I want him so much it hurts. He releases that death grip and exhales, replaces it with a lazier stroke. When he uses his other hand to move between my legs, we both give up tortured groans and I’m over him a split second later. The head slips in so easily that I pause, fighting the urge to ride him hard and fierce, simply because there won’t be another moment like this. Even if we last a lifetime together, this happens only once.
His previous demonstration of patience has evidently combusted, because he yanks down on my hips.
“Come on, don’t fuck around. Take all of it.”
Another tug and I yield, taking all of him. We’re both breathing heavily, but I keep my hips still. He jerks my hips forward. I growl.
A low, amused chuckle from him. “That’s my sound. If you’re frustrated, there’s an easy fix for that. Just use my cock the way you want to. You fucking own it anyway.”
Powerful heat swims through me. How I got here, with this man beneath me, proclaiming that I own parts of his beautiful body, I could never explain. Had I never been in the position to lose my orchard, I wouldn’t have met him. Had he not needed a place to escape his own drama, he wouldn’t have made it to my doorstep. And yet, here we are. Fate and fear brought us together, but what we built atop those things is more.
I give in then. Cooper pulls me closer, doesn’t let my body stray from his, our chests sliding over each other and our mouths doing the same. Too much foreplay turned us to tinder, so every graze of our skin is like a flint steel. Even when I try to temper the pace, Cooper won’t allow it, tugging on my hair each time I try to slow and wrapping it tightly in his fist.
“Don’t. Ride me hard. Do not stop.”
Another sharp tug becomes all I need. I’ve never come so hard in my life, deep and intense, singing through to places I can’t even name. Cooper curses, tightening his hand in my hair. Only when he comes does he finally release my hair, and his arm drops to the bed. My body hurts, oddly but deliciously, under the release of all that tension, the swell that comes with allowing yourself to give up the armor and make room for your every vulnerability.
Cooper remains still for a long while, eyes closed and breathing unsteadily. When he finally opens his eyes, I’m there.
Waiting and watching.
He’s perfection in that moment. The rock-solid reality of a truly good man—with a very dirty mouth. I couldn’t ask for more.
Life-changingly great sex is hell on a gal’s motivation. I intended to leave Cooper’s place by mid-morning, but all the postcoital snuggling derailed those plans. For hours. Then Cooper offered to make pancakes.
It would take a much stronger woman than I to turn down that offer.
Which is why a plateful of multigrain pancakes, nutty and hearty, cooked in copious amounts of butter, currently appears before me at the breakfast bar where I’ve been perched while Cooper does his thing. The fact that he’s shirtless, wearing only a pair of low-slung pajama bottoms, only adds to the scene. He slides more butter and a small bottle of maple syrup my way, giving me a chin nudge before turning away to dish up his own plate.
“Go on, eat up.”
I unscrew the cap off the maple syrup. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”
Cooper sets his plate next to mine but doesn’t sit down. Instead, he strides toward the bedroom. “Be right back.”
Around a mouthful of pancakes, I holler in his retreating direction.
“You’d better not be going to get a shirt! I was hoping you might accidentally drip syrup on your chest while you eat!”
He reappears a short minute later with his knee brace on. And wearing a shirt. Which both I and my filthy sensibilities find utterly offensive.
He places a large silver gift bag on the countertop. I pause mid-chew and give the fancy-looking bag a side-glance. Cooper takes his seat and proceeds to douse his pancakes in far more syrup than I expected he would allow himself. He gestures toward the bag with the syrup bottle, before setting it aside.
“Merry Christmas.”
“What? What is this?” I use my fork to tap the bag.
He shrugs. “I won’t see you at Christmas. That’s for you.”
Later this week, Cooper will take a hurried two-day trip home to Texas over Christmas. He extended an invitation for me to come with him, but I declined, claiming there were some orchard-oriented tasks that needed my immediate attention.
There were, I suppose. I’d heard about a community bank in Rifle that was actively investing in ag-oriented start-ups and I submitted a loan application online last week. I was holding on to whatever hope I could, willing this to be my last-ditch way out and crossing my fingers for a phone call from their office. I also wanted to call the Boulder slow money venture at least, oh, fifty-seven more times between Christmas and New Year’s, to be sure they hadn’t approved my application and sent the approval via the similarly slow postal service.
In truth, I was also petrified about meeting Cooper’s family, of trying to fit in, and the possibility of losing my hearing if I was subjected to their bellowing without the cushion of a few states between us. But knowing I currently have a huge problem boiling away makes it easier to prioritize all the things that scare me to death.
I place my fork on the edge of my plate and give the bag a curious peek.
“Don’t you want to open it?”
I’m not sure. The scales seem utterly imbalanced at the moment, with me staring down this innocuous bag and wondering why it didn’t occur to me to bring him a thoughtful gift of some sort. Even if I didn’t have the cash to buy anything, I could have made something. A macaroni necklace or a finger painting. Maybe one of those “gift certificates,” the kind that entitles the recipient to a service only the gift provider can offer. Good for one free hand wash on your beast of a truck. Good for one free hand massage. Good for one free session of me using my hands in a way of your choosing.
I tug the bag a little closer. “I just didn’t know we were exchanging gifts. I didn’t bring anything for you.”
“I don’t need anything.”
“But it feels a little weird. You got me this and I haven’t given you anything. Makes me feel—”
Cooper sets his fork down and raises his hand lazily.
“Whitney, what’s in that bag doesn’t begin to compare with what you’ve given me. You, just being here, helping me work through all this shit with my knee, that’s huge. Can’t put that in a bag, babe. It’s so much bigger than that.”
He takes up his fork. “So, do me a favor and open your fucking present.”
A snorting laugh escapes me, followed by a sigh, as I pull the bag into my lap and yank away the tissue paper obscuring the contents. Underneath the paper, I find clothing, in a gray fabric emblazoned with … squirrels.
Squirrels.
I pull them out and determine they’re pajamas, a thermal-style top with bottoms to match. Once I have them in my hand, the fabric grazes my fingertips and a sudden urge to rub my face against the impossibly soft, supple material comes over me. So, I do what any classy woman would. I bury my potentially maple syrup–sticky face deeply into the softness and squirrels.
“Oh my God,” I mumble through the press of the cloth.
Cooper laughs. “They’re made of a cashmere blend. I thought they might keep you warmer at night than your old-man pj’s. If I’m not there in bed with you, I don’t want you getting cold.”
I manage to extract my face from the pillowy softness and widen my eyes in his direction.
“Thank you. I’m sure I don’t want to know what these cost or how many sweatshop workers were involved in their production, but I love them. And they have squirrels on them.”
“I figured you would appreciate the squirrels. I’m glad you like them.” Before I can kiss him as a thank-you, he dips his head and focuses on his plate. “Speaking of being in bed with you, I wanted to talk about my off-season.”
“Talk away. I’ll just continue to fondle this unicorn-tear-and-leprechaun-giggle anointed fabric while you talk.” I give him a grin when he turns in my direction. He visibly relaxes, shoulders loosening as he sits up straighter.
“We only have one more game, no hope for a postseason at this point. After that I’ve got a few things to deal with, but then I’ll be officially off duty.” His fork scrapes across the plate as he takes a deep breath. “I’d like to come down after that and spend the winter with you. In Hotchkiss.”
My body reacts as soon as I process what he’s saying, turning tense under a rush of anxiety. Cooper notes the change in my posture and turns his entire body so he’s facing me, head-on.
“I’m not trying to hijack your life or anything, and I can help you while I’m there. I want to be productive. I need to have something to focus on, otherwise I’ll lose my mind dwelling on the decision about retirement. I’m a quick study, Whit. Teach me all about your orchard and, I swear, I’ll make myself useful.”
Oh, my sweet, impossible, currently ignorant Cooper.
This is his freaking elevator pitch. Crafted to convince me how helpful he could be. Now would be the time to come clean. My jaw drops open, preparing to relay my sad story, but before I can get one word out, Cooper looks away. He’s embarrassed and uncomfortable, seemingly convinced that I don’t see his value.
But the truth is just the opposite. When I confess to the exact state of my affairs, I’ll be the one who’s embarrassed and uncomfortable. Because it would hurt too much to see one tiny flicker of recognition in Cooper’s expression that says he sees me as a failure. I would lose the backstop for my heart, the one he’d now become.
I can’t risk it. I want to see him look at me as he did this morning, always—or, for at least as long as I can. The exact way he did when he said what we had was real.
I do the only thing I can. Sweep reality under the rug, just for now, until I have no other choice but to own up.
“Better bring your work gloves. Wouldn’t want to damage those sixty-million-dollar hands of yours.”
25
(Cooper)
We need bees. And chickens. Goats, maybe. But only if we can keep them from eating the yarrow. We’ll need smart, highly trainable goats with a taste for bad weeds, but an aversion to cover crops. So, magic goats.
I scratch down the word goats in the margin of the book I’m reading, then underline it twice. Once it was settled that I would spend the winter in Hotchkiss, I decided to educate myself as much as possible on orchard management, organic practices, and biodynamics. Whitney watched Friday Night Lights to try to understand my world, but I’ve yet to find a well-crafted, heartwarming, poignant serial drama about organic apple farmers, so all I could do was order every book I could find on the topic.
The biodynamic crap will take me a bit of time. I’m from rural West Texas. Where the words spiritual stewardship and holistic harvesting aren’t usually uttered, especially by farmers. Taking care of your soil? I get it. Honoring the wider cosmos? Not so much.
All my research has led to lists. Lists of things I want her to teach me more about. Lists of ideas I gleaned from my research, new endeavors she might want to consider next year. A list of supplies I suspect she hasn’t been able to pay for lately, though I’m pretty sure she needs. But with one phone call, I’ll be able to show up at her place bearing gifts only a girl like Whitney would appreciate. Another woman might turn up her nose at a truck bed full of surprises purchased at a co-op, but not Whitney.
I end up grinning broadly as I dial the number for the co-op, intent on giving Garrett free rein to burn up my credit card.
“Hotchkiss Co-op, Garrett speaking.”
“Garrett. Cooper Lowry.”
“Cooper! Good to hear from you, man. You in town? Braden and I are goose hunting this weekend—you can jump in if you want.”
Christ, this kid and bird hunting. God help whatever woman manages to lure him into a love trap, because she’ll have to get used to playing second chair to whatever feathered fowl is overhead.
“I’m not there yet, just trying to tie up some loose ends here in Denver. But I appreciate the offer. Next time?”
“Hell, there’s always a next time. What
can I do you for, then?”
I flip through my legal pad of notes and find the supply list I amassed. “I want to get some stuff for Whitney. If you don’t have any of this in stock, I figured you could special-order it.”
Garrett doesn’t respond right away. When he does, his voice wavers a little.
“Stuff for the orchard?”
“Yeah. She uses you for most of the supplies she needs, right?”
Another pause. “Well, yeah, but …”
If I were there in person, I might be able to glare at him properly, because unless I’m crazy, he does work at a retail establishment where such supplies are for sale. This pussyfooting around while taking my order is weird. I flip the page on my supply list again, just to feel like I’m somehow prompting the conversation forward, even when I know the poor kid can’t see what I’m doing.
“You ready? It’s kind of a long list. More of that dormant oil; I’m sure we’ll need to respray in the spring. Do you know anything about sweet alyssum? She’s been using yarrow as a cover crop, but this other stuff seems like it might be a nice change. She can return it if she doesn’t want it, right? A couple of new pairs of pruning shears, the best kind you can get. And some of the traps for codling moths. Maybe she doesn’t need more, I don’t know, but better to have them if she does.”
“OK, um, Jesus. I don’t know—”
“Dude, get a pen, write it down. You sound like you’ve never sold this stuff before.”
I’m sure I was talking a mile a minute there. I take a calming breath and work to ratchet down my zeal a bit, before everyone in Hotchkiss decides to steer clear of the wacky football player who has decided to tackle apple farming like a defensive lineman on a stumbling quarterback.
“No, man. I just don’t understand. Are you sure you want all this stuff? No need to throw good money at some other guy’s setup. Let him do this stuff in the spring.”
I narrow my eyes.
What. Other. Guy.
Cue the obnoxious alpha bullshit, because no other man will be in Whitney’s orchard, literal or otherwise—not if I can help it.